After working last weekend, My Monday plans for a staid, quiet day were interrupted when the phone rang Sunday evening. A friend, former marathon runner and climber, invited me on a short hike up to Mt. Bierstadt, one of the states many 14,000 foot tall peaks.

"Are you up to it?"

I replied, "I'm now 35lbs heavier, older and not wiser."

"You're perfect. I need someone to motivate me, I just picked up smoking again."

"Great, two wash ups about to ascend a mountain."

"Don't worry, I got the solution. I'm bringing 'The Coach'. She'll keep us going."

The Coach, a nickname for his infamous border collie, a trail running companion possessing Obsessive Compulsive Border Collie quirks.

"I'll be there."

Dawn found us at the top of Guanella pass. Clear skies, a few degrees F above freezing weather, ready to begin a 7 mile round trip hike. Bierstadt has many trails to it's rocky summit. We took 'easiest' route with an elevation gain of only 2800 feet to the top.

Accompanied by morning fog, we bushwhacked through a narrow trail cut in a swampy meadow infested with willow bushes. Zipping back and forth between us was The Coach. A black and white border collie with an erect right ear, semi erect left ear and focused determination in her eyes.

Her mission, race about, nose bumping knees and calves to ensure we stayed as a group, sometimes leading the way, zipping back to make sure no one was going to sneak up behind 'her sheep'.

The hike is deceptively easy the first 1.5 miles, then gets interesting. A steep climb up to a grassy ridge line, a hop skip over to the neck of the peak where we began the final 1200 feet of panting, sometimes slippery, foot by hand haul up rock steps zig zagging here and there like a drunken artist's line scrawl.

Panting in 9 psi air at 13000 feet and partial pressure O2 of 61% of sea level, little time to enjoy the view of sun light splashing upon rock fields dotted with chirping Marmots and what looked like a line of giant clumsy Marmots, cloth clad hikers; coming and going down the mountain.

A group of hikers were resting on the only grassy spot on the steep slopes. A mountain white-tailed ptarmigan in brown summer plummage was boldly hopping through the group. My past encounters with the mountain birds had been them trying to either distract me from their nests with shrill calls or furiously trying to drive me off.

This ptarmigan stepped through the rocks like a vender skillfully climbing up and down a baseball stadium during a ballgrame. And was making a most unptarmigan like call. Bold and racous, but instead of calling out peanuts for sale, his rawks were 'trail mix, treats, sandwiches...Toss your treats to me..trail mix, treats, sandwiches..

Facing down and picking my way up a stair step, I paused to take a breather, leaned forward and bumped my nose against tailed border collie rump. A cold nosed muzzle then bumped my forehead, collie wagging her tail and eyes saying;

Don't stop now, go on!

The Coach urging us onwards. At last we reached the final ridge line up on the mountain's shoulder at 13,800 feet and plopped down, enjoying the view of late morning lit tall mountains and lesser peaks looking like the waves for a frozen ocean.

Clouds were gathering, it was time to descend. Not as exhausting, but nerve racking going down steep steps slippery with rock dust. This is where guide books note 4/5 of climbing accidents occur.

A brief stop on a ridge and we ended back in the willow swamp. Border Collie decided her duties as Coach were finished and it was time to become a nutty dog once again. She found a stick, grabbed it, banging it against my knee, resulting in this interaction between man and border collie:

Here is the stick!

I got it

Toss me the stick!

Weary throw.

Here is the stick!

Yes...

I'm a border border border border collie...who likes sticks!

Again and again and again. On the last quarter mile return, she dove into a mud puddle; black and sulfuric. Happy as a canine clam and shook herself, naturally in front of me, painting me with mud colored spots. I looked like an anthro Dalmatian.

All this greatly amusing a college age hiker following us. He commented on our energetic puppy. When we told him her age; almost ten years old, his eyes popped wide opened.

The student replied, "Ye Gods. Ten? In dog years that would make her 70! I hope I can be that athletic at 70."

Border collies, 100 percent pure nuttiness and herding.

Accept no substitutes.