The Colorado mountains are home. I’ve spent most of my adult life hiking and backpacking through these forests, streams, and alpine plateaus—especially over the past thirty years. Up there is where I’ve put in my time, season after season.

The climb always begins in the spruce and fir forest, where cold streams weave through the trees and soft needles carpet the ground. The air is cool and still, filled with the clean, sharp scent of evergreens. I follow the faint trail upward, stepping over fallen logs, picking my way across rocks in the stream crossings, moving steadily as the slope steepens. As I gain elevation, the trees begin to space out, the streams narrow to trickles, and the forest starts to open up. After the last stretch through scattered trees and rocky outcrops, the forest gives way, and I step out onto the alpine plateaus. That moment, when the world opens up and the ridges rise around you, always feels earned."

Carrying a backpack with a tent and sleeping bag up this far takes more out of me at 73, but it’s still a price I’m willing to pay.

Little Ridge has backpacked three times in the last month with me and Jess and Hayley. Most of his time is spent following Jess and exploring or sleeping in the tent. He has figured out what mountain life is all about with me and his big sisters.

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Last week, I made the mistake of taking a long nap after a steep climb. I fell asleep early at dusk and woke up just after midnight, wide awake. No amount of shifting around helped. Eventually, I dragged my sleeping bag out of the tent and lay under the Milky Way. For a couple of hours, I watched shooting stars arc across the sky. That’s not a consolation for missing sleep—that’s the kind of experience you dream of. Seeing those meteors light up the night never gets old. It’s an absolute thrill every single time.

This trip, I did it differently. After another tough climb, I took a short nap but set an alarm for 20 minutes. It was enough to recover without sabotaging the night. I cooked a late dinner by headlamp and stayed up until 10pm. When I woke later, it was after 2am, and I fell back to sleep easily. But first, I slid out of the tent, lay back, and caught two more shooting stars. The wonder, mystery, and beauty of the alpine night sky doesn’t fade, no matter how many years you’ve been lucky enough to lie beneath it.

Ridge had the time of his life again, as he always does up there. He followed Jess everywhere, mimicking her every move, fully engaged in the adventure. Every time Jess laid down for a rest, Ridge was right beside her, leaning into her. It’s pretty clear he adores his big sister. He loves rough play, and Jess mostly humors him. Every now and then, she’ll remind him she’s still in charge, and he backs off—for about a minute.

Both days, below treeline, I crossed paths with a woman—probably a decade younger than me—who was also steering clear of the crowded trails. We stopped and talked while our dogs made introductions. She mentioned how packed the trailheads were, and we both agreed: if it’s on AllTrails, it’s probably not worth the hassle. Later, I thought I should’ve taken a photo of her and her dog; it had been a good conversation, both days.

Just north of my camp, about a hundred yards away, were two large ponds. I learned years ago that in August, wildflowers bloom in force on the west side of those ponds. The snow tends to linger there, keeping the soil wet into late summer, and the humidity from the ponds probably helps as well.

These trips never feel like solo adventures with the Border Collies along. And right now, it’s even more meaningful—watching Ridge embrace it all with the same energy as Jess, while Hayley, at 14 ½, finds a comfortable spot to rest after doing the hard work of getting up there. It’s amazing she can still handle these trips. Ridge isn’t figuring things out anymore; he’s already part of the rhythm: following streams lined with wildflowers, scrambling up steep slopes, and stepping onto wide-open alpine plateaus like he belongs there—because he does.

I have satellite receivers on both Ridge and Hayley. It’s a small piece of gear, but it gives me peace of mind that the unthinkable won’t happen—that I’ll never lose track of one of my dogs in these mountains.

John Burroughs once wrote that a dog is “like your youth come back to you, and taking form, all instinct and joy and adventure.” Every time Ridge bounds through these mountains, I’m reminded how Burroughs got it so right—that a dog’s joy gives you back a bit of your younger self.