We didn’t go far the first day, so it was more a camping trip than a backpacking trip—but winter teaches you to respect the clock. The days are so short you have to start early if you want any daylight to enjoy where you are. So we set ourselves up to move at dawn, ready to go long, ready to go uphill, and—best of all—ready to leave the trail behind.
Jess and Ridge had the time of their lives. They were almost always out in front, and part of the time completely out of sight, flowing through the trees the way border collies do—like they’re made of instinct and nose. Off trail is where the rules loosen. I can let them run. I don’t have to keep calling them back. I don’t have to narrate every step. Out there, the world is wide enough for a dog to be a dog and for me to just be…me.
I only call them in if I need to—if there’s another person nearby, or if something feels like it matters. That didn’t happen today. We had the wildness to ourselves. And even so, I carry my small thread of connection: the whistle on the cord around my neck. When they hear it, they come racing back like I’m a magnet. I try not to overuse it. I like the trust in it—the way it stays special. A signal, not a habit.
The day was gray and overcast, the kind of winter sky that keeps the sun behind a curtain. A pale, filtered glow broke through a couple of times and then vanished again. But the clouds didn’t dampen anything. If anything, they made the place feel more private—more like a hidden room in the mountains. This is my winter home ground. Jess has spent every winter of her life up there. Ridge is newer to it—only two or three trips so far, all since November—but he’s learning fast. You can see it happening in real time: the way he ranges wider, pauses to read the wind, then charges on like the whole world is an invitation.
It’s easy to get swallowed by responsibilities back home. For most people that’s work; for me it’s cleaning and decluttering, or telling stories in schools, or the steady drip of chores that pretend they’re urgent. But once in a while it’s good for the soul to slip the leash of ordinary life and trade it for pines and clouds, breezes and frost. To narrow the world down to a few honest things: a strenuous climb up a ridge, the bracing effort of steadying yourself on the downhill, the sound of paws ahead of you, and the comfort of knowing you’re not doing it alone.
I keep a record of every trek with the dogs on journeywest.com. Part of it is simple pleasure—proof that we were really out there, really free—but part of it is something deeper. As more and more border collies go on to Heaven before me, and as aging muscles make it harder to earn those ridgelines, I know I’ll need the looking-back. Not as a substitute for the trail, but as a way to hold onto what mattered: the companionship, the freedom, and the wild, off-trail places where three souls moved through winter like the woods were where they belonged.
#bordercollies #bordercollie #mountaindogs #colorado
In a few days, I’ll be heading out on an overnight backpacking trip. I’ve done this plenty of times before—especially in winter—and I know how to handle myself when the temperatures drop and the world turns quiet under snow. The key is checking the forecast and slipping in between storms, like threading a needle made of wind.
But this trip’s a little different.
It’ll be Ridge’s first time backpacking in winter. He’s eight months old—sharp-eyed, alert, and always watching. He’s been on the trail before, but never when the cold settles in early and hangs around until morning. It’ll be his first time feeling that deep stillness as night falls in the mountains, his first time curling up in the tent with frost forming on the fly and firelight flickering out in the distance.
Jess will be there too, three years to her name and the kind of instinct that can’t be taught. She moves with purpose, eyes scanning the land like she’s remembering it rather than discovering it. You can see the past flicker behind her gaze—wolves, winds, wide open spaces.
I’ve packed sweaters for both dogs. They'll need them when the light fades and the chill sinks in. It’s the one part of this journey I can prepare them for.
I started pulling gear out this afternoon, double-checking everything, and that simple ritual got me excited. There’s something sacred about getting ready for a night outside—knowing that soon, we’ll be breathing pine and woodsmoke, with nothing around but trees, stars, and whatever tracks pass by in the snow.
First thing in the morning, Ridge follows me into the downstairs computer room and plops on the couch next to where I check email and read the news. He’s got a favorite fluffy blanket there — his morning routine isn’t complete without burying his face in it like it’s his own personal recharge station.
Yesterday, the blanket vanished. I looked everywhere downstairs with no luck. This morning, I found it: Ridge had apparently dragged it through two dog doors — one of which includes a swinging flap — all the way out to the backyard. Because obviously, nothing says “outdoor playtime” like hauling your emotional support fleece across multiple thresholds. It’s in the wash now, undergoing recovery. And speaking of new behaviors, I noticed last week that Ridge has started going into the downstairs bathroom and lifting his leg on the toilet bowl. A little “I got this, Dad” gesture. I guess he picked it up from me — although, in my defense, my aim is significantly better.I’m lonely sometimes, and I won’t pretend I don’t want someone in my life. But I’ve been single since 2002, and I’ve built a kind of freedom that fits me—especially with my border collies. Maybe loneliness is part of the price of that freedom. And maybe it’s also what sharpens everything: the beauty I notice on a trail, the quiet companionship of my dogs, and the way a great night of dancing at the Rose feels sweeter—almost romantic—because I don’t take connection for granted.
Ridgey was forged in the Colorado high country—sharp-eyed, untamed, and radiating that wild sort of confidence you don’t teach; you earn it from the earth. He grew up on lush alpine slopes and sunlit ridgelines, chasing the wake of Jess and Hayley, two veteran mountain collies who moved like ghosts through timber and talus. Sometimes Ridgey would wander up an alpine slope with no warning, just him and the sky, completely unbothered. I’d call him back, heart in my throat, and he’d return like nothing had happened. That’s how you raise a dog with a heart like a mountain—wide, weathered, and absolutely sure of himself.
@bordercollie #bordercollies #mountaindog #mountaindogs #colorado
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