Also myself.
Ed, Lauren and I all agree that we will not be taking a strenuous hike today. This is in no small part due to the fact that I have tired myself out just trying to light a strap on fire and connect it to a goaty backpack, as well as the fact that I have done more in the last week than I have done in the last year. I also do not know how to tell them that I am not really much of a hiker. I am more of what one would call a leisurely stroller. It is irrelevant to me where these strolls take place. I could stroll down the block, up the hill, hell, I could stroll across the room and call that good.
Now, SITTING in nature, that's more my speed. Which is stopped. My speed is stopped.
Ed and Lauren are intrepid adventurers. Both have been park rangers at some point in their lives for places like Yellowstone, and so walking in nature is, quite literally, what they do for a living. I spend my time on the trail wondering how to trick them into not making this an all-day affair. Should I fake a sprained ankle? I discard that idea because they are learned in the ways of first aid, and would notice my ankle was not sprained. Also, they may think I am a little bitch for not walking off a sprained ankle.
I try to focus on the problem at hand, but I am disturbed by the sight of an 80-year-old-looking man on the trail. I am not disturbed because he is an old person in the woods, which is generally disturbing, but because this man looks like he is wearing a Boy Scout uniform with a park ranger hat, and he is holding a giant fucking net. I realize we have stumbled on an honest-to-goodness bug catcher. I feel like I am in a Pokemon game, and prepare for him to send one of his bugs to battle one of our goats.
Unfortunately, the preparation is unnecessary because apparently he is just "catching butterflies" or what the fuck ever. The lack of battle displeases me, but we have a lot of hiking to do so we move on.
The reason this man is in the woods hunting for winged creatures is because the air is positively humming with these goddamn things:
"Mind if I fly in your face like five
or six hundred times? Of course you don't!"
I soon forget what life is like without things flying all over the place. My face gets pelted so many times by moths, I do not even flinch by the end. Well, I only flinch a little, and there is minimal screaming. Either way, I am astonished that no butterflies deign to land on me when I seem to be a moth magnet. I take this as a sign that I am the Moth Queen, and my destiny is to lead the moths to true freedom. However, that seems like a lot of work. If the moths are waiting to be liberated from oppression, they will just have to find someone else, because I need to focus on how to get out of walking all day. Maybe say my AIDS is acting up? No, too severe. Save that for something like not sticking my hand up a cow butt.
We come to a tranquil little river crossing. The goats are old hands at this sort of thing. Rivers do not scare them. They are masters of water.
Tiny water.
Me, on the other hand, I do not enjoy getting wet, and I do not have hooves (yet) to prevent this sort of thing. Somehow, I manage it without wetting my feet, and with a modicum of grace.
Like a goddamned butterfly.
I feel proud of my success for braving this rushing death trap of water without getting wet. I think about dancing to celebrate, but when I look back across the river to rub in its face that I stepped all over it, I notice Merlin, Agravane and the Little Princess hanging out on the far bank, wondering why we are trying to cross the ocean.
Someone has to lead them over the river, so I volunteer. After all, this is what I am here for, true blue goat herding, which includes making goats do things they don't want, like crossing rivers and robbing banks. Peer pressure is an interspecies hobby. I wend my way back to the far bank, which of course scatters the goats, who are smart enough to know I mean them absolute harm in the form of getting their feet wet. I sympathize with them not wanting to be subjected to such torture, but I also sympathize with my belly which is asking for lunch, and I am much more inclined to give in to my own demands than goat demands. Agravane and the Little Princess actually become so jumpy they jump right across the river, but Merlin is having none of that. He is a dignified old wizard and wizards do not have to cross rivers if they do not choose.
Move your ass, wizard.
I learn very quickly that moving a large buck into doing something he does not enjoy is a Very Hard Thing. Imagine trying to make a stump move, a stump that had stared into Medusa's eyes and became stone, and it is mired in tar, and a dinosaur is holding onto it, and also the stump smells like cheese.
And looks like a weird buffalo.
It soon becomes a three-person job, with Lauren pulling and Ed and I pushing. Merlin makes it across the river, though he is quite upset, because staying on the other side seemed just fine to him. By the end of moving him, I agree. However, I meet with success once again because I find that my Danner boots are thoroughly water-proof. That is lucky for Merlin, because I had vowed to eat him as a goat sandwich if my feet got wet due to his stubbornness.
Biggest perk of farm life: you can eat your enemies. You know, in the socially acceptable sense.
The rest of the hike is just a study in the delightfulness of driving goats into the mountains. I knew when I was reading all those books about people who were goat herders that they were doing something I was missing out on, and that was goat herding. It is incredibly fun, and it is nice to be able to carry a six-pack of cider on the backs of animals. If there is one thing better than drunkenness, it is drunkenness facilitated by the labor of something other than myself.
Four-legged enablers.
Lauren and Ed know a little site that is used for hunters, but also makes a delightful picnic spot, and decide to head there. I think it is so sweet of them to know that I do not like to eat unless I am sitting on the bones of other things that had previously been eaten. It is a real thing missing from my life, and I make a note to ask Kent if we can litter the floor of the dining room with animal carcasses to stimulate peoples' appetites.
The only trouble with the site is that it is a little hard to find, and soon we are just wandering across patches of flowers looking for it.
Nope, not here.
And had damn well better not be up there.
Eventually we do find the spot, or rather, the goats find the spot because they know that is where they get treats. One goat does not know this, however.
"You guys keep looking, I'll check this brush over here with my mouth."
But we are soon a the campsite, which is a cute little clearing with a fire pit for roasting animals and ground for sitting. We eat lunch and drink beers/ciders/wine and I use the goats as back rests and feel like a true shepherd. The only thing missing is some prince to come out of the forest and notice how great I am shepherding goats and offer me a position in their court, where we invariably fall in love and I become king. Or queen. I don't judge what kind of kingdom they have. I look around, but I do not see any candidates.
Unless that fat white guy is the prince.
We bask in the glow of nature for a while, and I am content until I realize that this is probably not the end of the line. We really only hiked for like an hour to get up to this spot, and on the scale of Sexy Hiking, that rates at about Smelly Kid Who Wants To Show You His Old Pizza Box Collection. I realize I will probably just have to burn the forest down.
I really don't want to walk.
Lauren then asks me the dreaded question.
"How much farther do you want to hike?"
"Oh," I hedge, and cast about for some matches. They are all back at the truck. I am screwed. I throw a hail mary. "Probably like zero more feet."
She laughs, totally understanding, since we have all been buffeted around by the farm this week, and an easy day of non-hiking seems to be just the thing. Instead of hiking more, we just drink more, and this is a plan I can get behind. The goats get behind it as well.
"Is this where the party's at?"
Then it is time to pack up camp, and get ready to go home. I try to help, but I am incapacitated.
Cutest incapacitation ever.
Little Princess does not do things like pack saddle bags, so she lays on my feet and has learned to grab her food with the least amount of effort involved, which is totally a girl after my own heart.
Like so.
We prepare to head back, and look out across the peaceful, benign wilderness. Everything seems so perfect today, apart from the farm falling apart and the backpacks being broken, but otherwise, we seem pretty okay. I mean, the goats are fine, and I did not have to burn down the forest to avoid walking in it, so all in all, total win.
I no sooner finish that thought then I see the same woman who had her barking dogs from earlier. This time, her dog is off its leash, and without even so much as a butt sniff, he tears off after the goats. Thousands of years of instinct kick in, and the goats run for their fucking lives. They also run for their fucking lives carrying all of our stuff in their packs. Being the fleetest of foot (which is saying something), I run after them, pausing here and there to pick up our items that have clearly been flung gracelessly from the back of a stampeding pack animal. Soon, I am laden with shirts, water bottles, a pair of pliers and a bottle of bug spray, but I find Merlin, Aristotle, Agravane and the Little Princess. The other goats, despite being much fatter, run all the way to the truck.
The worst part is that through all of this, I really have to pee. But herding the goats comes first. I feel very close to my Persian ancestors, who no doubt experienced this exact same predicament. I reflect on the circular nature of time, the beauty of the past, and whether or not it would be okay to hide behind a goat to go pee. I do not imagine I can get one to stand still for long enough, so I press on.
The silver lining of the goats running down the mountain is that instead of growing tired of our hike, I am jacked up on adrenaline and the desperate need for a bathroom. We make it down the mountain in record time, where a beautiful and glorious outhouse awaits me. Lauren and Ed soothe the goats and load them back in, and apparently give the woman with the errant dog a few choice words about not being a dickface.
We drive home, wondering why the day has been so strange. Lauren tells me it is a full moon, and I nod and figure that is enough. She says it is also Friday the 13th, which I did not know.
Then the truck breaks down a mile from the house.
I am not very superstitious, but damn if the day was not entirely coincidental.
GOAT OF THE DAY: The No Name Twins
They are just little. They have no opinions about anything.
Except for the flavor profiles of various fences.
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