Wind, Hell and Goats

It was a cold, windy day when we made it above the treeline. Large swaths of snow, some several feet deep, still draped the slopes of the peaks. We only had one direction to go, and that was up. 

This was Jenna's first time in this mountain range. I told her to dress in layers and plan for the worst. The wind always blew hard up here. 

We put one foot in front of the other, climbing a giant staircase of shale-rock and tundra. A marmot chirped a warning cry somewhere in the distance and we didn't hear or see of him again. 

The higher we climbed, the harder the wind blew⸺cold on the face and any other exposed skin. I pulled over my hood and gripped it firmly so it didn't blow off. 

The summit of 11,985 feet was a welcome sight. On the east side of a sign that marked the crest a rocky and precipitous drop led into a rough canyon, deep and heavily forested. We braced ourselves when gazing over the edge so as not to be blown over. 

Far away on the next hill we spotted a small herd of white fluffy mountain goats basking in the sun. We sat on the weather-beaten tundra and spied on them through the binoculars. They truly were far away and we made it our goal to get close enough for pictures. 

But by the time we left our perch on that big bulky mountain, the goats had left. Jenna thought they had walked behind the hill, but it was impossible to know for sure. They were gone. 

We moved down the north face of the mountain toward the saddle. The wind, which was already blowing hard, now moved in at a furious pace. The raging stream of air moved from the east side of the cliffs, up through the saddle and across the tundra plain of the west slope. 

Walking into the wind I leaned forward, lowered my head and pierced the way before me. I pulled my hood over my head and cupped around my eyes with my hands so my glasses wouldn't fly away. I couldn't breath. It felt as if I had jumped from a plane and had air pushing on my face and rushing up my nose. The flap on my jacket vibrated like a loose cord on the back of a truck. Each step was precarious and I wobbled as I walked like a drunken boxer. 

Jenna wasn't doing much better. She was shorter and lighter, so the wind had its way with her. She wore a black beanie over her head and one time when I glanced her way the beanie was flicked from her head and propelled over the east cliff like a clay pigeon. It was gone forever. Her long hair flayed in the wind like Madussa's. I smiled at her. As Patrick McManus would say, it was a fine and pleasant misery! 

At last we made it past the saddle, which was by far the worst of the wind. I found shelter against a small boulder where we laid low and took a drink of water. We didn't dare open our packs for fear that something would blow away. With extreme caution I pulled my camera from the bag and fastened it to a monopod. 

Then, with stealth, we moved up the slope toward the cliff where we hoped to spot the goats. Mountain goats are some of the craziest animals alive. They live their entire lives above treeline in some of the nastiest terrain God ever created. Their rubber-like hooves act as suction cups, allowing them to climb up and down cliffs like Spider-man. 

We came to the top of the slope and there they were . . . 150 yards away along the ridge. I don't know if they saw us, but we quickly ducked away. 

We advanced toward them, but stayed on the opposite side of the hill. When we closed the distance we moved back up over the hill, only to learn that they had left. They were gone again. We weren't giving up. 

We walked toward the ledge and then across a giant patch of snow. My leg fell through the crust and was completely submerged (at 2 ½ feet). By now we moved down the rocky cliff face, knowing we were in their territory. 

Then I spotted them over the hill. 

The closest was a nanny, fifty yards away. She sat on the shale rock, her thick white coat of fur keeping her warm from the wind. She glanced back over her shoulder and we made eye contact. 

Several of them were lounging around when we caught them off-guard. One by one they stood up, exchanged glances with us, then began walking in the opposite direction. They didn't run, nor did they wait around. They simply moved. I snapped whatever pictures I could manage. 

We knew we couldn't catch them, so we let them leave. Nearby we found a good spot partially blocked from the wind with a good view of the mountainside. We sat down to eat lunch and scoped their trajectory from a distance. 

It wasn't long into our meal when we saw a dozen little white objects climbing up the far mountainside. They moved like a pack of rats across the slopes of snow and onto seemingly vertical ledges. We watched in amazement. 

At one time we had lost them, but Jenna spotted them again. They were far away and we watched them ascend a strip of bare rock on the cliff face. Soon they disappeared and we didn't see them again. I suppose they had found a precarious perch on the southern face where they could bask in the sun, undisturbed and out of the way of any clumsy human who might pursue them. 

We finished our lunch, occasionally enduring gusts of wind pelting tiny rocks and balls of hail across our bare cheeks. We packed up and began our way off the mountain. We took the lazy human way down. ♠