The Birth of the Wild Goats

Ah, hiking in the Rockies. The panoramic views, the soft crunch of pine needles and cones beneath your boots, the smell of forest and wildlife and the occasional elk- or bear-spotting. This is what most people think of when they imagine a midmorning hike in early June in Rocky Mountain National Park.

A gunmetal-grey sky replete with swollen clouds, precipitation ranging from slight mist to freezing sleet, judicious steps to ensure you don't get stuck--literally--in the boot-sucking mud, and temperatures hovering near freezing is NOT what comes to mind. For the first hike of a group of colleagues and myself, however, that's exactly what it was.

I feel pretty lucky to work where I do. Most of my colleagues are generally optimistic, well-intentioned, kind, good-hearted people. There are only a few bad eggs, and I don't have to deal with any of them. This particular group was no exception. Though our positions ranged from pricing peon (moi) to head of industrial engineering, the group turned out to be a really cheery bunch. And when you're constantly wincing from the frozen rain drizzling down your hair onto your neck and perpetually readjusting to find the right position for your clothing where it would keep inner layers as dry as possible, being with people who have a great sense of humor and a generally cheerful disposition makes all the difference in the world.

I've lived in Colorado for almost ten years now, so you think I'd have known better than to bring two jackets with questionable weatherproofing and more importantly, questionable waterproofing. We hadn't been on the trail for ten minutes before my outer jacket was soaked. I only had a sweater cap, and I found myself alternately envying my better-planned groupmates' attire and kicking myself for not bringing my shell along. Jackets were offered up by my wonderful hikemates, and I politely declined, a frozen grin on my face. It wasn't such a lengthy hike, and I felt the need to learn my lesson myself. I would have my soggy clothing, and wear it all too. I found myself pondering my wardobe and nearly bursting into laughter when I realized I don't have a whole lot of waterproof gear. My ski pants and my shell are probably it. When I mentioned this to a fellow hiker, she agreed. See, in Colorado, it's almost always either snowing, or the sun is shining. Rain isn't really a big thing in this state, and when we do get it it either clears up quickly or turns to snow. As it was the third day in June, we all figured it'd be sunny by the time we were halfway through the hike.

At the halfway point, we stopped for munchies and rest and horrendously dirty jokes that sated our slightly depraved senses of humor. Our resident foreigner, the engineer, has a thick Scottish accent and so just about everything he says sounds either charming or humorous or both. When he sagely advised me to purchase silicon spray to weatherproof my gear, I grinned and nodded, barely able to contain my giggling. It gets even better when he tells jokes. This is a guy I've known for a few years now, throughout different stages of my tenure at this company, have gone out with for drinks with other colleagues, and feel a pretty good rapport with, but I'll never get sick of--or apparently, be able to contain my humor at--the sound of that accent. (When he and Gregory met, instant commiseration, though Gregory's accent is considrably more ironed-out.) We were all pleasantly amused by the flock of assorted wildlife that gathered around us as we were eating our snacks (for me, a Luna bar and a power gel that tasted absolutely awful): a pair of mallards, a tiny squirrel and a squawking, flapping blue jay. The mallards tried to follow us as we made our way, none the drier despite the tree cover during our little break, back to the trail.

So despite the weather, the cold and the constant moisture, the hike really was great. The second half was, greatly to my relief, almost entirely downhill. These guys are all in much better shape than I, and my first thought as we started out was, oh, shit, I'm never going to be able to keep up with them, they were extremely kind in slowing down enough for me to catch up, and my buddy the engineer dropped back to me to keep me company for awhile. I hope I didn't hold everyone back too much, but if I did, I certainly didn't feel it.

At the end of the hike as we neared the cars (I drove four of us up from our meeting spot at the office and two others met us at the trailhead), I noticed that the puddle I'd had to park in had widened to a small lake. I had to climb to the driver's seat and was immediately grateful that my boyfriend had loaned me his SUV while he's out of town and okayed me taking it up on the hike. We might still be there if not for the runnerboard along the siding below the doors and the roof rack which doubles as a handle when getting in involves acrobatic action over a body of water.

A little tired and a little euphoric, we ate greasy Mexican food and toasted the inaugural hike with maragritas and sodas for the designated drivers. The upbeat humor continued; between the six of us we made a pretty good comedy act. The first hike of the Wild Goats, so christened by the absurd play on words (when you work for Wild Oats Markets, you hear enough jabs, so it's always good to be able to make fun of yourself as well)as well as our apparently adept skills at handling slippery rocks, boot-sucking mud and freezing temperatures. With bright spirits and slightly fuller bellies, we headed home. To nap.