I barely managed to dodge the thick, muddy tires as she abruptly turned onto the harsh overgrown trail that began the steady climb up to the top of Thompson Ridge. Racing out ahead of her, my dry tongue flopped out the side of my mouth as I leaped over the protruding rocks and roots. We climbed and climbed, her muddy pedals pumping furiously behind me and my aching paws thudding rhythmically on the rutted trail.

Finally, blue sky peeked out ahead of us – we had crested the ridge! I pranced over to the shallow puddle lying in the middle of a grassy meadow, grateful for some hydration after that agonizing climb. She slowly rolled up behind me and dismounted her bike while I lapped at the muddy water. Glancing up at her with my tail wagging and a toothy smile stretching across my drooly mouth, I could see the expression of pure bliss on her face. Looking around, I understood why. We were surrounded on all sides by the brilliant blue North Cascades mountains, still capped with snow even in the increasing September heat. Sprawled out below us was the beautiful Methow Valley, a precious gem amidst crooked cities built of stony slab and degeneracy. The air was as clear and crisp as a cold, fresh apple; there was no factory smoke or car exhaust permeating the high mountain atmosphere. I watched her standing there, a friendly scarecrow in the middle of a wheat field, taking it all in. This is what she lived for. She was loving it. Days like these were what she relished most over the course of her fourteen years. After a moment of serenity, I trudged over and nudged her calf with my nose. She grinned down at me and gave me a pat on the head. “You ready for some sick downhill?” She asked with a gentle shove, and we took off for the steep descent.

Delilah Cupp
September 2011

10/11/11