This is a story for trail runners who seek adventure and high places. It is a story for the ones who climb, no matter the terrain, and seek to find the inner mountain goat waiting inside us all.
The herd follows me. I’ve laid claim to this high alpine basin, situated just below a great pyramid peak of granite. Our home is encircled by towering mesa-like cliff walls, small, glaciated snow patches remaining from the last season’s large snowpack and whatever sustenance of grass, herbs, foliage, twigs, lichens and bush that can exist in such extreme altitude environments. Not many besides the pikas and a handful of finches or sparrows are here to join us.
We’ve found solace and have avoided conflict with our predators such as cougars and mountain lions who rarely dare to venture into our terrain. For when they do come after us, let’s just say our sure-hooved nature, brute strength and sharp horns give us home court advantage. When we are attacked in our mountain element, the “prey-predator” dynamic reverses. We see their attack as a game and allow these predators to “pin” us to cliff sides only to find that they are the ones actually trapped. We dance out of danger and allow gravity to do the rest of the work. Big kitty predator paws are no match for our hooves on slick talus and 1,000-foot drops. All of those in my herd are stable on precarious ledges, and I have been given the honor as leader because of my unmatched climbing ability. Climbing is a virtue unlike any other.
Our white furry coats differentiate us from our Chamoix brothers and sisters of Europe and allow us to endure the harshest of northern Rocky Mountain weather. We also do not butt heads like bighorn sheep who some unwittingly mistake us for. Our horns are much too sharp to adorn playfully bantering heads, and we are certainly not sheep. Do not count us when you sleep. Do not expect us to follow a shepherd.
During warmer months we see the occasional “two-legs” march, often in small packs up to our ridges. They wobble and rely on their other two “legs” perched higher up on their body to stabilize themselves when they lose balance. To us, the trails they choose to climb are as solid as the mountain itself, but to the two-legs such trails seem to provoke a fear and challenge that to us is almost comical. Are they really so ill-suited to our terrain? Watching them climb is another reminder of just how naturally swift motion in mountains comes to us over all other creatures we’ve encountered. Overall, the two-legs are quite amusing, and sometimes leave snacks for us to find, but their presence is overwhelming. There have been stories of herds relocating to find solace from the trains of these visitors to our traditional homelands.
Despite the seeming incompetence of the two-legs in our world, there is one memory of a two-leg I have that contradicts what I know of these strange creatures. I was leading my herd down from our favorite salt rock on the summit, one that we lick for minerals because nutrient-dense plants are often hard to find. As we descended back to our home in the basin, I noticed motion on another steep trail from the ridge that would intersect our route. I continued to watch the motion and to my astonishment saw a two-leg running down toward us. Two-leg moved swiftly and with grace, not in the slow, deep gasping manner I had so often seen of his kind. As he drew closer, I could see he was short and had legs stocky and muscular like our own. His “hooves” were brightly colored and danced at a methodical pace over, under and around rocks in his path. His eyes met mine. His pace slowed to a canter and then a walk. I could sense by his composure that his intentions were not aggressive. I could only assume that he too was descending the summit for the night, perhaps licking our same salt rocks for energy.
Exactly where he was going, I couldn’t say for sure because I had never ventured into the lowlands where I’m told the two-legs have laid their domain. Perhaps he lived with the rest of his kind, but something about the way he moved so peacefully in our land made me think he spent as much time up here as he did down below.
As we drew within several meters of each other, he stopped, still staring at me. I gave an intense glare and firmed my legs, creating a wall between me and my herd. This was more of an instinctual reaction than a threat, but I had to leave him with no doubt that I would stand my ground and protect it. Two-leg made no attempt towards us, rather he shifted his gaze down the trail as if to indicate his direction and ask for safe passage. Both of us were at an impasse. On such a steep trail with loose rock on both sides, there was only one way down and it appeared that we were both in need of this trail at the same time.
I have never been one to welcome other creatures inside our herd. I’m a competent leader because I’m protective and put our needs first. But in this instance, I softened to this two-leg. He was not a threat, and he was at our mercy, simply asking for passage. There was also something about him that reminded me of our kind. I gave one glance back to the rest of the herd who was waiting for my decision. They understood that if I allowed this two-leg to run down with us he would be respected and trusted by the entire herd as one of our own. To run with us is to be one of us. I relaxed my stance and started moving down the trail. I didn’t even look back; I knew the two-leg would join us.
I heard the sounds of some of our young bouncing playfully along the side of the trail, likely in excitement of welcoming our new guest. After no more than half an hour, I led us off the main trail, following our own herd-made trail leading to our resting place for the night. This was the moment where our guest split from us. I looked back to the two-leg who had kept pace with us down the mountain just like he was one of us. He glanced at the route down the mountain and gave us a nod and a thankful smile.
Had he wanted to follow us and rest with us for the night I likely would have allowed it. I felt sadness as he turned from us and ran down the trail. He was a visitor, but he also seemed at home here. I would have been proud to accept him as one of our own. The mountain has a way of quickly determining who belongs and who doesn’t, and it was clear that he belonged here. The mountain always has the final say. Now, over five years later, I’m still not sure who he was but I know one thing. He got goat. Mountain goat.
Editor’s Note: Read Tayte’s article about his journey to the Speedgoat 50K.
