Mount Rogers
Virginia
July 2011
We have the summit to ourselves. Highest point in Virginia. Rejoice. Rejoice and quickly get out the camera to document our high point achievement before someone else shows up and we embarrass ourselves with our Highpoint dance.
We do not exactly have the summit to ourselves. Oodles of butterflies have joined us. Or more likely, we have joined oodles of butterflies. They were here first.
Oodles? More accurately, a flutter of butterflies. Really.
The spiritual butterfly represents transformation, metamorphosis. The creature does, after all, turn from a grubby ground crawler into a gravity-defying work of art. We too experience a sense of lightness when we stand on top of a state.
Dogs have their spiritual side too, y’know. They reappear after they’ve died, I’m told, to escort you to… somewhere. As escorts, dog spirits offer protection. I had a dog once. I was a kid. The dog’s name was Dingleberry. I was never aware of Dingleberrry’s protective spirit. Nor the meaning of her name. Doesn’t mean she didn’t have them.
After a few minutes to ourselves at the summit, other hikers arrive. One of the hikers is a dog, perhaps escorting the accompanying people to the high point, as is their spiritual inclination.
More hikers come and go. Dogs come and go. Large breeds, small breeds. Some carrying packs, which only seems right. Our Canine Americans.
One human couple on today’s trail explains that their Australian Sheepdog tried to pick a fight with a cow. The cows here are wild, if there is such a thing, and fighting with them may not be a practical or productive endeavor. Explain this to the dog.
Oh so many hours ago we were prepping before our hike in the large paved parking lot at trailhead. We heard a muffled bark. A vehicle — I think it was a Hummer — pulled into a parking spot. The hatch opened and a batshit crazy hound came bounding out from the back. This was Cujo, Jim Croce’s junkyard dog, I’m talking non compos mentis. Now that he had sprung free, there was nothing restrained about this four-legged cur. The dog — a pit bull, or maybe a Rottweiler, certainly something built more on the lines of a combat tank — flailed all over the place, jumping on cars, trees, people, barking the whole time, nothing but unleashed turbulent energy, teeth bared, spittle spraying. The owner yelled to the dog, “Lucifer! Lucifer! Get over here!” Of course the dog’s name was Lucifer. Lucifer ignored his “owner.” Eventually the accompanying human corralled him. It.
Fortunately no one died or lost a body part, or even got bitten. Although from the look on the faces of the hikers and picnickers at trailhead, some of them wanted a piece of the owner. Lucifer was also possibly the highest dog in Virginia, but not in a good way. Fortunately, we did not see Lucifer again. All the other dogs we encountered on our hike were… delightful, civilized, curious, mannered, cow-chasers. Like hikers should be.
