The Deluge
Chauncey and I had hiked this particular route many times. It was really a combination of two canyons. We would hike down a broad canyon for about a mile until we reached a normally dry streambed. Then we’d follow the streambed back up through a much narrower canyon, eventually returning to where we’d started.
It was one of our regular hikes. We knew it well.
On this particular day, though, it started to hail as we headed down into the canyon.
That probably should have told me something.
But we were tough.
So we kept going.
The hail soon turned to rain, and the rain became increasingly heavy. By the time we reached the streambed, something was happening that I had rarely seen there: the normally dry creek was beginning to carry water.
That concerned me, mostly because of Chauncey.
He was off leash and, as usual, ranging ahead of me. He liked walking in the creek bed, and I began worrying that as the water rose he might get caught in it. And Chauncey, despite being a Golden Retriever, couldn’t swim.
So I kept going after him.
By the time I entered the narrow canyon, the water was rising rapidly enough that I couldn’t safely stay in the streambed myself. I began climbing higher along the canyon wall.
That’s when I discovered another problem.
The canyon wall had turned to mud.
Not a little surface mud. This was deep, thick stuff, and in places I was sinking practically to my knees. Every step became an effort. I was soaked, struggling through the mud above a rapidly rising stream—and becoming increasingly worried because I couldn’t see Chauncey anywhere.
But that was precisely why I kept going.
Somewhere ahead of me, I thought, was a hundred-pound dog who couldn’t swim.
So I fought my way through the canyon.
Eventually I made it out and worked my way back toward the truck, exhausted, soaked and covered in mud, still wondering what had happened to my dog.
And there, standing beside the truck, was Chauncey.
Apparently waiting for me.
The explanation became obvious.
Chauncey had reached the rising water in the narrow canyon before I did. He had taken one look at it and decided that he wasn’t going any farther.
So he turned around.
Instead of following our normal route through the narrow canyon, he simply retraced our path through the broad canyon and went back to the truck.
While I was slogging through knee-deep mud, climbing the canyon wall and worrying that I needed to rescue him, Chauncey had already rescued himself.
I had done all the worrying.
Chauncey had done the thinking.
And I suppose there is a lesson in there somewhere about the relative intelligence of man and dog.
On that particular afternoon, at least, the dog was smarter.