Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts from the past 15 years that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

Today, I am going to relate a story about going backpacking in 1972 with my Basset Hound Socrates. I took along a book I was reading by Carlos Castañeda that I had picked up at a bookstore in the Bay Area. He incorporated three things that had caught my interest at the time (and continue to): Cross-cultural experience, meditation, and wandering in the woods.

About the time Socrates came into my life, I took up backpacking. While I normally backpacked with friends, I also enjoyed going out on my own. Naturally I decided that Soc should go backpacking with me on these excursions– you know, a guy and his dog type thing. So off we went to my all-time favorite spot in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, a small lake basin that had been carved out by glaciers north of the I–80 Freeway half way between Sacramento and Reno.

I’d driven up to the take off point at Grouse Ridge, hoisted my pack, and started off down the trail with Soc more or less tagging along. Usually it was less. His bloodhound-like nose often led to detours. I never worried about it. He knew where dinner was— and the same nose that led to his adventures always found me.

Plus, at the time, I was on a mission, practicing a hiking meditation that fit into Castaneda’s recommendations for enlightenment. “No words” I told myself. It was my mantra for the day. It must of have worked. I had backpacked for an hour, colors had become intense, and my sight sharpened to the point where I was noticing many things I would normally miss. I was on a meditative high. It was then I heard the voice. It was very clear and demanding. And internal. “Speak to me dammit!” Apparently, the part of my mind that is constantly chatting with itself, did not like to be ignored.

Sharing the lake with Soc was close to being totally alone. His concept of a quality wilderness experience was disappearing into the woods and seeing how many holes he could dig. He never seemed to catch anything so I am not sure of his motivation. I’d get up in the morning and cover his handiwork. I almost felt like I needed to file an environmental impact report. Socrates would end up limping back to the car with sore feet.

In the Carlos Castaneda book I’d brought along, Don Juan takes Carlos out into the middle of the Sonoran Desert on a pitch-black night and abandons him. Not long afterwards, the monsters come hunting. It wasn’t the best book for a solo night in the woods. As I read into the evening, I found myself paying more attention than usual to wilderness sounds. I ingested a little medicinal herb to lighten things up. It was the 70s, after all. Bad idea; instant paranoia set in. Soon I could hear the wind stalking me through the treetops. Monsters lurked in the water. An old snag turned into a ghoul.

“Here Soc,” I called. “Come here boy.”

The digging continued and grew more desperate.

“Come here!” I yelled. Still no response but now I could hear large claws scratching at granite.

“Does someone want a Milk Bone?” I added in a quiet, conversational voice.

The digging stopped. ‘Someone’ started coming through the brush toward me. Whatever it was, it was apparently interested in Milk Bones. Soc’s head, long body, and wagging tail made their way into the firelight. He might love digging, but he loved food more. There was a reason why my low-slung pooch weighed 70 pounds.

“Good boy,” I said while digging out a Milk Bone. I knew I was buying companionship, but it seemed like a good idea on this strange, dark night. Meanwhile, Socrates had started to drool in expectation. Soon he was shaking his head and shooting dog slobber off in a dozen directions. I ducked to avoid being slimed.

Unfortunately, my supply of Milk Bones was limited. I tied Soc up to assure his faithfulness. It was time for bed. I put the fire out and was greeted by a moonless, dark night. But hey, who needed the moon when I had my faithful companion and a million stars. I invited Socrates to snuggle up on my sleeping bag and laid my head down on the coat I was using for a pillow.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

“What the F…!?” I shouted, sat up straight and grabbed for my flashlight. Socrates joined in by barking at my sleeping bag.

“No, Soc, out there,” I urged and pointed the flashlight off into the woods. Soc glanced up at me with a curious, what are you talking about look, and started barking at my pillow.

“Look Socrates,” I pleaded, “just pretend there is a garbage man out in the woods.” Soc had never met a garbage man he could resist barking at and I wanted his teeth pointed in the right direction.  What Soc did with my advice was make three dog circles and plop down on my bag. I gave up and reluctantly laid my head back down on my pillow.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

I sat straight up again. Soc growled at me for disturbing his rest and started barking at my sleeping bag again.

“Fine watch dog you are,” I growled right back at him while straining my ears for the smallest of sounds. When Soc shut up, I was rewarded with a faint ‘crunch, crunch, crunch.’ It was coming from under the sleeping bag. I had a proverbial monster under my bed!

Gradually it dawned on me that what I was hearing was a gopher tunneling his way through the ground, innocently on his way to some succulent root. I put my head down on my pillow. Sure enough, the ‘crunch’ became a ‘CRUNCH.’ The ground and the mystic weed were magnifying the sound. Soc had been right all along. I was lucky that he only barked at my sleeping bag and hadn’t started digging.

Don Juan would have appreciated how I had been tricked. Reality isn’t always what it seems.