the gravity of a dog

I sleep in and move slowly through the house. At 6:20 am, I pull into the parking lot for the Desolation Trailhead. I step into the trees and think, I shouldn't be here. These woods and I have too much history.

I keep going. 

At the first turn in the trail, the dog waivers in which direction we should be heading. He's built on instinct and knows there is a shorter way than to stupidly pace the mountain.

I've never had a dog not trust me, but this one is smarter than the others.

He came into my life when I was still mourning the loss of my beloved Juneau, who was struck by a car while I was at work. It severed his spine, leaving him alive long enough for me to get to the vet to sign his death warrant and say goodbye.

At the first twist in the trail, I start counting. The trick with this particular route is that it's always a switchback longer than you think it should be. 

The path slips into the forest like Goldie Locks. The rising sun begins to follow but quickly changes its mind. The smell of pine and the memory of snow snakes through the undergrowth. The trail rises, emerging in a grove of stone. I scramble over the rocks, thinking about how on this path, I created a woman named Paola and dropped her in the middle of my greatest fears. Then feeling guilty, I armed her with a dog.

I used to run this mountain.

The sun breaks the horizon. There is no one here but me and this white dog. 

I used to whisper in his ear, you are not Juneau.

The trail stretches across the mountain, open and exposed as it winds. At the next switchback, I count three. The pattern repeated. Woods, exposure, woods, exposure. I miscount them all.

I realize I've packed food for the dog but none for me. This creates a minor panic. I'm hypoglycemic. Well, the dog has food. 

I keep going. 

Mars was never supposed to be my dog. I was afraid of him.

At the next expanse of dry exposure, I stop. The dog looks confused. I've promised that I'd stop and remove my sweatshirt when I got hot. I've repeated it like a mantra because it's not something I tend to do. I have a terrible habit of compartmentalizing my own discomfort. I remove the sweatshirt, and we go on.

The lengths of the trail between the turns grow shorter. I count five and six and then return to five, just in case. 

At the next twist, I tell myself there are four more. It's a random number I've made up. I don't actually know how many switchbacks there are. 

The dog bolts up the stones and through the tree roots, pulling me off balance. He stops as I nearly fall, staring through me. 

You are not Juneau; you are Mars.

The sound of deer moving through the trees pops and crackles. The dog emits a low growl, but he keeps slack in the line between us. Juneau would have blotted.

We cross the grave of a snowfield. I think of the snowslide and how lucky I was. I'm always lucky.

At the next turn, the trail doesn't because we are at the top. 

I feed the dog and stare down at the pastel light of the city of salt baking in the morning. It doesn't stare back.

We begin our descent. I leave the dog dish at the top because the trail has no water. 

The day feels like a napping child. It's Tuesday, I remind myself for no reason. 

At the first turn in the trail, I count one. Going down the rocks is more challenging now that I'm nursing a broken patella and a torn meniscus. I can't trust my knee to hold me. This confuses the dog. He scrambles without gravity. 

He's missing a toe on one of his back feet. We have no idea why. We found him as a stray running on the J trail. I worked my magic and found his owner, only to have him turn up as a stray again. This time on the other side of the valley. Animal Control took him, and they called me. We adopted him two days before Christmas. A few months after, I buried my Juneau.

You are not a stray; you are Mars.

We slip out of the sunlight back into the trees, and the crows call, overtaking the lesser birds flicking through the wild roses. Like Juneau, Mars is not to be trusted off-leash, but for entirely different reasons. 

I count two as we turn the corner. The forest closes under the rising sun. I count three, four, and five.

Juneau and I were afraid of the same things. He was an extension of my anxiety. 

Mars is granite. 

My granite.

When we come to the next scramble, I let Mars lead us off the main trail and down into Thyanes Canyon, remembering how steep and rocky it is too late. I turn my ankle twice, trying to keep his pace.

Right before Juneau died, we took him on a week-long camping trip. He bit a man wearing an open carry firearm on a hiking trail in Idaho. Had the man approached me the way he came at the dog, I'd probably have bit him too.

Mars isn't afraid of men or guns. He stands solidly among the sawmills and the crack of tools.

You aren't Juneau, and I am not myself. 

Then the main trail reappears because we are at the bottom. The car keys are in the middle pocket.

It's all downhill from here.