Castle DawnCastle UtahCastle LakeCastle PeakCastle HighRed CastleCastle UintaPeak BasinBasin UintaForwardThe High Uinta Mountains in Utah. My first backpacking trip when I was eleven.The page you requested cannot be found. Please try the options below, or if you still have issues contact us. Browse by Outdoor Activity Backcountry Skiing & Snowboarding Flatwater Paddling & CanoeingSo how does all this jibe with the animal’s almost universally held reputation as a nasty, stinky, cantankerous troublemaker? I wanted to find out. ), I’d arranged the trip via e-mail, reserving four goats for 10 days, with plans to tackle the nearby Highline Trail, which Clay recommended. Traversing the spine of the High Uintas Wilderness, the 100-mile route crosses nine major passes and rarely dips below 10,000 feet. Unable to convince my wife of goats’ genial nature, this escapade would mark the first time I took our eldest son into the wilderness alone. An unmistakable — but not unpleasant — sense of responsibility settled on my shoulders the instant we left home.

Clay is tall and gaunt, with a wispy chin beard — astoundingly similar to the 25 curious goats jostling behind a nearby fence. After feeding the herd, and taking them for a walk, we began to stuff freeze-dried meals and sleeping bags into panniers. It was then that Clay announced: “I’ve decided to come along with y’all.”This was supposed to be a father-and-son backpacking journey. (O.K., father-and-son-and-Abe, but after entering our lives as a rebellious youth years ago, Abe is family.) We had chosen pack goats, in part because we relished the challenge of managing the animals ourselves.“A goat took off on renters last week,” Clay explained. “Don’t want to risk more trouble.”I suspected he was worried about my young son. The concern was understandable, but unnecessary; Bodi has spent a quarter of his life in tents.“Got a semiautomatic .45,” Clay said, patting a vintage external-frame backpack. “Loaded with the best hollow points money can buy.”“Bodi’s eyes widened even further.

And that was it. The next morning we saddled the beasts in a frosty parking lot, just three hours east of Salt Lake City. Clay had selected four wethers (neutered males; less stinky and aggressive) for the journey: jet-black Raven, snow-white Capricorn, mottled Cooper and coffee-brown Bob. Each carried about 30 pounds of gear. Their lightweight fabric saddles were held in place by plastic buckles, the panniers slung using Velcro and hooks.backpack y combinatorAmid the clatter of hooves and tiny bleats, we were under way. backpack gw2 galleryClay strode out front. apta backpackAbe, mildly overwhelmed by his first backpacking journey, tucked in behind him. f29 backpack

Bodi and I, holding hands, struggled to keep up. An avalanche of wondrous questions from my son had already begun: Will the goats miss home? Where will they sleep? Where will we sleep? When is snack time? The goats jostled endlessly as they established hierarchy. Get behind one on the trail and the animal would dawdle. Yet attempt to overtake it, and the goat would race ahead. It was uncannily reminiscent of human behavior. We ascended into a landscape of scree and rock. Desiccated husks of spring wildflowers — saxifrage, penstemon and daisy — crunched underfoot. A few splashes of color remained; paintbrush, aster and brilliant yellow arnica sprung up around windblown spruce. After filling water bottles at an icy spring, we ascended 1,200 feet to Rocky Sea Pass, overlooking a vista of ridges and brick red peaks.Hours later, on the shores of an alpine lake, Bodi leapt from boulder to boulder (eventually getting soaked) while Clay hung his hammock between two immense fir trees.

I set up a tent, and the goats — irrepressibly curious — tried to join me inside. Spray from a water bottle (a Clay-approved technique) sent them scattering. We ate together in contented silence. Fresh air, winds, sun and exertion had begun to bond our disparate team.Days began to blur, but routine made us efficient. The alpine highlands were a swirl of tarns, meadows and shattered mountains. The trail traversed beneath neck-stretching cliffs, weaving amid boulders the size of suburban homes. We spotted deer, elk and moose on ridgelines before they suddenly disappeared.Bodi walked about half of each day, little legs bounding as he led the parade. Given that he is not instinctively drawn to animals (he seems to prefer gasoline engines to ambient beings), I watched with pride as his relationship with the goats progressed from fear to toleration to tentative interactions.He spent the rest of his time in the child carrier, nattering in my ear and squirming endlessly. I loved every minute.

Abe — fearful this extra “training” might lead to my eclipsing his youthful strength — insisted upon his fair share of carrying.My wife sent along a small present for each day of the trip, which Bodi opened eagerly every morning: rainbow lollipops, a Spirograph, beads for bracelet-making. Then, a minor tragedy: a pedometer disappeared from Bodi’s belt. He had been averaging 40,000 steps a day, and was recording the results in a journal. Exhausted, he unleashed a spirited tantrum — then promptly fell asleep on a rock.Asleep beside me, his body was perfectly still, his freckles pronounced after days in the sun. Far from the certainties of home, I was Bodi’s only anchor, and he had clamped on like a barnacle. His dependence was so primal and unfamiliar that deep emotions bubbled up in me; tears welled at the slightest provocation — like a boy’s heavy head on my arm. On the fourth night we camped in open grasslands, near a collection of three-foot-tall log structures that once sheltered Basque shepherds.

Afternoon thunder and winds assaulted us. Drizzle turned dusty cliffs to a dark merlot. In the post-storm silence, sheep began streaming past, by the hundreds — maybe even thousands. A shepherd followed atop a coal gelding. He turned out to be a homesick Mexican named Marcelo, who had been in these highlands alone for three months. But the goats perked him up. “Que maravilloso!” he exclaimed, taking photos on a flip-phone.The trail led over pass after pass (Dead Horse, Red Knob, Tungsten, Anderson) and traversed just beneath Kings Peak — at 13,528 feet, the highest point in Utah. But the inclines proved gentle and the views fantastic. So why was no one else here? The Uintas are often overlooked in favor of more famous neighbors (Tetons, Sawtooths and Wind Rivers), and according to Backpacker magazine, as few as 50 hikers tackle the Highline Trail annually.Meanwhile, the goats followed us everywhere, their bells a constant serenade. When I dashed out of camp to photograph a sunset, all four raced behind me.