Pyrenees: hiking with a dog
At the end of august my mistress fetches the biggest travel bag out of the cupboard. Immediately I fall into fright. Unlike humans, we dogs spend our annual holidays mostly in hell, called pet boarding. In airplanes, trains and buses we are annoying excess baggage, in hotels not like suffered, on the beach prohibited. And we can not ski. At the beginning of the season, we transform ourselves from a faithful companion into a logistical problem.
Anxiously, I count the ready-made socks. There are more than ten pairs - that means the end of the world. But then my mistress stuffs except mosquito repellent and sunscreen a rolled-up spare rope in the last free angle of her travel bag. "Rejoice," she replies my questioning look. "We're going on a dog walk."
On what? As a precaution, during the following two-day drive, I expect to be taken to a distant pension this year. Very far away. Apparently it is in the middle of the Pyrenees. More precisely, in the Sierra de Guara, at the end of an endless serpentine road. In the town of Rodellar, which is a handful of houses with a thick, square church tower on a moonlit hill.
In the middle of the mountains: the camping Mascún
Exhausted from the arrival, we overslept the night in a sauna-sized wooden bungalow. When I step on the threshold in the morning, I see more clearly: We are not in hell, but in a campsite. The air is surprisingly cold, tastes like drinking water and suddenly erases the thirst of a long, stifling city summer. The horizon presents an impressive backdrop of karst mountain peaks, while the bells of a flock of sheep provide musical accompaniment. A few steps away, a group of people is preparing an open-air breakfast on the grass between the wooden huts. The bipeds wear shorts and sturdy shoes. That's a good sign. Only when I got close, I realize what is everywhere in the shade. They are dogs. More dogs than I've ever seen in a pile. And all with a suspicious expression.
Tail wagging, I turn to a dachshund lady who is busy worshiping a hog hung high in a tree. She is called Dr. Lisa and comes from Bremen. "Do not know what that is," she growls. "Has something to do with hiking." I was so far. Half an hour later we pass through the town, 21 dogs and 16 people, connected by a net of linen, along the old walls of mortarless stones, behind which grow fig and olive trees. On the side of the road, colorfully dressed Freeclimbers stop to look us over. We are a parade, a dog parade on the way to the wild, and probably look just as weird as we feel.
The descent to Canyon Mascún offers a taste of the kind of wilderness that awaits us here: it is steep. In the dry riverbed we surround a man named Michael. When he speaks, everyone is quiet, and when I bark at him, he does not notice me at all. No doubt it is a pack leader.
Short break for everyone: on the stones of a mountainside
"Just let go," he says to the people. "Everything else can do alone." When the carabiners click, we run agog for a while. The majority opts for peaceful coexistence and balance of power. Terrier Erik, who can not resist picking up the ten times larger Wolfhound Chester, is made uncompromising by Michael: "Take your strength for climbing!" A look up shows what he means. Around us mountain walls rise to dizzying heights. The water has washed towers, battlements, bizarre caves and galleries of soft limestone - the silhouette of a fairytale stone city. In the narrow strip of sky between the edges of the ravine vultures circle. "Hold the dachshund!" My mistress shouts. "He looks like rabbits from above!" Amazed, I look over at her. That's just how she sounds when she has not thought about her job since getting up. Which rarely happens. In general, the canyon is filled with a whole concert of happy voices.
"Who laughs last," growled Dr. Lisa. "Let's see how the crown of creation comes up the goat paths!" Stomachs and bottles are refueled at one source, then the caravan pulls up the mountain. I run back and forth, my nose in the spicy wind. Nobody calls me, nobody whistles. The heat, the scree of the ground and the beauty of the landscape distract people from dog-related matters. A little later it is over for them even with the privilege of bipartisanship.My mistress takes her arms to help, crawls over boulders, between which the water gurgles in wetter seasons, reaches for the trunks of small conifers and barely gets a hand free to wipe the sweat from his forehead. We dogs climb and jump as if we had suckers under our paws. Some take the opportunity to lick their crawling owner's face. Others practice mountain bike hunting in extreme sports. Even Dr. Lisa bravely takes stone by stone on her short legs. "Sometimes one wonders," she says with a sidelong glance at a stumbling Homo sapiens, "who or what made the boss."
Completely done: Dr. Lisa
It was the ability to carry sandwiches and bottles with them. Part of the water that glows in impressive green at the bottom of the ravine could have stayed quietly up here on the high plateau. The sun is vertical. A panting from 21 dry throats forms the soundtrack for the hike. But the view is phenomenal: For the first time in my life I can see a circling bird of prey on my back. On the horizon lie green spotted mountains like sleeping dragons in the mist of light. As far as the eye can see, no traces of human activity and works. The stones, which are piled up everywhere in grotesque formations, were piled on top of each other by prehistoric oceans.
Next to me my mistress looks down into the valley and spreads her arms as if she wanted to hug a mountain. Without the eternal military green skirt and the colorful socks I would hardly recognize her. The woman, with whom I have been sharing bedside rug and bowl for four years, does not like talking to other people. On her walks in the city park, she keeps her head down and looks at the ground at her feet, as if she were looking for something she lost long ago. Seems like she found it here. She walks upright, as long as she does not have to crawl, lets her eyes wander and talks with other travelers without a break. I can imagine why that is. For the past five hours we have been out in the open, without being abused by bad-tempered passers-by. No waitress had to becirct, no taxi driver begged, and no panicked mother reassured to legitimize the presence of a yellow bitch on God's soil. There is someone who does not question the existence of man and dog: nature. A relaxed hanging hand crows my ears. "You see, Olga," says my mistress, pointing to the horizon with the other, "that's how it looks when the cage bars are a little further away."
We cross the plateau heading for Onin. Everywhere are the ruins of deserted villages, reminding you that you can not feed on the sight of the most beautiful landscape. The place where we wanted to drink something proves to be a field of ruins. The turnoff to the campsite has the last snow melt away. The next one is blocked by a herd of cows. And the third does not lead in the planned direction.
Now people are distributing good advice instead of sunscreen. Terrier Erik is looking for a fight. Dr. Lisa has stopped philosophizing. The little kangaroo has to be carried because of her sore paws. All around, the rock walls begin to absorb the light. The twilight brings silence, monumental as a silent echo from those times when the first earthly being was not yet born. From time to time, a loud clatter echoes from the neighboring slopes when scree shards fall into the valley under the hooves of a mountain goat. Admittedly, there are times when one would be grateful for an indication of human activity and work.
We sneak forward with lowered heads until a delicious weather makes the nostrils vibrate. I have not yet understood what it is, because my legs carry me already at a frantic gallop around the curve. The whole pack is unstoppable, as a large cloud of dust we slide down the last stretch of the slope. Shortly thereafter, we are a single splashing, spraying and slurping. Refrigerator cold, fresh water. Pretty much even. As soon as we have had enough to drink, people are already in the river up to their chests. They wear their shoes and cameras over their heads, shouting, pointing in one direction and wading towards a rock outcrop. Pathetic howls tear the evening silence: a few four-legged non-swimmers have tried to run after them and cling helplessly to the vertical walls of the canyon.
"Continue!" Michael orders. "Do not look around!" In fact, one latecomer after another falls into the water, reappears briskly and sets the four-legged pedal boat engine in motion. I'm sitting on the other bank, watching thoughtfully as the exhausted Dr. Lisa at Schlawittchen the last few meters is pulled through the water. When duck hunting in the park I never thought of survival training.
In company: the dogs enjoy each other's freedom
My soaking wet mistress fights out of the river and sinks down next to me on the warm stones. A strong shake you missed a shower. As a punishment she pulls me by the ears. "Hey, Olga," she says."I'm wet, half starved and dead tired, do you know what I think?" I know it: You have to be able to bottle it and take it home with you. We look each other in the eye. If I could smile, I would do it now.
In the dark, the wooden bungalows of the campsite seem like oversized dog kennels. Four-legged shadows are sleeping in front of every door, the few steps to the restaurant seem insurmountable. The people sit at a long table and defend paper towels and napkins against the cold wind. According to Michael's menu translation, there is "cow, chicken, sheep or fish". From time to time a French fries falls off the table and ends up in front of my nose as if by chance. Nice meant, but I'm too lazy to open my mouth. Dr. Lisa is awarded the Duracell Order in her absence. "For stiffening on stubby legs!", I hear my mistress call.
Half asleep, I listen to the planning for the next few days. I see people rocking in the saddle of western horses through the barren Sierra. I see them disguised as frogmen diving through narrow caves, jumping from towering rocks or simply floating in the green water on their backs. I see endless trails, sore feet and blue skies in front of which the vultures circle. This is what paradise must look like: a dog kennel, where you can take your humans with you.
Travel Info Hiking with a dog
The described trip was from Canis offered, a Center for Cynology (science of the dog), which provides information about the dog in seminars and workshops. The first hike with dogs was organized in 1996 by Erik Zimen, behavioral scientist and co-worker of Konrad Lorenz and co-founder of Canis. His desire was to give people and dogs - at least on vacation - a natural way of being together. www.canis-kynos.de
Other providers: www.hundewandern.de www.hundeschule-roesler.de //hund-und-reisen.de www.flughund.de
Tips for individual tours at: www.hiking-dog.de www.hundebergtouren.ch
Recommended reading: "Kleine Konversationslexikon für Haushunde" by Juli Zeh and David Finck - a dog explains the world from his point of view (Schöffling & Co., 19.90 Euro).
