Hiking to Lundy Falls with Cinch

A hike in the Sierra Nevada tests the author's resolve to complete the challenge and prove her skitzy Border collie's ability to defend her.

Mono County Tourism photo

It turned out to be a stellar day, a good way to say ‘goodbye’ to one of my favorite activities. After years of short hikes near my home in Truckee and to various trails in the west, my body was telling me, it was time to let it go. So, for my hiking finale, I decided to hike to Lundy Falls with my crazy Border collie, Cinch.

Why I decided to bring her along still mystifies me. Ever since my daughter, Val, forced this traumatized dog upon our household, Cinch has grated on my nerves as well as my compassion. Her cloying plays for affection, her ear-piercing bark, her erratic energy all proved annoying in the extreme. With people, she either collapses in a puddle of piss or barks with frightening fury at them. What's more, after my beloved cat fled from our home after Cinch nearly disemboweled him, I was ready to take her back to the rescue. Chaos reigned since her arrival and I was done.

"Bless her heart, Mom, she only trying to do what we want her to do."

"She's trying all right, especially my patience."

Compared to the brilliant Border collies that herd sheep with only whistles to command them, our Pretty Little Princess stands at the opposite end of the bell curve. So, why bring her on a hike alone when I'll be struggling with my own issues? Perhaps it this day alone with her would help me bond with the poor beast without interference from Val or husband Jeff around. Maybe I could come to understand Cinch and get past the abuse of her previous owners. If I gained her trust, she might be able to travel with Jeff and I without thinking we would dump her beside the road, the traditional way Great Basin shepherds got rid of useless dogs. Cinch had probably heard the stories from other Border collies at the rescue.

With Cinch cowering in the back seat, I drove southward on Hwy 395 toward Lundy Canyon near Lee Vining, CA. A bit past Walker, we stopped alongside the river for a short break and climbed over the boulders to the shore. Cinch seemed okay with this opportunity to stretch her legs and relieve herself as long as I stayed within sight. This bonding thing just might work after all. Patience, Sue, patience.

While Cinch nosed around the rocks, I found a dead monarch butterfly in perfect condition sheltered from the wind on one of the stones. How it died and managed to remain undamaged puzzled me. Deeming it an appropriate symbol of a last time event, I carefully pressed it inside my scrapbook to remind me of this glorious day.

Over the previous month, arthritic hips, legs, and feet had increased significantly. Still, I wanted to prove I could still walk a mile or two at least. I hated to quit something I had enjoyed daily in Truckee. While I've never been a long backpack hiker, little walks in Nature help center me to face life's daily grind. These would be over the same trails where I rode my horse, using the Nordic ski tracks that criss-crossed a small mountain. Lovely trails through aspens and Manzanita.

One such walk in the woods helped me quit a toxic job. I actually felt something snap under my sternum as I finished the trail. As soon as I arrived home, I made the call that would end my life as an employee. Since then, of course, finding another paying job proved impossible. Retirement came thereafter with no regrets.

But I digress. Back to the Lundy Trail.

There are countless trails all along the 395 eastern Sierra Nevada. In fact, I once read an obit about an elderly man named Curly who died while sitting in his lawn chair in Lone Pine. The obit claimed he had walked every drainage of the range, starting in his fifties, roughly my age when I did this hike. When he broke his hip hiking in Arizona, he hobbled to his car and drove to a hospital. Curly became my inspiration. If he could get himself to a hospital with a broken hip, a couple of arthritic knees were NOT going to stop me from hiking to the beautiful Lundy Falls.

The first time I hiked Lundy, my husband helped me climb the steep staircase of granite outcrops. It was grueling. We finally reached the falls, a secluded grotto that seemed to be out of a misty dreamscape. This time, alone, I struggled up the trail, clinging to the razor-edged boulders to keep my balance. To bolster my resolve, I recalled the elderly pair Jeff and I met at the top of this outcrop. As his wife recuperated on a rock near me, he regaled us about how, during his youth in Switzerland, he had scaled the Alps many times. "This is just a good stretch of the legs," he crowed. His wife rolled her eyes.

Cinch watched me, tipping her head, probably wondering why I was putting myself through this. I wondered why as well, but I was determined to finish this hike. At least she was leashed and could pull me up the trail. A manic little bitch that would run laps around our house, her personal best was seventeen. When my daughter, Val, took her on marathon-training jogs in the desert, Cinch returned, still bouncing with unspent energy. She was just getting warmed up!

Somehow, she managed to rein in the micro-bursts on this hike. Or maybe she was finally getting a little age on her. Seven or eight years old was middle age for a dog.

As usual, there were friendly hikers, so I wasn’t truly alone. Families, couples, elderly folk, all encouraging me to keep going. If they could do it ….

At last, we reached the falls, somewhat diminished in size because of the drought (or was it my memory). Cinch and I relaxed on a misty hummock of grass as the water trickled over the rocks. Sunlight warmed my shoulders on this late autumn day when all the leaves had fallen from the aspens. I glowed with satisfaction that I had conquered this trail without help from anyone. My knees and hips throbbed, but I swelled with joy and a sense of accomplishment.

Now all I had to do was hike back down the trail. As any hiker knows, that part of the hike has its own agonies, especially the repeated toe-bashing within ill-fitting boots. I chose to butt-crawl down the staircase because Cinch's tension on the leash kept pulling me off-balance. She could restrain herself no longer. It would be like our desert walks near home where she romped around the sagebrush, rejoicing in her freedom. That was okay as long as she came back when I called her. One day, though, as a man leered at me from his truck, she had disappeared. As usual, she proved unreliable.

I grew increasingly impatient with her, but there is no way to calm down a Border collie. Taking her off leash would free her to launch blindly off the mountain in typical cattle dog exuberance. Border collies are always at high point vigor without the self-control. A few moments later, however, I would appreciate her intense energy.

Once off the switchbacks, the trail leveled out to a gentle slope. The rest of the trail would be a no-brainer, ducking through a tunnel of aspens most of the way to the parking lot. I had passed the major hurtles. My breathing eased with the trail. A delightful serenity fell around me as mind and body calmed. I entered a state of blissful meditation with the rhythm of my footsteps.

Suddenly, I heard boots stomping the ground behind me. A man came out of nowhere. Cinch amped into full attack mode with deep-throated barks and snarls her back legs ready to spring at his throat. Passing me, the man pivoted with his hands up in surrender and backed down the trail. He disappeared around the corner where the aspen tunnel began.

I stood there, stunned, trying to process what had happened. Did I just dodge a rape attempt? Or was the guy gaining downward momentum after merging from the upper trail that leads to Burnside Lake? Usually, etiquette suggests a warning if one comes up behind others, whether on foot or bicycle. It's a bit of politeness that is not often observed. He didn't say a word. I was willing to give him a pass, but I wondered if he would be waiting for me somewhere on the path to the parking lot.

Subduing Cinch took several minutes. We found a comfortable log in the shade to let our nerves settle. With other hikers on the trail, I wasn't alone. Despite reading news accounts of women meeting their doom on hikes, I doubted this was one of those incidents. I wanted to doubt any such possibility. Like me, certainly, he was enjoying a beautiful autumn day in the mountains. Right? Or was I in denial?

Minutes passed. Cinch and I resumed our walk. I scanned the dense brush all the way back to the car and saw no sign of him. All was well. My heart rate fell to normal pace. Although I proved I could still walk in Nature, my desire to continue hiking vanished. There were too many weirdoes out there in rural Nevada. I didn't have the strength to overpower an attacker. This incident reminded me of a similar, more harrowing experience while living in Israel that landed a young Bedouin in prison. Perhaps I'll write about that some time. As I recalled that event, this hike only cemented in my brain that hiking no longer brought me joy.

During the long drive back home, I realized how lucky I was and checked off the boxes on the list. It was a good day, beautiful weather. I conquered the trail without help. Cinch behaved herself most of the time.

I was disappointed at the condition of the autumn leaves, which normally would have been at their brilliant peak. Drought had taken its toll and diminished the waterfall tumbling vigor. Still, it provided a delightful, private place to rejuvenate after earning the right to be there. Nothing worth seeing in Nature is a give-away.

More important, though, I learned what a faithful dog I have in Cinch. I've never had a dog protect me like that. Usually my dogs have been galumphing goofs staring adoringly at me, but I wondered if they would've stood their ground like Cinch had. She had come a long way from the cowering misfit we rescued from the shelter.

Today, she was a warrior.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the Ring Around the Basin Archive.

All photos by Jeff Cauhape except where noted.