I'm Definitely Not in New York Anymore.

The other day I got up early to try out my new mountain bike in Waterton Canyon, which is an eight mile stretch of dirt and gravel road that leads you alongside a river to a dam at the end. About six miles in, I heard a cascading of rocks falling from the mountain on my right and upon looking up I saw a mountain goat. Now we've all seen mountain goats at the zoo and they seem harmless and cute, but I've discovered that in the wild they are totally different animals. This mountain goat had more muscle than Arnold Schwartzneggar in his prime and was by far the biggest I have ever seen. Now most people would've kept on biking, but if you've been reading my blog so far you've probably realized that I'm not most people. I decided that this was a great picture opportunity and stopped to photograph the giant as it slowly made it's way down the mountainside. Then, when it was off the rocks and on the dirt road with me, ignoring all common sense, I continued to photograph the mountain goat. I guess I have a bit of the Crocodile Hunter's spirit inside of me, because I just couldn't look away from the animal and kept hearing the late Steve Irwin's voice in my head saying, "That's a beautiful animal." A few seconds later though, when the steroid pumped mountain goat lowered it's horns and started to charge, I heard Steve Irwin's voice again, but this time he was saying, "Danger-danger-danger!"

At this point my self preservation instincts finally kicked in and I ditched my bike and backpack and ran for my life. It's amazing how your mind races with so many thoughts when you think you are about to die. As I was running I realized that although I can out-run most people, I am no match for a large mammal with four legs. I also realized that I was being chased towards the edge of a cliff with a fifty foot drop and jagged rocks below. I remember thinking to myself that this was going to be a really crappy way to die. I mean people who die in other ways like cancer or old age are remembered not for how they died, but for how they lived. They're remembered with fond memories of Christmas's and birthdays and the good things they did in life. I would be remembered as the dumbass who photographed his own death. The pictures would probably end up in the paper, and then featured on Spike tv's, "When Animals Attack", somewhere in between a Herbal Essence and a Geico commercial. These were the thoughts buzzing through my head as I turned around and screamed, charging like a lunatic towards the mountain goat. Luckily for me, my bluff payed off and the goat ran away. I watched as it stopped about two hundred yards from me, picked up my backpack and proceeded up the mountain with it. I had to follow it for about ten minutes until it lost interest in my backpack and dropped it in the bushes. Upon retrieving my backpack I returned to the path, got on my bike and pedaled home, happy that I would live to see another day and hoping that many, many years from now I will be able to die a more dignified death, preferably not involving some four legged creature.