The dogs of Goat Mountain

By Lyndsie Kiebert
Reader Staff

I spend an inordinate amount of time cursing Facebook groups.

Brenda Haase, left, and the author, right, beginning their trek along Lightning Creek Rd. before hearing the dog bark. Photo by Leslie Kiebert.

They often become cesspools of pointless gripes and angry shouting into the void. Keyboard warriors thrive in these environments and, especially, in the groups with poor moderation.

One group I am happy to be a part of — where the griping is kept to a minimum and moderators keep conversations on track — is the Clark Fork community Facebook group. 

Scrolling through the group on Saturday, Jan. 18, I noticed someone posted about hearing a dog barking up the mountainside on Lightning Creek Road past the snowplow turnaround — a popular location for snowshoeing, cross-country skiing and snowmobiling.

Mary, a woman who lives across the creek drainage, commented that her dogs had gone missing Thursday and would head up in the morning to see if she could hear the barking. 

I had plans with my sister and a friend to snowshoe the road the following day, and mentioned the dog barking rumor to my boyfriend. Knowing my bleeding dog-mom heart, he warned me that going after a mystery barking sound in the woods was not a good idea. Knowing my distaste for mystery, surprise and extreme uphill travel, I told him he had nothing to worry about.

That was, until we heard the dog.

About a mile from the snowplow turnaround, a bark echoed down to the road. I checked the post in the Clark Fork Facebook group: The woman who suspected it may be one of her dogs had commented just hours before, saying she went up that morning and didn’t hear anything.

We called out to the dog, and its barking became even more distressed. Thanks to the town’s new cell tower — which we’re all still getting used to — I was able to comment: “I can hear a dog barking right now, we are a ways past the Goat Mt. trail and the barking is way up the steep hillside.”

With my sister in cross-country skis and our friend in Yaktrax, it became clear that my snowshoes and I were uniquely fit to scale the completely untrodden mountainside. I’d never been up Goat Mountain, seeing as the trail is the steepest in all of Idaho. At this point, well past the trailhead, I was freestyling the trek.

I post-holed my way up, the snow past my knees, and fell down more than once. The barking was more faint in the trees but I followed it, all the while hoping the poor pup wasn’t stuck in a trap or, for all I knew, not a dog at all. The closer I got, the dog noises went from manic barking to intermittent whimpering and howling. Soon, I could hear two distinct dogs.

I took a break to check the Facebook post — Mary replied to my comment, saying she was on her way. Soon after my sister texted me that two women were heading up in my tracks, and their husbands were converging from another way, all of us following the barks.

It didn’t take long for Mary and her friend to catch up, and they continued uphill, letting me know I was free to go. As invested as I was in the mission, I knew I’d offered as much help and I could. I headed down the mountain and into town, and sat down to the most satisfying basket of chicken strips and fries I’d ever consumed. 

Mary soon posted that she’d found her two dogs: one trapped due to the snow balls on his coat, and the other staying loyally by his brother’s side.

I don’t tell this story for a pat on the back. All I did was alert the Facebook group and break trail for maybe the first quarter of the grueling uphill journey.

I tell this story because it shows the good that can come from speaking up when something seems out of place, the benefits of joining a community Facebook group and the crazy things you can get yourself into when you care more about dogs than most humans.

Days later, Mary’s husband posted a video in the Clark Fork group of the moment he found their dogs on Goat Mountain. He said the expedition took about four hours.

“My wife and I are genuinely and truly grateful for the time and effort you all spent helping us,” he wrote. “The info you all relayed, and the comfort you all offered are a clear and concise manifestation of the very reason we moved up here — oldschool philosophy and neighborly behavior.”

All in all, it was a good day to go snowshoeing.