Not too long back my dad and I were in Glacier Park clipping along a trail double time trying to catch a shuttle that would take us back to camp. The last bus of the day was just twenty minutes coming, and though we could see the road snaking through a yonder pass, it seemed as though it should be bigger than model set size so we begrudgingly started jogging. The hill traversed grew steep; around a bend appeared two mountain goats ambling along in the same direction as us. It was a cute baby goat and a shaggy parent, exciting indeed, but we had a ride to catch and they were walking at about the speed honey slides down a window pane. The trail sides were too precipitous to scramble around and the closer we got to them the slower they went until the adult stopped, turned around and stared. I had a vision of being butted off the mountain side so fell back. By then Dad was looking pursed lipped at the pass and nearly hopping. He reached down and picked up a rock.
“We might have to resort to this,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
But suddenly the goats were stepping off the trail! He unleashed the rock and it landed on the ground near the adult’s hind legs, but instead of hastening their departure, they indignantly retook the trail and waddled on slower than ever.
Eventually they did move aside and we barreled ahead toward the pass. Beat red, breathing like locomotives and slippery in sweat we reached the bus stop with two minutes to spare!
The bus arrived and then waited forty minutes for someone who was suppose to be coming, but never did.
