Yep.
A Royal Canadian Water Dog.
That is the moniker that Freddy goes by nowadays. He thinks that anything ending in “doodle” isn’t manly enough for him, seeing as he is over a year old. We both feel sorry for the poor Cocker Spaniel/Poodle mix.
I mean, Cockapoo? Seriously? When I told Freddy he could be a Goldenpoo, he just glared at me, mumbling something about some golden poo in my shoe.
So here is our new schtick.
“Hey, what kinda dog is that?”
“That, my friend, is a Royal Canadian Water Dog. They are descended from wolverines and fur seals. Very popular with the royalty in the Great White North. The King of Canada currently owns three.”
Meanwhile Freddy just sits up straight and attempts to look noble. Most people just walk away at that point, with a somewhat confused expression on their face. Others want to touch him. I explain that protocol dictates a bow or a curtsy first. Had no takers on that yet, just strange looks.
Here is the Royal Canadian Water Dog chasing polar bears in the northern reaches of Canada.
The bears are just off to the right…just out of the frame. Barely.
More of that later, let’s get caught up first.
We left Storrie Lake and headed north to Cimarron Canyon State Park, my favorite in New Mexico during the summer.
It is about 40 miles east of Taos along US 64. The elevation and location keep the temperatures down, a welcome respite from the 90’s we had been experiencing.
There are four campgrounds in the park located alongside a nifty trout filled river, but only Maverick has a lake as well.
Some of the reservable sites are right on the shore, like numbers 36, 37, and 39.
We ended up staying for two weeks, leaving the 5th of July.
Everyday we would walk to the river. Through the crowded campground…
…and over the bridge to Freddy’s happy place.
(10 trout on that stringer!)
Freddy is licking his chops for a tennis ball. I obliged. He showed off by using just his front legs and dual anal water jets as he chased the ball down the river.
After an hour or so he would get tired and we’d head back to camp.
I topped up my burrito stash while pondering the rear of the truck across from me.
The two bumper stickers just struck me as funny for some reason.
Our time was up, 14 days being the limit, and the southwest was in a heatwave. Grand Mesa National Forest outside of Grand Junction, Colorado was calling our names.
There are several small campgrounds on top of the mesa at over 10,000 feet in elevation. I visited one of them, Little Bear, in 2011. Check out that visit in my post from August 11, 2011. Lot’s of info about the mesa as well.
This time we tried out Ward Lake.
We lucked into the best spot and stayed for 4 nights. I was driving in and he was driving out.
Freddy was very happy and promised me a surprise. Hopefully not golden poo.
There are just two dozen sites here, no reservations accepted, and cost $16 per night. Maybe three are on the water in the lower loop.
My site tag was looked at by several other campers as to when I would be leaving but only one guy had his shit together. He stopped by and brought us a plate of delectable chicken drumsticks and asked if it would be ok if he put up a couple of his chairs the night before before we left.
No problemo. Feed me and I am easy.
Anyway, I asked Freddy what he wanted to show me. Take me for a walk and I will, he said. Alrighty then.
“Now throw the ball in the lake”.
“But you don’t swim”.
“Trust me”.
So I did.
And he swam.
“I thought you couldn’t swim?”
“There are many things you don’t know about me”, he responded.
“But you never went in the water above your butt before. I had to wade out to get the ball back.”
He looked at me and then looked away.
“I enjoyed watching you fetch”, he said.
Then he brought up the whole name change thingy, but I put a halt to that. I explained that to be called a Royal anything, you needed your own sovereign territory. A place to rule. He mentioned the trailer but I said that didn’t count. We left it at that, with his doggy brain working hard. No doubt thinking about palace coup.
We both dislike the heat, so I told him about a private campground up near Tahoe we could stay at for a while, just a couple of days drive to the west.
“Does it have a lake?”
“Yes”.
“An island?”
“I don’t know”.
I wondered what he was up to, but I didn’t care. We headed west, stopping for the night at a tiny spot called Maple Grove, halfway between Salina and Scipio on US 50 in Utah. It’s located on the east edge of Fish Lake National Forest and while all the sites are nice, site 3 is primo.
Here is a tour, front to back.
Freddy is getting impatient.
Where did he go?
To the little swimming hole at the back of the site, of course. How cool is this spot? $10 per night.
Freddy found a ball cap in the bushes, a BYU hat. He asked me about it.
“What are cougars?”
“Well, normally it means older gals trying to recapture their youth, but in this case it is a university mascot, a wild cat”.
“A cat?”
“Yep”.
So he ate it. He likes cats.
Silly puppy. We left the next morning.
After almost 400 miles across the loneliest road in America, we arrived at Snowflower, a Thousand Trails campground just west of Truckee, California. The gas prices were $2.19 in Reno and then a few miles later, over the state line, $3.39. Ah, California. I love you and I hate you.
The Golden State has within it’s borders some of the best places to camp in the country. From the sandy beaches and deserts to the rugged mountains and redwoods and lakes, it really has it all. And with the screwed up socialist government running the show, they will damn well make sure you ante up to enjoy it. I have watched the cost of camping at CA state parks jump from $12 to $20 to $35 in the last 10 years.
But I digress…
Back to Snowflower.
We found a great spot shaded by cedar trees and discovered a path to the lake right next to us.
A short climb takes you up to the dam.
Past the boat dock is a trail that goes around the lake.
I stuck a stick in some bear scat and judged it to be several hours old. We were fine to continue.
Suddenly Freddy stopped and looked out at the lake.
“This is it”.
“What is what?” I replied.
“My sovereign territory. My kingdom. Throw a ball at that small island”.
So I did.
And he swam and grabbed the ball.
Then he looked back at me.
“This is my island! I am the King and therefore of royalty. I will henceforth be known as a Royal Canadian Water Dog!”
I didn’t want to mention that his island looked like it was frequented by waterfowl and his royal butt was covered in poop. Didn’t want to spoil his moment. I also wondered where he picked up the lingo. Does he watch Downton Abbey?
“Yes Freddy, you are now a Royal Canadian Water Dog. I am heading back to camp. I think my shoes are falling apart and I want to get to the trailer before dark”.
He ignored me. As I walked away I heard him barking at the fish to pay him homage. At the ducks to bring him sustenance. They and I ignored him. He eventually followed me.
Greg (and King Freddy, Royal Canadian Water Dog)
