It’s All Right Here

How Four Hours of Watching Goats Taught Me About Attention and Wonder

Will and I took an impromptu trip out West to Colorado and Utah last week.

My wife was heading back to work at the high school, which would have left Will hanging out at home alone. It really wouldn’t have been a problem—and I’m sure he would’ve loved the alone time—but I started thinking about a few trips I had taken his older sisters on years before.

In 2017, I took Anna and Caroline to Moab, Utah, to hike and mountain bike. In 2020, I took them on an incredible hike near Vail, Colorado, to Gore Lake—an alpine area near 11,000 feet with a remarkable population of mountain goats. I figured I could put together a “best of” trip for Will. So we left last Saturday and traveled westward.

The hike to Gore Lake is intense, especially for flat-landers living at 650 feet above sea level. Over seven miles, the trail climbs nearly 2,500 feet. Our hearts beat fast, almost keeping up with our heavy and erratic breathing. Despite warning Will a few times about “false summits”—believing the next ridge is the top when it only appears to be—his hopes were dashed each time, as one ascent only led to the next. But alas, with heavy legs and a final burst of determination, we crested the ridge like the rays of the morning sun.

Magnificently blue skies with large white clouds. A still, reflective lake mirroring the cathedral of mountain peaks. Mountain goats grazing in the grass beside the very spot where Anna, Caroline, and I had set up camp five years prior.

That’s exactly where Will and I would camp.

We immediately set up the tent, laid out our sleeping bags, and pulled out our newly purchased one-pound camping chairs, which we set in the grass near the goats.

For the next two and a half hours, until supper, we watched nearly thirty goats eat, charge each other, and play around us. There were a couple of large and distinct alpha males, several females with babies following closely behind, and a mixture of teenage and middle-aged goats trying to establish their place in the pecking order. There were even a couple of “runts” that everyone pushed aside or chased away.

After supper, we were ready for the next episode of the show. We set our chairs up again and watched the goats. Each one became unique and familiar. We could distinguish between them and recognize their individual character and temperament. We even became acquainted with the resident marmots, tirelessly working to be accepted into the herd—unsuccessfully.

We watched the show for another couple of hours, until I commented to Will that we’d been sitting there for about four and a half hours. We both started laughing.

There are so many lessons we learned from this experience. But one is this: slowing down reveals the wonder hidden in the seemingly mundane. Hours felt like minutes because we were caught up in the moment. Of course, there was the novelty of watching mountain goats move around us—but I’d argue that I could walk into my backyard and do the same thing: watch the family of cardinals fly from tree to windowsill, observe the three crows that hop from rooftop to rooftop, follow the waddling badger as he hugs the neighbor’s fence line to avoid being seen, or spy the skunk ducking under the deck next door, waiting to spray our dog again.

There’s so much more life around us—waiting to be noticed, enjoyed, and appreciated—if we’re willing to give it our time and attention.

Question

What might become visible to me— about others, about creation, about myself— if I practiced the art of sitting still?

Peace,

Brandon

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