The Great Mountain Trek

The Great Mountain Trek — Mia & Biscuit Conquer Pine Ridge

By Mia Chen | February 2026

Every great adventure begins with a single step — or in our case, one extremely wiggly golden retriever absolutely refusing to wait while I double-checked the trail map. That was Day One, trailhead, 6:47 in the morning. Biscuit, my three-year-old golden retriever and self-appointed journey mascot, had already decided Pine Ridge was his mountain. I was just along for the ride.

I'd been planning this trip for months. Three days, two nights, full backpacking through the Pine Ridge range — rocky switchbacks, alpine meadows, and a summit view that promised to knock your socks off. It was the kind of hike that looked beautiful in photos and quietly terrifying in the fine print. Elevation gain: 4,200 feet. Water sources: intermittent. Weather: unpredictable. Dog enthusiasm: off the charts.

Before we left, I'd fitted Biscuit with his Ruffwell trail harness — the kind with the padded chest plate and sturdy top handle for when you need to physically assist a very excited dog over a boulder. It sounds like a small thing until you're on a scramble section and your dog looks at you with those big golden eyes that say I could use a little help here, actually. The harness made all the difference. It sat snug without restricting his stride, and the reflective strips on the sides caught the early morning light like he was his own little lighthouse.

"Biscuit bounded ahead like a Pokémon leading its trainer through tall grass — nose down, tail up, completely certain that whatever was around the next bend was going to be spectacular."

Day One unfolded the way good hiking days do: slowly, beautifully, and with frequent snack breaks. Around mile four, we rounded a bend in the trail and froze. Fifteen feet ahead, a white-tailed deer stood perfectly still in a shaft of sunlight, ears swiveled forward, watching us with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly whose mountain this actually was. Biscuit held a sit — his best one ever, I'm convinced, out of pure awe — for a full thirty seconds before the deer turned and vanished into the pines like smoke.

By the time we made camp on the first night, we'd covered eight miles and found our spot near a rocky outcrop that looked out over a valley going golden in the evening light. Our camp neighbor, a retired teacher named Gus, was already set up with a stocky little beagle named Pretzel. The two dogs circled each other with the intense diplomatic seriousness of two foreign dignitaries before deciding, unanimously, to chase the same pine cone. Gus shared trail mix. I shared the view. It was a good night.

Then came night two.

The storm rolled in around midnight — no warning, just a sudden pressure drop and then the tent walls snapping like sails. Rain hammered the fly in sheets. Thunder cracked so close I could feel it in my chest. Biscuit, who is not a small dog, climbed as fully as possible into my lap and pressed his forehead against my collarbone. I held him. The tent held. And somewhere around 2 a.m., the storm passed like it had somewhere better to be.

"When the rain finally stopped and I unzipped the tent door, the air smelled like pine and lightning and something completely new — like the mountain had just exhaled."

Summit morning. We started before dawn, and when the ridge finally leveled out and the sky opened up ahead of us, the sun was just beginning to press orange fingers over the eastern peaks. Biscuit sat beside me at the top, panting, happy, his fur catching the light. I pulled out the Ruffwell collapsible water bowl, filled it from my bottle, and he drank like he'd earned every drop. (He had.)

The descent back to the trailhead took most of that afternoon. By the time we reached the car, Biscuit had approximately zero interest in walking any further. He climbed into the back seat, turned in two circles, and collapsed with a sound I can only describe as a sigh that contained multitudes. His paws were muddy. His fur was matted. His face was the picture of absolute, complete, deep satisfaction.

I took about forty photos of him in that moment. I'm not sorry.

Three days on the trail with Biscuit taught me something I'd been slowly learning for the three years since I adopted him: the best adventures aren't the ones you plan perfectly. They're the ones where a storm hits and you hold each other through it. Where a deer stops time. Where a stranger's beagle becomes your dog's best friend for one good evening. Where you climb something hard together and drink water from a folding bowl at the top of the world.

Pine Ridge is Biscuit's mountain. But he let me come along. And that's more than enough.