The Mountains Called My Name (And I Answered With Everything I Had)

I had heard about the Carpathians before. My human Artem would say the word and his eyes would go somewhere far away, somewhere full of green and grey and wind. I did not know what green and grey and wind looked like all at once. Then one morning, we loaded the car and drove until the city sounds faded out completely. That was the moment I understood.

The mountains were not like anything in Kyiv. No pigeons. No pavement. No smell of someone else's lunch drifting past the park gate. There was only pine, and damp earth, and something clean and enormous living inside every breath of air.

Day one on the trail — I could not stop smiling. I am not sure I ever stopped.

We set out on the trail early. The path was narrow and wound upward through forest so thick the light came in sideways, gold and quiet, like it was trying not to disturb anything. My paws found the roots and the stones before my eyes did. That is the thing about a mountain trail: the ground is always telling you something, and all you have to do is listen.

Artem walked behind me, which is the correct arrangement. I kept the pace. I checked back often to make sure he was still there, which he always was, his boots muddy, his face happy. We did not talk much. We did not need to. There are conversations that happen entirely in footsteps.

Higher up, the trees thinned. The world opened. I stepped out of the forest edge and stopped completely still, because what was in front of me did not look real.

The meadow above the treeline. The clouds were so close I thought I could bite one. I tried. I could not.

An alpine meadow, wide and bright, with the peaks rising behind it like something decided by the earth a very long time ago. The grass was shorter here, whipped by the wind, and the smell was extraordinary: wildflowers, cold stone, rain that had come and gone. I ran. I ran the way I only run when there is enough space to mean it, the long, full stride that feels like flying just slightly above the ground.

I ran until my lungs asked me politely to stop. I stopped. I turned around and looked back at where we had come from. Far below, the forest. Further still, somewhere invisible, Kyiv. I understood then why Artem's eyes went somewhere far away when he said this word. He had been here before, at least in his mind. Now we had come together.

My human and me. The mist came in around us and for a while we were the only things in the world.

On the way down, the mist arrived. It rolled in from nowhere, softening the ridgeline, muffling the distance. Artem and I walked close together in that quiet grey light. I kept my shoulder near his knee. That is what you do when the world goes soft and wide. You stay near the ones who matter.

If you have been thinking about taking your dog into the mountains, stop thinking. Go. Bring a good harness, more water than you think you need, and a willingness to be completely astonished. Your dog already knows the mountains are waiting. I promise you: we have always known.

The Carpathians will keep calling. I already cannot wait to answer again.

Uran is a White Swiss Shepherd living in Kyiv. He runs the Uran Merchandise Shop with his human Artem. Adventure gear, dog accessories, and breed advisory sessions available at uran.dog (https://www.editor3-v2.com/).