Otis came down from the mountain on a Thursday, ate half of the hedge behind the lodge and asked if I wanted to see a little hill. I said yes. I have since learned that a mountain goat and a beaver do not mean the same thing by “little.”

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He handed me two trekking poles. I set them as long as they would go, because longer must be better, the way a longer spoon gets more soup. For the first mile I looked like a beaver trying to row a boat up a staircase. My elbows were up by my ears. Otis stopped on a rock, flipped open the lever lock on each pole, slid them down and snapped them shut. Click, click. “Elbows bent, like you’re carrying a tray,” he said. After that the poles were helping me instead of arguing with me.

The hill kept going. There was a muddy part, a part with loose stones that slid every time I stepped, and a stream we crossed on wobbly rocks. On the stones the poles gave me four legs instead of two. In the water my tail keeps me steady. On land, it turns out, a tail mostly drags. Otis called this whole section “the gentle bit.” He was not out of breath. He was eating a thistle.

Lunch was on top. I had carried the stove because I wanted to be useful, plus a little pot, a gas canister and a bag of noodles. The wind up there came straight across the valley and blew my flame out four times. On the fifth try I sat with my back to the wind and held my tail up beside the stove like a wall. It worked. The water boiled. My tail now smells like toast.

Otis pointed with his chin at his own stove, the one with a little cup around the burner that keeps the wind off the flame. He said nothing, which is how a goat says “I told you so.” Then he ate the empty noodle bag. I didn’t ask.

From the top I could see the whole river. The lodge, the mill, Willa’s dock, the lake where we fished through the ice. Everything looked about the size of a pinecone. Otis said that is the point of a hill. You climb it so your troubles look small, and then you have to walk all the way back down to them.

Going down was harder than going up. My knees had opinions about every step, and the poles took a lot of the arguing for them. Halfway down Otis poured me tea from his thermos, still hot after a whole morning on the hill, and I wrote in my notebook with a stubby pencil: “Little hill = 3 hours up, 2 hours down. Bring a windscreen that isn’t me.” I slept eleven hours that night. Otis says next time he’ll show me a real hill. I have decided I’m busy.

Meet Otis the Mountain Goat, and see his own surprise pick →

Sources: REI (trekking poles), GearJunkie (trekking poles), CleverHiker (trekking poles), Treeline Review (backpacking stoves), CleverHiker (backpacking stoves), Outdoor Life (thermoses), WeAreTeachers (pencils). Prices are in the two guides, checked October 2026. Tap a button for today’s price. Affiliate links: how we make money.

Gerzsi and Otis are made up. The gear and the test results are real.