When spring arrives in the world of the mountain goat it is a whisper, a smidgen of sunlight on a rock face, the drip-drip of water in an ice cave, the faint smell of wildflowers in an alpine meadow. And these signs are a harbinger of something else. They announce the arrival of baby goats, the next generation of mountain climbers. By their second day they are scrambling up rocks, jumping in place, spinning, and shadowboxing.

Born to romp and roll, twist and bleat, prance and climb, goat kids are like all kids, full of energy. Their rambunctious nature can lead to fatal falls. Fortunately mom is around, on the downhill side, to block most falls and be ever vigilant for bears, eagles, wolverines, and such. Still mortality is high in this world of rock and ice, from long winters, avalanches, and predators. Less than 20% of kids survive to the age of two.

But for now the mountains have shed their winter snow and this is a time for celebration. Young and old alike are full of spirit, leaping and twisting in mid-air, tossing horns in a bucking motion. They glissade down patches of lingering snow. They spar. They dance on the roof of the world. And for one brief and glorious week I join them.