We awoke to a familiar late-spring ritual in the Black Hills. Two feet of snow, white-out, 100 miles of Interstate closed. However, our 9-month old Black Hills Pack Goats saw nothing familiar at all in this, their first spring season. They slept in, in stubborn denial of the whistling tundra trying to invade their lair. There's little doubt how the poor dog Sherlock feels about it, either.
