Don’t tell anybody about this place,” the speedy hiker from Baker City says as he catches a slowpoke meandering up the mountain. “I want this paradise all to myself.”

Too late. The secret is out about the Elkhorn Crest Trail. On this Wednesday, though, as I climb the 4 miles from Anthony Lake to Dutch Flat Saddle, he is the first hiker I have seen all day.

We stop a moment to chat.

“When they had forest fires in the Cascades and Idaho, it seemed like everyone from Portland and Boise was up here,” he says.

Then he charges up the trail while I catch my breath and feign interest in wildflowers. My excuse? I am a flatlander from the Walla Walla Valley, and the trailhead elevation is an oxygen-sapping 7,100 feet above sea level. The saddle sits at 8,180 feet.

I tell my new friend I am going slow to take pictures, but how many photos does a hiker need of trees seemingly growing out of granite?

My hero, naturalist John Muir, encouraged people exploring the outdoors to saunter, to listen to the wind’s music in the treetops, to stop and smell the bear poop.

The sky is robin’s-egg blue. Granite sparkles. Hiking an obstacle course of roots and rocks, I am getting a spectacular workout — 4 miles might as well be 8.

Flowers here are less prolific than in the northern Blue Mountains. They splash color, from alpine aster, American bistort, crimson columbine, daisy and Indian paintbrush to lupine, penstemon, Sitka valerian and sulphurflower.

Up and up I go. Eventually I reach the high country. Solid granite walls to the right. Unnerving dropoffs to the left.

Chipmunks play hide and seek among tumbled rock. Cliffs loom, from whence said rocks originated. More rocks could come loose at any moment.

I scurry past the danger zone. Near the top I meet my hiker friend, charging down the mountain. He stops a moment to point out a mountain goat napping on a snowfield. Baker Valley is baking in the 90s. Up here it is 70. The mountain goat is cooler yet.

“They reintroduced them to this area, and they’ve done well,” my hiker friend says. “I see them on about 80% of my hikes up here.”

We say our goodbyes and I saunter toward the saddle, stopping frequently to use a long lens to scope out the mountain goat. Something flashes in the corner of my eye — an ermine scurrying for its den. He’s red now, pure white in winter.

I climb to the saddle and beyond. Views of No-Name Lake unfold to the west and The Lakes Lookout to the north.

Returning to the saddle, I eat lunch while scoping out the mountain goat and enjoying the panoramic view. Dozens of orange butterflies ride the breeze.

Thunderheads build. Not wanting to get caught in a high country storm, I head down the mountain at a quicker pace, leaving the goat behind in its alpine paradise.

As always, leave only footprints and take only pictures. Whether in town or on the trail, try to leave your surroundings better than you found them.