It's really hard to redeem your week after your cat gets her eye poked out and then dies at the pet hospital.

If you bother trying, I recommend a good buddy, a good dog and Logan Canyon.

Last week sucked balls. By Friday I was so bummed about my dead cat and life in general that I nearly canceled the girls' overnight my friend Bacon and I had planned at White Pine Lake. My camp stove had broken, my filter was pumping out orange water and I was facing the sad reality that you can only stay drunk for so many consecutive days before the beer squirts turn into ravaging constipation.

But even mopey poopsters move on.

So I packed some borrowed gear, a borrowed dog, and oops, no toilet paper. We left 5 hours behind schedule. Bacon just giggled. Gigglers make the best backpack buddies.

We picked White Pine Lake because its wildflowers -- reputedly the best in Utah -- are peaking right now. I'd forgotten how craggy and dramatic Logan Canyon is in its own right. I stared up at the chiseled peaks and nearly drove off four different cliffs while Bacon howled selections from "The Sound of Music."

Then we reached the trailhead at Tony Grove.

Aaaaaaah!

(That's the angels singing.)

It was like a scene from those exaggerated nature paintings you buy at a county fair. Neon-bright Indian paintbrushes and geraniums lit the way under the craggy cliffs to Mount Magog.

It didn't look real. We hoisted our packs and zipped up the 3.5-mile route to the lake, gasping at the carpets of wildflowers around every bend.

It wasn't until the halfway point that I realized I'd left the dog's food in the car.

Bacon giggled again as I ran back down the trail we'd just climbed. Seriously, most people would have tied me to a tree and left me for dead.

I panted my way back uphill to discover I hadn't packed enough water. It was a thirsty hike. Painful, too, since I couldn't crap and I also forgot to cut my toenails. They were splitting inside my Merrells as we switchbacked down to White Pine Lake.

But these are things you ignore when you're on what might be the most beautiful hike in northern Utah.

The fantastic campsites at the lake were predictably crowded. As night fell on our campfire, I pushed aside wistful memories of my cat and going number two, pounded Canadian Club and regaled the neighbors with dirty stories.

The hangover was fierce.

It took a hurl and a glimpse of Mount Magog in the morning sun to bounce back. We circled the lake and took in wildflowers by the thousands. The valley filled with fishermen, horsemen and hikers. You couldn't begrudge the crowd; everyone was so happy to be there instead of real life.

Now that I'm back, I'm still a little sad. Total recovery from a week that poopy is a lot to expect.

But if you can fall in love with a place despite showing up late and urpy, forgetting the dogfood and toilet paper, dehydrating yourself, disintegrating your toenails, mourning a beloved pet and ralphing on your pants, it must be great.

The buddy and the dog help, too.