Collegiate West: Day 5

With Chalk Creek Pass ten miles away, I want to be sure that I am up and over the pass before any storms have the chance to build, so I am up early, cooking breakfast and breaking camp in the dark. I click off my head lamp just as I start hiking, enjoying the transition from night to day. 

After a long series of switchbacks up a heavily treed mountainside, I break out of the trees into another glorious Colorado morning. A couple of Forest Service employees that I ran into the evening before told me they had seen a moose up here, so I have my eyes open for a moose!

 Do you see a moose? Neither do I! But it sure is pretty up here, and there's a couple of deer!

Beneath this hillside is what remains of the Alpine Tunnel, a narrow gauge railroad tunnel constructed in the early 1880s. It was in use until 1910 when it was closed due to damage. It has since been sealed off. It was the first railroad tunnel constructed through the Continental Divide in Colorado, and remains the highest railroad tunnel and longest narrow gauge tunnel in North America. 

The old railroad grade makes for some easy hiking...

...but this jeep road that climbs out of the old town of Hancock is no fun to hike on!

As I am filtering some drinking water, I look back down the valley at Hancock Lake and the Chalk Creek drainage. This water eventually flows past Mount Princeton Hot Springs. A most perfect scene!

With the pass behind me, I am now hiking along the Middle Fork of the South Arkansas River. 

An America robin and the Colorado Trail decal both pointing the way - go left.

 I make it to Hunt Lake and my highest campsite at nearly 11,500'. The sky decides to rain lightly on and off as the day ends, and the mosquitoes are a mighty force, so I am tucked in pretty early after a long 17-mile day.

Collegiate West: Days 3 & 4

            Sunshine, bird song, blue skies, cool air, beauty all around me, oatmeal, waiting to dry out the tent fly, mosquitoes just thinking about getting started, and some howling coyotes. These are a few words to describe the start of this glorious morning. A few miles of easy hiking brings me to Texas Creek. No rocks, bridge, or logs to cross on – so off with my hiking shoes and on with my sandals, backpack straps undone, and I slowly make my away across. Once again, I am grateful for my trekking poles. The water is cold, and my feet are aching by the time I make it across. Now begins the four mile climb to Cottonwood Pass.

           

           I just passed this invisible boundary. Steadily working my way up towards Cottonwood Pass, I left the perpetual sounds of Texas Creek behind and entered into a forest that is, at this moment, completely silent, save for the sounds of my breathing and footsteps. I pause and savor the magic of this place. Massive spruce and fir trees, a forest floor littered with trees in various stages of decay, the happy flower heads of heartleaf arnica. Within moments, the silence is broken by the squawk of a Clark’s nutcracker, eventually followed by the alarm of a pine squirrel. But for a moment, I was mesmerized by the absolute silence of this ancient forest.

            After a pleasant night at Cottonwood Hot Springs last night, I am back on the trail early under a gray sky that looks like it could go either way – sunshine or rain. The wind is strong, so I don some warmer headwear and find a quick pace. I meet a Dad and two older sons as I work my way up towards a 12,800’ ridge. They’ve been out for a few days and will end their adventure where I started mine this morning. Like me, they are wanting to get their miles in before afternoon thunderstorms bring the threat of lightning. I make it to the ridge and stop to enjoy a morning snack and the sunshine that has won out over the morning gray.

           

I make my way across several stretches of snow, move through a garden of rocks, some the size of buses, and begin another climb to another 12,800’ ridge. Today is turning into one of those days of up and down, up and down. The trail climbs to a high ridge, then drops a couple thousand feet or more into drainage, then back up again.

            I work my way down into the Morgan’s Gulch drainage and notice a marmot on a rock just off the trail. It is just sitting there in the sun, looking happy and well fed, gazing out over so much mountain beauty. What a life! My friend Scott Smith told me once that he’d like to come back to this world as a marmot. Looking at this happy marmat, I can see why.

            Another 12,800’ ridge behind me, and I am working my way towards what will be my last climb of the day. Fortunately, the trail does not appear to drop down as far; from this vantage point, it roughly contours at around 12,600’ before a more gentle approach to the day’s final ridge. As I pass through a lovely stretch of trail lined with blue wildflowers – whipple penstemons, I believe – I notice that a gray cloud up there is beginning to grow into something a bit more ominous looking. Before each ridge today, I was closely watching the sky for any potential for storms. I know how quickly a thunderstorm can build up here, and this exposed alpine landscape, with cover a good long way away, is no place to be when lightning is in the air. Before climbing each ridge, I concluded that the clouds were pretty benign before I headed up and over.

            But this cloud looks different. I decide to kick up the pace and now feel like I am in a race with that cloud, both of us heading for that last ridge. I move through a long stretch of scree, where the potential for a fall goes way up. “OK, take it nice and careful here. You are tired, you want to beat that storm, but a fall right now would definitely be bad news.”  With these words from my inner coach, I make it to the high point and begin down a long series of switchbacks, still well above timberline, down towards Chalk Creek. A clap of thunder – not loud, but thunder just the same – keeps me moving, as the race is not over yet.

            Finally in the trees, I take a sit-down break and then resume, much more slowly, the last mile or so and a place to camp for the night. As I take off my pack for the last time, I calculate that I covered just over 16 miles today. That sleeping bag is sure going to feel good tonight!

           

Collegiate West: Day 2

The chattering alarm of a pine squirrel rouses me from my slumber. I guess this little creature is not happy to discover that the tent that materialized in its shady forest the evening before is still here. It is no longer dark, but the sun has not yet made it into this stand of conifers. I move and feel some soreness from yesterday’s hike.  I begin my morning routine – firing up my little alcohol stove to heat water while I begin to break down camp - stuffing the sleeping bag, rolling up the ground pad, dismantling  the tent… all of this interspersed with some yoga poses to continue stretching out these sore muscles. Fueled by a breakfast of oatmeal, walnuts and a little dried fruit, I am on my way.

Hmmm, many of these plants are tinged with white? Is that frost? I reach down and confirm that the thermometer was down below freezing here last night. To think that it was around 100F in Pueblo yesterday. I'm glad I am here and not there. I work my way up the Clear Creek drainage towards Lake Ann Pass and keep exclaiming to myself what a perfect morning it is. The sky must be bluer than it has ever been, with not a cloud in the sky. Gazing at a series of rugged peaks that I am heading towards, known as the Three Apostles, it seems as if I can see every fold and crack and feel their rocky texture, the air is so clear.

Just as I break out of the trees, I meet a fellow heading down the trail. “Bobcat” is hiking the entire Continental Divide Trail, from the Mexican border in New Mexico to the Canadian border in Montana. As we part and I continue south while he heads north towards Wyoming and beyond, I look back and note the small pack on his back. I know I’ve reduced my backpacking weight at least ten pounds lighter than the old days, now down to around 30 pounds, which includes the weight of a few days of food. But, looking at Bobcat’s pack, I think I could do better.  With that thought in mind, me and my 30 pound pack head towards Lake Ann Pass, about 1000’ elevation gain in the next mile. “Just what could I do without that is now in my pack?” I ask myself as I slowly make my way to the pass.

The beauty of landscape, accentuated by the clarity of the air, just keeps blowing me away. I reach a snowfield and gingerly work my way across some slippery snow. I am glad I have these trekking poles. A couple more switchbacks, another stretch of snow, and I am at the pass – 12, 588’ according to the trail guide. The views from the top continue to blow me away. To the west is a huge valley, Taylor Park, with its reservoir and expansiveness. Looking back from where I came from is the rich turquoise water of Lake Ann. I wonder how that little lake got its name. I linger for a long while on the pass as the skies show no sign of a storm any time soon.

I begin the many switchbacks down off the pass and begin to feel some serious heat from some serious sunshine. I enter the trees and decide I need another break, but the mosquitoes are relentless. Never being a fan of Deet, my citronella-based bug juice works ok, but just ok. The skeeters keep me moving down the trail. Wishing for some cloud cover, I leave the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness and spend several miles hiking some hot, rocky, dusty trails that are also used by motorcycles (although I meet none of them today). I begin looking for a camp and find a nice spot above a creek, but the mosquitoes are miserable, so I keep going. Finally making it to the valley floor, I am pleased that a fairly consistent breeze is keeping the skeeters manageable. Tent up, dinner done, food bag hung, I am ready for some down time.

I pull out some reading material and stumble upon these thoughts from someone I’ve never heard of, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra: “There are many pathways in this life and it doesn’t matter which one you take, for they all have a common destination, and that is the grave. But some paths give you energy and some take it away.” This certainly is a thought-provoking quote to come across while out here on this pathway. The part about the grave has lots to do with why I am out here - life is flying by, it seems, and I want what life I have left to be full of being in wild places, just like this one. 
As for the part about pathways either giving or taking away energy? Well, after hiking nearly 30 miles in two days, feeling so wiped out right now, it begs the question – is this 90-mile trek giving me energy or taking it away? I believe that, considering how far I’ve hiked, passes I’ve traversed, all this mountainous terrain I’ve moved up and down and over and through, it required quite a large amount of energy to do this hike. And the act of setting out on it is what created the energy to actually do it. 
Sure, I’m tired now, but this does not mean that this pathway took my energy away. This tiredness is short-lived, it is fleeting, but the energy that this trek is creating, and will continue to create, is huge. I am pooped as I sit here and write these words, but I can still sense all the energy inside of me that will remain. If it could be quantified, the amount of energy that I spend to do this hike - yesterday's, today's and all the rest of the miles - pales in comparison to the energy I get, and will get, and others will get through my efforts, from doing it. So, I believe that this Collegiate West Backpack for Nature Education is definitely an energy-producing pathway that I am on. That being said, it is time for a good night's sleep - I've got more energy-producing miles tomorrow. Good night!

Collegiate West: Day 1

Helene and I arrive at the trailhead at Twin Lakes around 10:30 under a sky that is more cloudy than blue. A quick check of my gear, I put on my shoes and gators, and I am on my way. The first few miles are easy with a nice tread and relatively flat geography, and I soon find a pretty quick pace that feels good. My goal is to get up and over Hope Pass, at an exposed 12,500’, before the threat of lightning, typically an afternoon concern, becomes an issue. The late start and Hope Pass being nearly nine miles away and 3500’ higher has much to do with the pace I set.

           

The sky is slowly losing its clouds to a rich blue that puts any thoughts of needing my raingear away. In spite of my desire to get up and over the pass, I can’t help but notice – and stop to photograph – several wildflowers that welcome me to the trail – senecio, cinquefoil, lupine, wild rose. After a few miles, the trail takes a left for a more southerly bearing, and the flat easy trail becomes steep and rocky. The quick pace is soon put away with the thoughts of raingear.

A short break to lose my fleece jacket, apply some sunscreen, and have a snack, and I am back on what feels like a slow trudge up an unpleasant rock-strewn trail that once was an old jeep trail. I’ve been climbing for a mile or so when I begin to hear voices. I soon discover they are coming from a group of about 25 teenagers that apparently are finding the trail much more difficult than I am. I leave them behind just as the trail is opening up into a gorgeous alpine wonderland.

The trail narrows and is no longer full of bowling ball sized rocks – that’s good. But the steepness only intensifies as I near the pass. I begin some of the little games I use when a climb brings that “this is sort of like having fun, only different” thought to my oxygen deprived brain. Fifty steps, then I stop for a rest. Thirty steps, then rest. Ten steps… I will make it to that rock, and then stop for a rest. Fortunately, the skies remain nonthreatening, so I don’t feel any great need to move any faster than I am moving. If I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I will get there. What seems like a torturously slow pace on legs that sometimes feel like they are filled with wet cement, I still eventually make it to the top of the pass. OK, I have earned a sit down break, and something substantial to eat.                 
Shortly after making it to the top, a fellow, around age 30, wearing red running attire that included what looked like a light pair of open sandals, arrives and sits down nearby. I remember seeing him two or more hours ago, running down the rocky trail I was climbing. We get to talking, and I learn that Daniel is training for the Leadville 100, a 100-mile mountain footrace that includes two runs to the top of Hope Pass, one from each side. This is his second visit to the top of the pass today in a 25-mile training run. Suddenly, I feel kind of wimpy – here is this guy, running up and down and all around these mountains, in these ultra-light sandals or whatever they are, and I’m complaining to myself about how steep and rocky the trail is. I rationalize that this is my first day on this trek, and I will soon find my trail legs. And he’s so much younger than me. Yeah, that too! These thoughts kind of make me feel a little less like a wimp. Kind of. A little.

The hike down the other side does not have the long, lung-busting climb, but the steepness in reverse on many scree-filled switchbacks is not all that fun either. I finally make it down off the mountainside and begin looking for a place to camp – relatively flat with water nearby. The right spot is not appearing, so I keep on hiking. I hear the howls of several coyotes and smile. I’m tired, as it must be approaching 7pm, but it feels good to once again be out in wild Nature. Knowing I got here, self-powered on these two feet of mine (the original ATV), carrying all that I need to be nourished and warm and dry on my back, with coyote music in the aspen air, makes this moment all the more satisfying. I am feeling a lot less wimpy too.