2004 June

I’m fortunate that I chose to sleep in the shelter. During the night a serious storm comes through and hammers the roof with rain. Once when I wake up it sounds like a creek is flowing outside, but I’m dry.

In the morning it’s settled down to a drizzle. I’m surprised to see two mountain bikers ride by as I’m getting dressed. I guess they don’t stop for much around here.

The crest trail is known for it’s fabulous views, but I see only clouds, then fog. The rain continues. I want nothing but to reach the pass and find a sheltered spot to wait for Ann.

I walk the six miles to Monarch Pass without breakfast. There’s a little tourist trap on the pass that serves some food. I leave my pack by the door, go in, and look the menu over. I almost give in and order a chili dog, but decide to have another look outside first to see if there’s anywhere around I could cook my own breakfast.

To my amazement, the Subaru is in the parking lot on the other side of the shop. Ann peeks out, sees me, and crawls out of her sleeping bag in the back. I can’t describe how good it is to see her.

She makes me coffee and feeds me hard boiled eggs, then drives me to Gunnison for some much appreciated food and R&R.

I’m amazed! The morning is not too wet, or too cold! I change clothes in the open air to celebrate. Quickly though - it’s not actually warm out.

The lovely rolling divide trail continues. At breakfast another CT hiker, John, wanders by. He has a big pack and a Bible in one hand, place marked with his finger. We chat a bit about the trail. He tells me the two CDT hikers ahead of me plan to reach Monarch Pass today and hitchhike to Salida to resupply. He describes them as two grizzly bearded guys, one looks to be in his 30’s and the other in his 40’s. I suspect one may be Mother Nature’s Son, who we met in Silver City. Maybe I’ll catch them coming back to the pass tomorrow.

The storms begin today around lunch time. Just light rain and a little thunder. The forest gets quiet sometimes between them. At one point I realize I’m the only thing in the world making noise. It raises my attention level. The first other noise I hear is an airplane several minutes later.

At last I encounter a long steep climb up Windy Mountain. On top I meet Bill, another CT hiker. He’s doing it by driving to a trailhead, leaving his car, and hitchhiking back to the previous trailhead. He’s been wanting to do some moonlight walking, but it’s been too cloudy.

On the descent to Marshall Pass it finally starts to rain hard. I find a good shelter tree and have dinner. The rain continues until I’ve eaten my last snickers bar, then stops.

Marshall Pass has a few campsites but no fresh water, so I keep going. I soon pass the piped spring I’m looking for, but now campsites are scarce and everything is wet. Then I remember there’s a shelter on the this section, and I move on to check it out. It smells a little smoky from the fire ring outside it, but it’s the only dry patch of ground around.

Tomorrow I should have an easy 6 miles to Monarch Pass, where I’ll wait happily for Ann to rendevous with me again.

When I wake up everything is sopping wet with dew. My tent drips with condensation. I decide that frost and ice may be preferable to this dampness that feels just as cold. To my relief the sun comes out of the morning clouds and begins to warm things up.

I’m back to playing the water source game, but now without a filter. There are more water sources to choose from than in New Mexico, but I must be much pickier. My first stop is a fenced spring, which are usually good, but this one is so wet that water from the cow pasture above is pouring into it. I poke around and find another unfenced spring higher up which I take water from, but don’t drink yet.

I cross highway 114 amidst heavy construction equipment. What a different world to enter momentarily.

At lunch I find a spring I like, and dump the water from this morning. I have to tolerate a little dirt in the water, but it’s worth it for water coming straight out of the ground in a cleaner place.

As the trail climbs to the divide on forest roads and good trail, I find myself starting to like this pleasant walking through the woods, with occasional glimpses of the La Garita mountains to the southwest.

On one of the divide’s small summits I’m finally able to get a phone signal. I call Ann. It’s so good just to talk to her. Since I’m making good time we arrange to meet at Monarch Pass on Wednesday instead of Marshall. That will give me some more hiking to do in the meantime. I want so much to see her, waiting in one place would be too hard.

The trail continues to roll along a mostly forested divide. I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.

It’s cold out and the light is dim because the mountain blocks the sun, but I’m up at 5 am. I have to move constantly to stay warm. It feels better once I start the climb. I wave to Jim’s horses far below as I traverse above them.

Like any big mountain, every time I think I’m near the summit I come over the shoulder to find more mountain above me. Eventually it does run out, and I’m standing on the summit with only a few clouds in the sky. San Luis Peak is barely a fourteener at 14,014 feet, but it’s a feast for a CDT hiker. You can see everything in the the San Juans, and more than you can comprehend to the north and east. So many fabulous mountains. After a while a couple of peak baggers show up and take my picture. I also notice that another CDT hiker we met in Pie Town, Trippin Ant, was here a week ago.

To top off a glorious morning I find several hundred feet of of fresh snowfield to glissade on down to a lovely breakfast spot.

The trail now leaves the mountains and traverses the much lower Cochetopa Hills. I figure I’ll make up some miles, and take off at a good clip.

The thunder storms start again around 10 am, and continue through the afternoon. I no longer care much since I’m headed for lower country. I slog through snow, then rain.

After it has lightened up I meet Eric, another CT hiker. He also tells me of two CDT hikers less than a day ahead of me.

I fly along on easy trails, then Forest Service roads. Water will become an issue again now. I’ve packed enough down from the mountain to get me to a stock tank and well. I’m tired and sore when I get there, but pleased to find it flowing. I haul some water up a hill to a nice campsite where I treat myself to hot cocoa before bed.

I manage to get on the trail by 5:45 am. It feels good to start the climb up to Snow Mesa in the cold morning air. I don’t feel the sun until I clamber onto the mesa top an hour later. From here I can look back on the Rio Grande Pyramid, and scan much of my route up to here. Further north is the great huddled fang of Uncompaghre Peak.

The mesa offers gentle, pleasant walking for several miles. Then I climb up over the La Garita ridge and go down into the valleys on the north side. I meet two more Colorado Trail (CT) hikers who have been on the trail from Marshall Pass, my next resupply. They warn me of scarce water ahead. They also say there are two CDT hikers a day ahead of me.

Around 10 am the snow flurries begin. There isn’t any lightning yet, so I continue hopping over ridges from valley to valley until I reach San Luis Pass for lunch. Now the heavens are beginning to rumble. The fantasy I’d been harboring of a few showers followed by clear skies that would allow me to climb the fourteener disintegrate. I figure I’ll camp around here then attempt the climb early tomorrow. While I huddle under a bush chewing my gorp and watching the flying snow, I contemplate going over one more ridge to get closer to the peak.

The storm seems to let up a bit, so I go for it. The ridge is eerily quiet. There is no wind, just singing birds. Then the rumbles begin again as I descend. I meet two day hikers returning from the peak looking tired and happy.

I have the whole afternoon to kill, so I spend some time scouting for a good campsite. I drop the pack, go half a mile up the trail and explore around in the trees there before I find it. It’s a flat area near Spring Creek, surrounded by trees with lots of old logs and rocks to sit on. All I have to do is go back for the pack.

My next use for spare time is to wash my horrible smelling socks. It has now stopped snowing, but the thunder has only increased. On my way to the creek I meet a man on horseback leading a second pack horse. We talk a little. He’s scouting out the trail for a guided trip coming up. At the moment he’s also looking for a place to camp and graze his “ponies”. He heads down the forested hillside towards some meadows below. I warn him not to drink from the creek until I’ve finished my washing.

I wash my socks and feet in the creek right where it emerges from the snowfield. It takes about ten minutes of scrubbing each sock to make them tolerable to be around again.

When I’m done I follow the horse tracks down the hill to the horseman’s camp. It’s so different from mine. He has a huge tarp around his saddle and sleeping bag, his only shelter. He has a bag of grain and a cooler full of food, from which he gives me a ham & cheese sandwich and a snickers bar. As I munch we talk and sit through snow flurries until I figure I’d better go check my camp. Jim invites me to come camp with him, and even offers to let me ride his mare bareback up to the pass. I decline both offers regretfully. My mind is set on getting up that mountain early tomorrow. I feel like I should do something for him. I have some dried apples and bananas that Ann made on me, so I give him a sample of them before leaving.

It’s snowing pretty hard when I wake up, so I go back to sleep. An hour later the sun is shining, but there are still little patches of dark clouds in various parts of the sky.

I start with a climb to the highest point on the CDT on Coney Peak. On the way I meet Andy, all decked out in Go-Lite gear. He’s the first fellow hiker I’ve met actually on the trail, he’s surprised to learn. He’s doing a high-speed through-hike of the Colorado Trail from Denver to Durango at 30+ miles per day. His pack is half the size of mine. He tells me I won’t need my boots, ice axe, and crampons anymore - nice to hear except that I still have to carry them a hundred more miles. He also advises against going up Snow Mesa above Spring Creek Pass in the afternoon as there is no escape from lightning up there. I was planning to camp at Spring Creek Pass anyway, so that clinches it. We wish each other well and tromp on.

I have breakfast at the trail’s high point around 13,300 feet. I can see the Rio Grande Pyramid south of me now, and many distant peaks to the north and east. I get going when it starts to snow on me again.

The snow flurries continue throughout the day, with a little thunder to keep me moving downward. I find I am descending from the San Juan mountains, each rolling green peak smaller than the last. I’m a little sad to leave them.

It’s not yet 5 pm when I reach CO149 at Spring Creek Pass. I’m glad to see a little no-fee campground with picnic tables there. I know that Ann came over this pass, probably two days ago. I think I can safely reveal now that she’s driving to California to surprise her family by showing up at her grandma’s 90th birthday party. I think of her driving while I sit alone in this little disused campground, trying to garner some enthusiasm for the new mountain range I will explore tomorrow, La Garitas.

I sleep until the sun hits me, then step out into a bright, clear day. I decide to try an alternate route that spends a little more time on the divide. It takes up past an old mine on Kite Lake where the coyotes are howling this morning to wide, green, rolling section of the divide. I enjoy a few miles on the divide without much steep terrain.

I pass a man with two boys, two dogs, and two llamas camped next to the trail. I’m all ready to say hello, but the man keeps his back turned to me. I’m sure he knows I’m there as all the animals are aware of me, so I figure he wants to be left alone.

The trail soon disappears in a meadow, so I take my own course for awhile. I climb and wind through a lot complicated drainages, probably not taking the best course but not really caring. A ways from Stony Pass I see truck crawling up the steep dirt road, but it’s gone when I arrive. The road signals the fact that I am leaving the Weminuche Wilderness, which has only become more dear to me with this tour of it. I’m also near the headwaters of the Rio Grande, who’s huge watershed makes the distinctive westward loop in the divide. I’ll soon be headed east again.

I take another alternate route that climbs over a ridge of Canby Mountain. The trail is faint but it’s fun going - I even manage to work in a little glissade. At this point the clouds are getting dark, so I hurry along the divide to a point where the trail descends into West Pole Creek Canyon. There isn’t any lightning yet, so I sit down to have lunch. Just then a cold wind comes up, so I decide to descend a ways before eating. When I get settled in my more sheltered spot, the sun comes out and bakes me. Such is life in the mountains.

The trail gradually descends this branch of Pole Creek, then goes up the East Fork. The trail is good and the valley is green and pretty. Again I run into a herd of elk, maybe a hundred this time with lots of little elklings. As they file away into the trees I notice a large, graceful bird soaring with a white tail. I can’t quite see it’s head, and I can’t remember if Bald Eagles have white tails, but that’s what it makes me think of. I watch it until it disappears into the trees as well.

I reach the pass above the East Fork by dinner time. Just as I’m finishing my dessert it starts to snow, and I hurry to pack up and head down Lost Trail Creek.

I walk through half an hour of snowstorm, then the sun comes out again. Before 8 pm I reach a nice campsite on a little saddle. I can look down Lost Trail Creek from here and I think of Ann hiking there a few days ago. It makes her feel near.

There’s time to make camp leisurely and watch the quarter moon come out. I can hardly believe it when I tally my miles for the day - I thought I was just out enjoying myself! Of course I was.

I have breakfast with Ann in the morning and pack up the eight days of supplies she’s brought for me. The time comes to get going, and it’s hard to say goodbye. It also seems like this mode of operation could work for us though, and we’ll get used to parting ways.

I launch into the 2,000-foot climb around the imposing Rio Grande Pyramid that I’ve been seeing for days now. The pack is heavy, but I feel good. As I said to Ann, I think I’m hitting my groove now. I love the feeling moving over this vast, beautiful terrain. I can’t get enough of it.

I see several parties of hikers on other trails, but meet no one. The trail climbs over a ridge to a picturesque lake, then does it again, and again. The final one, West Ute Lake, has amazing views of the serrated Grenadier range to the south. One of the peaks must be Aeolus, which I climbed ten years ago with my father, but I can’t tell which one. I take lots of pictures to analyze later.

Reaching the divide again, I contemplate going cross-country to climb an unnamed 13,100-foot peak on the divide. It’s getting late, 6 pm, and there are still dark clouds around but no lightning. I decide to go for it.

The peak is glorious. Another thousand feet brings the entire Grenadier range into view, and several days pre- and post-view of my route. It’s another bliss attack. Even better, a snowfield on the other side provides several hundred feet of effortless glissading descent.

By the time I’ve made it back to the trail and down to a reasonable place to camp I’ve made over twenty miles and it’s almost 9 pm. What a good day.

I have all day to walk 12 miles today, so I sleep in. I’d have been better off getting up early - a waxing wind makes it colder by the hour.

Just after breakfast I encounter the first person I’ve met on the trail. David introduces himself and asks about my hike. I’m so surprised to be talking to someone, I don’t do a very good job of finding out what he’s up to, just that he may go to Squaw Lake today. About halfway up the climb above the spot we met I see him start out with a group of four other people. I give them a wave before I disappear over the pass.

The trail hugs the divide and provides glorious views for the next several miles. When it finally drops into a little green valley I notice a herd of maybe forty elk grazing on the other side. I sit down about a hundred yards from them and eat lunch while they decide what to do about me. Eventually they filter away up the valley in a long broken line.

I climb out of that valley and begin the long descent to Weminuche Pass. Ann isn’t supposed to be there until tomorrow, but I keep hoping she’s come in early. I spend my time trying not to get too excited.

Weminuche Pass is wide and meadowy, and the trails fade out and differ from the map. I’m hunting around for a missing trail when some people camped nearby whistle and yell, “You looking for your wife?” They point up a hill. I start towards it and Ann emerges from the trees. I feel my smile stretching my face. Apologizing for the disgusting smell of the socks drying on my pack, I hug my wife.

There are dark, thundering clouds above so I try get my camp set up quickly. Ann has brought me hardboiled eggs and other treats. There’s nothing in the world I’d rather do than while away a rainy afternoon in the tent with her. It’s a bliss attack.

Today is the summer solstice, so I should have plenty of daylight. Tomorrow the slow squeeze on hiking time will begin.

At last, I remembered last night to spread out my shoes so they wouldn’t be so hard to put on frozen. That gives me a good start. The north slope I was worried about this morning turn out to be fairly gentle, with steps from a previous hiker easing the way as well. I move along happily, but the steep, north-facing Knife Edge ahead keeps coming to mind.

When I stop for breakfast I stumble across a small fawn curled up under a tree. It doesn’t seem frightened of me, which makes me think maybe it’s sick. I get fairly close to take a picture, then leave it alone. I have urge to help it, but know I can’t.

The trail soon climbs to the divide and goes right along it for several miles. There are lots of short, steep climbs and some snow drifts, but the views are unbeatable. I see storm clouds hitting distant peaks. Soon my turn comes, and I eat lunch in a light snow.

After lunch I reach the north face of the Knife Edge, a long, serrated peak. As I feared it’s steep and snow covered, but there’s a trail that descends and goes around on easier terrain. I’m about to head there, but first I sample the snow. It’s in perfect condition, soft enough to kick good steps but firm enough to get solid belays with the ice axe. I decide it would be safe to cross with the axe, and good practice.

It’s not long before I wish I’d taken the low trail - not due to fear but tedium. It’s slow, hard work setting the axe, kicking two steps, and repeating this ad infinitum. I have one moment of excitement when my feet slide out, but the axe is solid and I don’t go anywhere.

At one point I think I smell McDonald’s french fries. It’s strange, I don’t think I’m craving them. Then a gust of wind reveals that the smell was just the edge of the odor of my socks, which are hanging to dry on my pack. I’m even more ready for the traverse to end.

When at last Knife Edge is behind me, a fierce new storm breaks loose. At first I bundle up and keep hiking, but flashes of lightning convince me to wait awhile under a bush. The wind and snow swirl and whip through the valley in a dazzling array of effects. I feel priveledged to be witness to such an event. When the wind has eased and the thunder grown distant, I move on.

I have one more steep slop to traverse, but it’s a south face and free of snow. The valleys are endlessly deep and green, with wisps of remnant storm clouds blowing through them.

I reach Squaw Pass with time to make camp leisurely. Tomorrow looks like an easy day to Weminuche Pass, where I may have to wait for a day to rendevous with Ann.