In awe of mountains on the Colorado trail
HALFWAY up the 1,005-metre climb through the muggy forest on the north side of Hope Pass, I was panting, sweat-soaked and pining for a pint.
It seems every tiny mountain town in Colorado is blessed with a great microbrewery and pizza restaurant. At nearly 800 kilometres long, the Colorado Trail provides several opportunities to hitchhike to a fantastic IPA and a pizza. But my husband, Honeybuns (or “Clif”, to nonhikers), and I had just finished our resupply in tiny Twin Lakes and now had several long, beerless days ahead of us.
As he and I paused to catch our breath in a high meadow at tree line before the final ascent, a strange noise behind us set my most primitive survival instincts on edge. Mountain lion? Bear?
Worse.
“Youths!” I hissed.
We had passed a score of brightly ponchoed summer campers a few kilometres back, and it sounded like the horde was in hot pursuit.
Honeybuns laughed gently, further stoking my wrath, and started the final climb. As the chipper chatter came closer, a new fire was lit under me. I cursed the trail. I cursed myself. I very much cursed the lack of beer. But at the top, I stopped hard in my tracks. The world bloomed before me.
Endless dark peaks jutted out of the earth, roadless and wild and spellbinding.
I reeled, trying to see everything all at once. The outcroppings of vegetation dotting the mountains. The breathtaking geometry that governed the rock, leading my eyes between sharp edges of shade and light, swooping down long hollows carved by avalanches.
This was worth the climb. This was worth anything.
Having gotten the long-distance-backpacking bug after our six-month “thruhike” of the Appalachian Trail two years ago, Honeybuns and I were looking for a hike to tide us over until we started a Pacific Crest Trail hike the following spring.
Of the domestic mid-distance trails, the CT attracted us with its fantastic scenery and a promise of a gentle introduction to “Western backpacking”.
Most of the thruhikers we met on the CT were experiencing their first long-distance trail. Many were teachers or students on summer break. The fourto-six-week time frame, wellmaintained trail and wealth of data and guides makes the CT a great choice for those dipping their toes in.
That July evening on Hope Pass, we decided to camp midway down the descent at a dry campsite tucked onto a ledge. The altitude and the wind made for an astonishingly cold night, perhaps about 7 degrees Celsius, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to leave the view behind just yet.
As I sat boiling sun-dried tomatoes and couscous for dinner, I kept turning my head to watch the sunlight dying on Emerald Peak. I felt like I was being watched back.
The bone-deep astonishment at the mountains did not fade, no matter how many passes we crested as the days wore on.
As we crossed Snow Mesa chewing on granola bars, ominous clouds began to coalesce. We picked up the pace to no avail. In a matter of minutes, our blue-skied, desktop-wallpaper dream had vanished.
The unrelieved grey seemed boundless, unknowable. My mind became unfocused as the dark storm enclosed us in all directions. There was nothing but this storm, this flat plain, this gray, the lightning clacking like falling cleavers on a cutting board.
One safety measure in a lightning storm is to get to lower ground and assume the lightning position: sitting on your pack, feet off the ground, crouched down.
We paused to assess the situation. We decided to keep going and try to find a way to lower elevation.
“We should spread out!” Honeybuns shouted over the storm. He was right – hik- ing next to one another only increased our lightning risk. Finally, I watched Honeybuns disappear over the edge of the horizon as the trail finally descended. I struggled after him, awash with relief as the torrent slackened to a cold drizzle.
But Honeybuns stopped suddenly and pointed off with one trekking pole.
Flashes of white caught my eye. A herd of dozens of female and juvenile elk were winding their way through the trees before us, moving up towards a ridge. We stood, transfixed, rain pooling in our shoes. The leader managed to scramble up and over the ridge. The rest of the herd followed, some of the juveniles slipping before gamely ploughing on.
Mornings were my favourite time of day. We rose just before dawn to a grey-andblack world, and would watch the color pour into the trees as we ate cinnamon oatmeal and took down our tarp. My favourite places to camp were among the aspen groves. In the early morning, silhouetted against the sky, the shimmering leaves looked like glitter.
But nights were worth remembering, too.
On one of our last nights on trail, we were camped on a high ridge with a section-hiker friend.
We were all due to recommence our lives off-trail. Honeybuns and I had jobs and friends and family and a cat waiting for us. But our month on the trail just didn’t seem like enough. Not yet.
As the setting sun shifted from electric oranges to honey pinks, we stopped doing our chores and walked out to the closest exposed switchback to watch. Honeybuns and I stood side by side, admiring the spires of the distant mountains, watching the light as it changed colour.
I wanted to build a house around myself right there. I wanted my feet to turn to roots, to hold me there forever, where every sunset would be just a little bit different.
It seemed like a decent way to spend a life.