Day One
On Monday morning, we piled into the car. Unlike pretty much any other form of vacation, backpacking requires just two efficiently packed bags in the trunk. No coolers or knick-knacks clutter the back window, Oscar has plenty of space to sprawl out over the back seat, and we have leg room to spare. As we roll down Osceola, we revel in our weightless departure.
Five hours later, after driving through the Arkansas River Valley, we roll into Creede, a tiny town in the foothills of the Weminuche Wilderness. Creede doesn't look like much, but their "strip" does boast a couple of gems, and among them is Kip's Grill, a funky Santa Fe style Mexican cafe with a patio and plenty of multi-colored tile. Feeling manly and carnivorous, Joshua decided to forgo his usually vegetarian diet in favor of a juicy buffalo burger. I ordered the chile relleno tacos garnished with guac, cilantro, and lime. Yum yum.
From Creede, we drove another 45 minutes to the Thirty Mile Campround Trailhead, just a quarter-mile from the Rio Grande Reservoir. Shucking our clean clothes, we donned our hiking outfits, and while they were also dryer-fresh, there's just something about vapor-wick and zip-off North Face that makes you feel like you're about to get very dirty.
Which we were. I, for one, wore that same outfit for the next six nights and seven days.
At the trail head, we signed the register and announced our intent: 10 days of backpacking, from here to Squaw Pass to the Chicago Basin and back. We had barely walked 100 yards, and already, the weight of my pack was sitting heavy on my lower back and pinching my shoulders.
And we were off. Following Squaw Creek, we climbed the trail into a high alpine valley. Before long, we emerged from a conifer and aspen forest to greet a wide, open river plain. Save one other hiker and his dog, we saw no one, but the trunks of aspens recorded the names and dates of other hikers, in memoriam of a day or two or ten stolen in the wilderness. It doesn't bother me that they have carved their names, but I feel no urge to whittle my name into the white bark; I'm too busy dreading the next 10 days.
It's true. As much as I hate to admit it, I walked 100 yards in that 50 pound pack, and I thought, "holy shit. What in the HELL have I gotten myself into?" But I don't like to admit defeat or physical weakness until I've been defeated, so instead, I put my head down and focused on the trail. The pack was so heavy that I couldn't propel my knees forward in the fashion of - I don't know - any normal person, so instead, I swayed from leg to leg.
Four miles into our hike, ecstatic from the prospect of reenacting Christopher McCandless' last days on Earth, Joshua finally noticed that I hadn't spoken a word. "You ok, hon? Want to take a break?" I give a curt nod and immediately adjust my path. I head for the closest rock, dump my pack, and slide down to the ground on quivering legs. Reaching for the gorp that we've rationed into five ridiculously small ziplock bags (one bag of gorp for every two days), I down my rationing in 10 seconds flat, hoping the protein in the almonds and walnuts will somehow miraculously make me into Wonder Woman or just any woman who can carry a 50 pound pack 10 to 15 miles a day for 10 days straight at high altitude would suffice.
Sucking on a chocolate covered peanut and avoiding eye contact with my blissed-out husband, I spy a movement along the tree-line. In milliseconds, I've considered all the possibilities - mountain lion, bear, yeti, lunatic-ala-Deliverance - but as the enormous shape emerges from the woods, I realize that I've neglected one possibility: a moose that weighs more than our car.
It's a female, and sans an enormous, velvety rack, she's a bit less intimidating. Still, her long face and bulbous nostrils turn and hone in on us almost immediately. Smelling fear coming off of me in waves, she decides it's all good and begins to walk closer to us, stopping to graze frequently.
I slap Joshua, and rather than plotting our escape, he digs for the telephoto lens. Since I'm clearly the only sane person left in this couple, I reach into my pack to leash Oscar, who's just now sniffed the delicious scent of Moose on the wind and is currently calculating his chances of agility, speed, and teeth against - well - hulk.
Casually, behind the eye of the lens, Joshua recalls a tidbit of information he once learned from the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, "I've heard you should always keep a tree between yourself and a moose. They can be very unpredictable creatures." He is unfazed and although there is not a stinking tree anywhere - except behind the moose - he seems to almost relish the risk.
The moose wanders closer and closer, and after grazing a bit more here and there, she grows weary of our presence and gallops back into the trees. I release an anxious breath and decide I may as well heave my pack back on to my shoulders. The campsite isn't getting any nearer, and I don't want to wait around to see if Madame Moose favors a more violent reprisal.
We hike on, looking for a split in the path. Here, where a bridge leads up to Squaw Lake, the other path veers left, toward Squaw Pass. We veer left, and as we cross a small stream that feeds the river, we skip over a bottle of Barcadi Rum and Gatorade, cooling beneath the mountain melt. A young, smiling man (probably also thrilled to be reenacting the last days of Christopher McCandless) and an older, less gleeful sir greet us and inform us that they're from Orlando, they've been packing for eight days, and over yonder in the creek is their cocktail hour awaiting.
We wish them happy drinking and stumble up over the next knoll, looking for a flat spot to drop our packs.
Whether the spot was flat is debatable, but we dropped our packs and set to work: we set up our new, sexy little tent (one pole?!) and Joshua went off to hang a bear bag ("a rodent bag really," Joshua gleefully amends). I find a little spot to cook dinner. Unfortunately, this spot is also hardly flat; I hold the pan handle while the water boils, and then I add the spaghetti. As I lean to grab the dehydrated tomato sauce, the entire pan spills over the grass and dirt. Swearing like a sailor or hungry backpacking who has just soiled her dinner, I burn the tips of my fingers as I plop each noodle back into the pot. The bits off grass look a bit like oregano; however, they do not taste like oregano. Joshua, again, is unfazed: "it's pasto pasta!"
Day Two
We slept for nearly 12 hours. As soon as my back hit the ground, I was asleep, regardless of the weak light that still filter in through the tarp of our tent. In the morning, only the stuffy heat could wrest me awake.
As I packed up the tent, Joshua retrieved the bear bag, and once he returned, he finished packing while I made oatmeal. Though we haven't backpacked many times, this part feels familiar. I realize that it was nearly a year ago today that we left for England, and it makes me a little sad. Already, I want to be going on another epic adventure.
But this is adventure enough for now. With our bags packed and the sun at our backs, we head up the valley toward the pass. Along the way, we see a few elk, and after a couple of miles, another group of campers.
As we forge on, the trail begins climbing up in earnest. Above, we can see the pass, and the peaks on either side are frosted in snow and scree. This morning, Joshua gallantly took a good 10 to 15 pounds of the weight that was in my pack yesterday, and as a consequence, I'm feeling great. So is Oscar: he darts up ahead and then circles back again and again. I swear he is grinning all the while.
At the top of the pass, patches of snow stretch into one long blanket, and following a post marked "Cimaronna Creek Trail," we turn to the left, eschewing the even snowier Continental Divide Trail. After just a few hundred yards, it becomes clear that their is no trail to follow: no footsteps precede us, and the path is buried beneath the snow. Joshua takes out the topographic map and we follow the ridge, aiming for the saddle where we know the path eventually leads.
As we climb up, we take out our ice axes to stabilize our weight. The pitch of the slope becomes steeper and steeper, but after an hour, we've made it to the pass. We sit down for a lunch of tortillas and cheese, and Oscar perches next to us, on high alert for marmots. They seem to be teasing him with their high-pitched chirps.
From the saddle, we can see the high ridge where, supposedly, we will cross over to Hossick Trail. Unlike the saddle we are straddling, there is no obvious pass; it's just forbidding rock and snow.
After a lunch which was heavy on dried plums (their heaviest, so Joshua insists that we stuff our cheeks until they're gone), we take out our ice axes and once again follow the ridge that leads to Hossick Trail. At first, it's smooth going; we see the trail through patches of snow, and the terrain is fairly gentle. But after a bit, we loose the trail again. Joshua, feeling the weight of dried plums, cries for the toilet paper in a sudden emergency. His cries echo throughout the valley.
When we continue on, our chosen path becomes more and more treacherous, and I need to use my ice axe more than once to prevent myself from catapulting down the ridge. I'm terrified and close to tears. Joshua feels guilty that the more scared I get, the more exciting he finds the whole experience. At least he's staggering under the weight of what must now be a 65 pound pack.
Eventually, we meet up with what must be Hossick Trail, but as we study the slope above us, we loose sight of any path under the snow. It looks so steep and forbidding, Joshua decides that we will have to scrap our original plan. We cannot crossover Hossick Pass, and because we cannot crossover the pass, we will not have enough time to make it to Chicago Basin. The snow on the south facing side of any mountain at 12,000 feet is too deep to find a trail, and if we continue to try to follow trails this high, we'll be bushwhacking the entire way - a prospect that excites Joshua and absolutely terrifies me. I refuse to bushwhack. Not when there are precipices, snow, and bears involved. Nuh-uh.
But bushwhack we must. If Hossick Pass is out of the question, that leaves Cimarrona Creek Trail, leading down out of the valley towards Williams Reservoir. Slipping and sliding down the mountainside, we're able to find the trail through patches of snow for a little while, but as the sun dips lower in the sky, we loose sight of it again. By now, Joshua is so bone-weary that he is falling as much as he is walking, and on the side of a rather steep slope, he commands that I begin to pitch the tent. I refuse, because, as I mentioned, there isn't a goddamn piece of flat ground.
We backtrack a hundred yards or so and find a dry, flat piece of ground. Before we collapse, we set up camp, hang a bear bag, and whip up pasta with alfredo sauce. Having seen the wisdom of my ways, Joshua has forgiven me for refusing to set up camp on a cliff side, and we enjoy the shadows and they cast longer and longer across the valley until the sun is set.
Day Three
We run through our morning routine with even more efficiency this time, and by 8:30, we're back on trail - err, snow. While the two of us just recently learned that blazes are a literal, physical thing, every freaking rip or tear in the bark looks like a goddamn blaze. We stumbled through the snow for a couple of hours, climbing over fallen trees and icy streams. Joshua held the topographic map in his hands and muttered things like, "well, if I triangulate our position..."
After a couple of hours with my heart in my throat, I spotted a buzzed tree stump. Scrambling up the slope (that suspiciously looked very familiar), I found a trail through patches in the snow. We had descended far enough that the snow was more and more patchy, and from here, we were able to follow the trail.
While we were now certain of where we were going, the going still wasn't easy: each patch of snow was a small mountain to cross, and our crossings were hampered by windfall, stumps, and trees. By the time we finally saw a stretch of dry path, I was absolutely bushed.
Walking down switchbacks, we ran into a group of riders on horseback. After feeling a bit like we would die on the side of a snowy mountain, it felt surreal to nod and greet people who had clearly showered the night before. I think it was pretty clear that we hadn't showered. I was already beginning to stink.
We kept walking down, down, down. And I'll tell you what: going down hurts way worse than going up. I don't say that because I'm some sort of masochistic endurance athlete that likes to rub it in; I say that because it's true. It hurts a lot.
We stop near the lava tunnel, an arch of rock that reaches across the trail, and pull out our food. Both of us are starved, but looking at the map, we've only covered the equivalent of three miles. I look at the wiggly black line of the trail and audibly curse whichever bastard decided that a meandering trail through the woods was a romantic gesture.
After lunch, we continue even further down. The sun has come out in full force, and it's hot. My backpack is now sticking to me by more than just the straps. I think I may have to peel it off when we're finished.
By 2 PM, I'm exhausted and hot and really, really, really hating switchbacks. I saw the reservoir hours ago, and it didn't look that far, but these switchbacks are adding up. I keep praying that I'll see the trail head around every corner.
Finally, I do, and when I reach the signpost, I drop my pack like a ton of bricks and just collapse on top. I'm so tired, I don't believe I'll ever be able to move again, much less three more miles down the road. Joshua takes one look at my quivering, pathetic self and decides that we'll camp in the Cimaronna Campground, just 200 yards down the road. I feel to weak to protest, but inside, I'm mortified. We barely covered 7 miles today, but I'm sacked. I thought I was in good shape, but now I feel like a weakling.
At the campground, we pick a shady spot away from the other campers. Across the way, there's a well, and instead of pumping our water by hand from the stream, we lean into the arm a dozen times, and cold, clear water gushes forth. We gulp it down.
It's only 3:30 when we arrive, so we set up camp and then walk to the creek to wash off some of the grime. The water is ice cold, and standing in the water hurts our feet. We dunk our faces and splash our legs and arms as fast as we can, and then we hurry back to camp to sit in our crazy creeks and read.
For the first time on our trip, I crack open a book. For the next few hours, I loose myself in Christopher McDougall's Born To Run, and at the end of every chapter, I look up and off into the grove of aspens next to our campsite. Just a couple of hours ago, I was miserable, but I'm feeling better now. Joshua tells me that it's ok; we don't have to hike all day. We can still get a good work out in and also arrive at camp early enough to enjoy an hour or two of sunlight. We can read. I try to make peace with this. In my head, backpacking isn't something you do to relax; it's something that hurts, so if you're going to do it, you may as well go all the way. In other words, backpacking is pain, and the more successful the trip, the more painful it is.
I'm beginning to understand why, with that attitude, I'm really hating backpacking.
That night, as the sun dips from a blaze to a glow, we made another pot of pasta and play a game of speed scrabble. I feel another few glimmers of enjoyment, and I think, huh. I guess backpacking doesn't have to be completely miserable.
Day Four
We wake up when the sun comes up and pack up before any one else is awake. Then we wake up everybody else by pumping the squeaky well to get our water for the day.
On the dirt road leading to Poison Park, we don't see a soul. While we had thought to hitch-hike and save ourselves three miles of gravel, the distance slides easily under our feet, and before we know it, we're at the trail head. For the next couple of hours, we hike into the woods and then over a few gushing creeks. We climb gradually, and then we climb in earnest. My whole outlook has changed today, and even though it still hurts, I'm enjoying the walk. For the first time, I unclench enough to talk with my husband, and we do, for hours and hours. We talk about Unconventional Parenting, Mexico, and other adventures we'd like to take.
Seven miles from the campground, we decide to call it a day. We find a wide, grassy campsite that's clearly been used before and set up our tent. There's a stream running nearby, and all around us, aspens shake in the breeze, casting dancing, lime green shadows. Again, I dig into my book, Born To Run, which has gotten very, very good. I'm fascinated by these ultrarunning freaks, and I secretly want to be one. If I could just walk further than 7 miles with a 40 pound pack, I'd be good :)
That night, we find a spot among new green crocuses and shoots to cook a dinner of rice and beans. Up above us, we watch a stripe of sunshine narrow and then disappear on the craggy rocks. It's been a good day.
Day Five
We're up and off early again this morning, but our start is brought to a shuddering halt when we encounter a problem: our hand-held water pump is on the fritz. It takes us nearly two hours to sit by the buggy stream, pumping a trickle of precious water into our nalgene, and then giving up and taking out the camp stove to boil the water instead.
When we finally have enough water, we check ourselves - we're not getting crabby today! We leave the sourpusses at the creek and head back on the trail.
The trail from Elk Park to Granite Lake takes us through a meadow and then up into the woods. We cross a couple of deep, rushing streams, and then pick our way over fallen trees. We meet a couple of riders on horseback and then another couple of backpackers. All of them look a bit worse for wear, and they warn us that the mosquitoes up by Granite Lake are absolutely terrible.
We decide to forgo a campsite near the bug-infested, jewel waters of Granite Lake, and instead, we climb a steep, narrow path over the blue water. At the top, we break for lunch, and then we move on.
We walk and walk, talking and not talking. At one point, I see what appears to be a fresh bear paw print, and I have to inwardly talk myself down for the next two miles. I don't care if they're special or beautiful or whatever; I don't freaking want to see one. Period.
After six or seven miles of walking, we emerge from the woods to find another wide river valley. The Pinos River throws lazy oxbows out on either side, and we slosh through, making our way to the other side. In places, the water runs so deep, I decide to carry Oscar across.
We're feeling good, and the scenery is so gorgeous, we decide to forge on to Weminuche Pass. When we get there, we're glad we held out: it's a wide, grassy pass with a river running through. Elk graze in the green and drink from the water. On either side, ridges reach up to the blue sky, and from here, we can see the Rio Grand Pyramid and the Window, a rock formation that looks like a ridge missing a tooth.
We find an old campsite and set to work, raising the tent, boiling water, and making dinner. As light falls, we look out over the pass. This place is beautiful.
Day Six
We're so in love with the pass, we decide to stay another night and make a day trip up to the Window. The path from our campsite winds up trees and into another high alpine meadow. From there, we follow a stream and then its former self, a waterfall, up the hillside. We walk and I go on and on about my book, Born To Run. It's one of those books that I feel the need to retell in between my readings. I try not to spoil everything, but I can't help it: I tell Josh everything.
At the top of the waterfall, we cross over a patch of snow and climb up over one last hill. At the top, we're treated to an incredible view: the treeline drops away, and now the highest ridges are revealed. This is where I like the mountains the best. While Joshua has a strong affinity for woods and trees and streams, I like the wide open. I love the treeless peaks and the expansive meadows. I like to see forever.
Up ahead, the Window beckons, and we continue our pursuit. The last quarter mile is very steep, and the trail peters out. We scramble through bracken and running water to find purchase, and eventually, we make it to the top.
The wind tells you when you break over the crest of the highest point around. Up here, you're buffeted from all directions, and all of a sudden, the horizon is revealed to be 10 times the size and magnificence it was before. We snap pictures and huddle behind a rock to eat our lunch. Oscar lifts his nose, and drinks it all in with his eyes closed. He is happy beyond compare.
It's getting cold, so we make our way back down, scratching through the bracken and bounding through the snow. We walk and walk, and eventually, eight or nine miles after we left, we arrive back in camp.
That evening, we read, eat rice and beans, and take in our vista once more. It gets colder, but I resist getting up to go get my jacket - I have just 20 pages left.
When I turn the last page, I read the last line twice. I look up over the pass. There are elk drinking from the river. Oscar is laying next to me. Joshua is reading Cormac McCarthy. The light has faded so that the words on the page are hard to see. We gather our things and go to bed.
Day Seven
Although the second half of our trip turned out to be very enjoyable, we woke up ready to go. Downing some gorp and dried dates, we skipped oatmeal in favor of the trail.
As we walked, I watched the light play out over the pass. Dust motes hung on the air like pixies or ghosts, and elk flirted with the tree line.
After a mile or so, we reached the end of the pass where the trail descended into the trees. We crossed a stream and began walking down. We passed a slumbering campsight and may or may not have spied a young gentleman in the midst of his morning ablutions.
Eventually, the path made its way down alongside a stream rioting over rocks. The rush of the water drowned out the sound of our voices, and we walked silently for a while, enjoying Oscar's tail curled up and perky, his grin from ear to ear. Through the trees, we could see the Rio Grand Reservoir.
After six miles of descent, we arrived at Thirty Mile Campground, the trail head from where we had begun. We made a beeline for a faucet of potable water and drank until we had to take a breath. In the parking lot, Heidi sat, ready to go. We dumped our bags in the trunk, peeled off our muddy, wet hiking boots (not a pretty smell, I assure you), donned our clean clothes, and hopped in the car.
As we pulled out of the campground, Oscar promptly fell asleep. While he loves hiking, he never sleeps well. Every scent warns him that we are not alone, and every rustle or snapped twig sends him on alert (me too, for that matter). We look back at him, blissed out and passed out, and laugh. He'll sleep like that for two days now.
We drive back the way we came, through Creede and then Del Norte, where we stop at the Peace of Art Cafe for lunch. It's a cute, funky place with painted chairs and a covered patio. A sign says for sale, and we marvel at the price: 899,000 dollars. It's both ridiculously cheap and completely out of range for us. Knowing it could never happen, we think about what it would be like to live in Del Norte, just outside the mountains, with four fun and funky buildings filled with hippy artifacts.
Back on the road again, we make our way past Saguache and up towards Buena Vista, admiring the bare and snowless mountains all the way (they're west-facing, and this valley gets a ton of sun).
Just outside of Buena Vista, we fill up on gas and buy a couple of ice cream cones. I take a turn at the wheel, and we follow a long line of cars back into Denver (where everybody goes to play in the mountains on the weekends). The sun beats in on my arm and I notice: I'm completely nut brown now. It's hard to stay out of the sun in Colorado. Hell, it's hard to stay inside at all.
Back at the house, we survey our garden. Thanks to a daily dousing by the Pietaris, it's gone buck-wild. The squash is five times the size it was when we left, the peas are blooming, and the tomato plants. The tomato plants have annexed a part of the garden. They now have their own government, and they're seriously considering world domination.
Oh. And the weeds. They've gone crazy, too. They're a carpet of green.
In the house, Thibodeaux yowls to greet us, and the mudroom roof has caved in. The enormous ceiling tile has finally given into the drips and just let loose - there's an explosion of dust and plaster everywhere.
Whatever. We're home. We dump our bags and jump in the shower. We're headed to dinner with the Pietaris at a Mexican place, and we're starved.
