Colorado (Part 1)

Hitchhiking sucks. For every car that speeds past, or worse, veers to the far side of the road as if to avoid my hiker stench, it can feel like a personal rejection - a judgement. And the judgement goes both ways. After walking the highway for two hours and dozens of cars had passed, a huge pickup towing a broken-down Jetta pulled over. Two men, one large and heavily tattooed, the other wiry and fidgety, asked where I was going. During the short ride to Cumbres Pass the bigger guy asked a lot of questions about the hike. One example: “Do you ever carry weapons on the trail?”

“Yeah, I do!” I responded emphatically. “Some parts of the trail are more dangerous.”

These guys seemed genuine, but implicitly trusting strangers is not part of my M.O. 

With a sigh of relief and some shame about my own judgmental thoughts, I got out, pulled my pack off the truck bed, and was back on the trail. 

Almost immediately I was sloshing through warmed afternoon snow. The skis came off the pack and carried me over frozen creeks and through the snowy forest. There was a lake on GAIA, only a few hundred yards off the trail. I easily skated down to it, finding it more of a slushy pond. It was easy to scoop out enough slush and filter enough water for that night and the next day. It was the first time yet that I camped directly on snow, but thanks to the MSR snow stakes that Molly brought with my ski gear, setting up the tent was no issue. My Thermarest NeoAir XTherm kept me warm and fully insulated from the snow all night. 

At 3:00am I woke up and was hiking by 4:00. I thought I could make it to the trail without backtracking, but every route I tried was impossibly steep or cliffed out. Finally I saw one route up a steep drainage. I took off the skis, pulled out crampons, and started climbing. Progress was slow, kicking each step into snow, ice, dirt, logs, rocks. Soon enough the pitch evened out, and breathless, I was back on the trail. 

The time that climb took almost nullified my early start. Again, I found myself on a steep, icy slope. Again, I went through the time-consuming transition from skis and skins to crampons. Then back to skis. I kept hoping I’d find a creek that was running or a lake with ice thin enough to break, but everything was frozen solid. I arrived at my planned campsite at Blue Lake having been in ski boots all day. My feet were killing me. The afternoon wind was really ratcheting up. I threw my pack down and post-holed through the snow to the frozen edge of the lake. After numerous violent attempts to break its surface with my cat-hole trowel, I capitulated and accepted that the water underneath was out of reach. 

Defeated, I trudged back to the tiny patch of dirt where I’d decided to set up camp. The wind was relentless. Even the rocks I used to hold down the tyvec were no match as I tried to set up my tent. 

Exhausted, dehydrated, frustrated, I thought I’d try to melt some snow on my stove. In a small area protected by a snow drift on one side and tree trunk on the other, I set up my stove, poured in some fuel, and shoveled some cleanish snow into the pot. Despite the wind, the stove lit and I watched the snow crystals liquify, and slowly roll over each other as the pot began to fill with water. Then a powerful gust blew my stove out. With all the constant wind I’ve endured since starting this hike, my stove had never blown out. My tent stakes were blown out of the ground twice, but my stove always kept its flame. Until now. I poured in some more fuel, relit it, and managed to melt a little more snow before it blew out again. Too many more of these cycles and I’d be out of fuel. I resolved to settle for the 1 liter I’d managed to melt and eat dry food. No cooking. 

With only 1L of water, I sipped lightly that night, and in the morning, I was rewarded with well-frozen snow that was easy to quickly walk over in shoes. At the top of a ridge, I checked GAIA several times before committing to a long, downhill bomb in my skis. There was a creek at the bottom, which I planned to hit below the trail, hoping to find flowing water. Jackpot. Water. With 3L in my pack I began the steep climb up out of the valley and back to the trail. From the ridge I looked back at my solitary, serpentine line descending to the creek with pride. 

From the top of the next ridge, I scrutinized GAIA again before stepping into my ski bindings and dropping into a long, winding flight to the bottom of another valley. Climbing up the opposite I was again filled with exhilaration and pride being able to see my solitary line. The traverse became steeper, and the top layer of snow was warming and easily slushing off, offering only unreliable footing. I switched to crampons and slowly stepped my way across several steep faces. 

The scene opened to a vast, snow-laden valley. It was late afternoon, so even with skis, I was sinking in. The skins were completely saturated and each step felt like about ten pounds being dragged up the slope. Miraculously, when I reached the saddle there was one relatively flat spot of bare ground. It was one of the most spectacular campsites I’ve ever had. But the wind did everything possible to convince me I shouldn’t be there. Throughout the night as my tent flapped furiously, I kept wondering how much abuse it could take. I contemplated what to do if it tore itself to shreds. 

From my previous successes finding water, I learned, and when the trail stayed high the next day to circumvent a creek drainage, I dropped straight to lower elevation and serendipitously stumbled upon the one hole in the ice where water was flowing. I cautiously lay down across the ice to distribute my weight and reached one bottle at a time into the numbingly cold water. Since the trail was completely buried and unidentifiable, I short-cut straight up to a saddle, followed the ridge, jumped on some dirt trail, back to skis, skins, skis, and finally dropped to a wind-protected campsite. 

The last day into Wolf Creek Pass should have been a quick, easy 8.5 miles. It was not. The trail was horribly unmaintained with blown-down trees on top of blown-down trees on top of snow drifts along steep traverses. It was another juggling act of different gear - trying to optimize time, risk, and psychological and physical strain. Finally, I found myself skinning across the top of Wolf Creek Pass Ski Resort where I’d watched live webcam footage for over a year. I picked a run from the top of the highest chairlift and slalomed through heavy springtime slush to the parking lot. After a half hour with my thumb out a truck pulled over and offered for me to ride in the bed for the 25 mile drive into town, which I did. 

The forecast for the Southern San Juans currently warns of rain, snow, thunder, and wind for the next few days, so I’ll be hiding out here in Pagosa Springs.