Colorado (Part 2)
After a full week in Pagosa Springs watching rain and hail through the motel window and lightning tormenting the mountains above, the promised break in weather finally came. The next morning I was roadside with my thumb out. The guy behind the wheel of the conversion van that pulled over was a fit fifty-something and bursting with energy. He was a CPA with a recent rescue dog riding shotgun, trying to figure out a way to make a living in Pagosa while skiing and fishing as much as possible. I got the sense that his alternative career path was somehow involved with the exploding weed market in Colorado, and the pre-packaged joint he slipped me when we got to Wolf Creek Pass was his version of a business card. The joint was little consolation for the frozen environment I stepped into when I got out of the van. There was fresh snow lining the road and an arctic wind that cut to the bone. I almost asked him to take me back down to Pagosa, but he was already gone and I was left standing in that hellishly cold tundra, skis and pack on my back, with nothing to do but start hiking up.
At first it was just fresh snow from the recent storm - ankle to shin deep. But in only a few minutes I was post-holing through fresh snow, through old snow, up to my thigh. Drop the pack, unleash the skis/boots, take the boots off the skis, switch the bindings to walk mode, take the skins off the pack and out of the stuff sack, pull the saver sheets off the skins, mount the skins to the skis, take off the shoes, put on the boots, tie the shoes onto the pack (don’t want to lose another one), step into the bindings, pull the toe-locks into place for climbing/skinning, put the pack back on, and you’re ready to go!
On skis the rest of the day, crossing clearly avalanche-prone slopes actively being destabilized by the sun’s afternoon radiation. With the option to cross the slope or turn back and return to Wolf Creek, I gingerly skied out onto the slope, thinking through what to do if the slope broke loose.
I chose a campsite at the base of a large, snow-covered bowl, thinking the topography might protect me from the wind. The map showed a creek draining the bowl, but until I got there I wouldn’t know if it was frozen over or if I’d have access to water. On the approach I noticed large, corniced sections of the ridge at the top of the bowl had previously avalanched, which made me nervous about camping below them. I set up camp as far from the run-out zone as possible and hoped for the best. The creek was almost completely frozen over except for one small, six foot diameter section where not only was water flowing, but some good-sized trout were meandering.
After stomping out a square in the snow big enough for my tent and getting camp set up, I finally took off my ski boots and switched to trail runners. The wind had been relentless all day and setting up my tent on the snow had required some creativity. I waited to cook dinner as long as possible, hoping the wind would die down, but eventually I had to eat and I thought I’d be able to use my tent door as a wind block. I poured the water, poured fuel in and lit the stove, and watched with bated breath as the flame struggled violently against the wind. Suddenly a huge gust blew out the flame. As I reached for the fuel and lighter, another gust ripped the blizzard tent stake out of the snow and threw it 100 feet toward the stream. My tent collapsed on top of me and I scrambled to find another stake and extricate myself. After some effort I was able to re-pitch and secure the tent. Retrieving the blizzard stake would mean post-holing all the way there and back, or putting on ski boots and skis. I opted to leave it until the morning. For my second attempt at cooking I used my shoes and other gear to build a little shelter for the stove and was able to cook and eat a hot meal.
The next day was similar. In skis for 12 hours with blasting gusts of freezing wind. If I could find a small patch of dirt that wasn’t covered in snow that’s where I’d set up my tent. The snow was firm in the morning, but by afternoon the skins on my skis had each absorbed at least a pound of water from the slush. The skis kept me from sinking in too deep, but it was an arduous slog to make any miles.
When I arrived at the junction with the Creede Cutoff alternate route, which skips a large portion of the San Juan range, I had a conversation with myself. If the incredible difficulty of getting through the San Juan’s with so much snow was the only thing making me consider the Creede Cutoff, that wasn’t a good enough reason. The weather forecast was favorable and I had enough food to get to Silverton, assuming I could make 15 miles a day. With that the deliberation ended and I decided to stick to my plan and attempt to ski the San Juan’s.
About 3.5 miles later my GPS showed the trail switchbacking directly up the face and nearly to the summit of a large peak which was completely covered in snow, any semblance of a trail entirely erased. It was early afternoon and the snow was getting dangerously soft. I could attempt it, but assuming I didn’t set off an avalanche or slip and fall, it would take the rest of the day to slog up the soft, unpredictable snow. Another option would be to retreat to flat ground and camp, hitting the peak’s face in the morning with crampons when the snow would be solid. Both options came with physical risks and schedule risks, which could become physical risks. Exhausted, exasperated, and desperate, I sent an InReach message to Molly explaining the situation and the option to backtrack to the Creede Cutoff. Safety first, she reminded me. With her support, I turned tail and made my way back to the cutoff. It was a fun ski descent to the valley, where I post-holed through the transition zone of snow until I got below the snow line completely. I camped on dry ground that night next to a flowing river and knew I’d made the right decision.
Taking the Creede Cutoff didn’t mean the end of my snow woes, however. Immediately after leaving Creede the trail goes over San Luis pass and two subsequent unnamed passes. I traversed those white-knuckling my ice-axe with its business end plunged into the 4am-frozen snowy face. More than two weeks after leaving Creede I was still occasionally post-holing up to my hip. As I’m writing this, I’m about to take a six day break in Breckenridge, but I’m under no illusion that the snow will be melted out by that point. It seems it will be a constant struggle and threat to my physical and psychological well-being.
After not seeing any other CDT hikers for weeks, I met Rezdog on the trail. It was validating to hear him express the same struggles that I’ve had, even mentioning the q-word out loud. Neither of us wants to quit or has any plans to, but the brutality of the conditions, the constancy of it, and knowing there’s only more to come - at some point it breaks you.
When I hiked the PCT in 2018 I learned to categorize pain and discomfort as 1.) physical, 2.) intellectual, or 3.) emotional. Post-holing through snow-covered trail, losing the trail entirely under the snow, dangerous traverses, crawling into your tent soaking wet with sub-freezing night time temperatures, forcing your feet into boots or shoes that are frozen solid in the morning, not making your planned miles because the snow slowed you down, not being sure if you’ll have enough food, not knowing if your planned water sources will be frozen, and relentless wind - these are examples of physical and intellectual pain and discomfort. Through it all, in a moonscape at 12,000 feet elevation, completely alone - that is the emotional aspect. I can’t speak for others, but suffering from two of these is bearable for me for a finite period of time. If I can put my finger on an end date, I can deal with two. But if all three are present, and I’m not exactly sure how long it will go on for (the not knowing is itself a form of intellectual torture), I will break.
All of this with the entire Western US in a severe drought. The snowpack in Colorado was only 70-80% of average this year, and that is much better than the rest of the region. Additionally, 2020 was tied with 2016 as the hottest year ever recorded. Even if 2021 doesn’t break that record (which it may), every indication is that it will be very hot compared to years past. Good news for post-holing hikers, bad news for crop yields, sea levels, biodiversity, stressed eco-systems, water availability, ocean temperatures, oceanic food sources, plants that sequester carbon dioxide, viability of low-lying countries, and frankly, the stability of economic and political systems around the world. When life on planet Earth becomes physically, intellectually, and emotionally painful with no sign of relief, there will be no option to bail out to Breckenridge for a week. There will be no lower elevation route to avoid the misery. There will be no quitting. The only way to avoid that scenario is to completely eliminate carbon emissions within the next 30 years (Wallace-Wells, 2020).
A feat of that magnitude will require more than individuals buying Tesla’s or putting solar panels on their roofs. To eliminate carbon emissions from our entire economy, our entire supply chain of goods, from every industry, it will require a concerted effort of governments and citizens, the likes of which might only be rivaled by war time efforts to defeat the Nazi’s and the spread of fascism.
This adventure I’m on, this experience, whatever you want to call it, it’s testing the limits of what I can endure. To put the entire planet to such a test is beyond short-sighted or irresponsible, or even cruel. It is unethical.
Wallace-Wells, David. The Uninhabitable Earth - Life After Warming. Tim Duggan Books trademark of Penguin Random House LLC, 2020.