Another Adventure in the Mountains

It’s been three years since I climbed a fourteener – a fourteen thousand foot mountain, and since I felt pretty good this summer, I decided to try one again. I’ve been trying to get ready for the last two months: walking the dog – I can’t run anymore because of my knees, and hiking in the mountains every week or two, at altitude, to get myself in shape and acclimated.

Climbing a fourteener is a challenge, especially as you get older. I’ve failed two out of my last four attempts, either out of sheer exhaustion or from muscle cramps, which have bothered me since I’ve gotten older, and then hiking all day at altitude is just a  grueling experience, even if you prepare for it. Your pack straps cut into your shoulders; your joints ache, and most of the time it’s boring – nothing but rocks and trees for hour after hour. But there’s something about climbing a big mountain that makes it all worthwhile. The sense of accomplishment is part of it, but more than that, there’s just nothing like sitting up there on top, higher than anything else around, able to see for fifty, a hundred miles in any direction. No picture or narrative can do justice to the experience.

I had trouble deciding which fourteener to try - there are 54 to choose from in Colorado. I’ve climbed most of the ones near Denver, and I didn’t want to go too far away, because I don’t like spending the night away from home. Still there are several I haven’t climbed within a four or five hour drive: La Plata, near Buena Vista was at the top of my list, because I’ve tried it three times and failed each time. Sherman, over by Leadville, is pretty easy, they say, and it’s in a new area for me. I was still debating the issue in my mind the last week in August when I heard on the weather report that it was snowing in the mountains. I had almost waited too long.

I don’t like to hike in the winter. It’s cold; the rocks are slippery, and it’s painfully slow slogging through the snow, even with snow shoes, so I decided to go the next day, before the weather got any worse, and I picked the closest fourteener that I hadn’t climbed, Torrey’s Peak. 

Torrey’s is just an hour and a half from Denver. Most people climb it and Gray’s Peak – another fourteener – together, since the peaks are just a half a mile apart, but, although I’ve climbed Grays three times before, I’ve never had enough energy left to get to the top of Torrey’s too. Half a mile doesn’t seem like a lot, but getting from one peak to the other also involves going down about 500 feet – that’s like a 35 story building – and then back up again, so Torrey’s it was. I set out my pack, filled my water bladder up to three liters, made my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and set my alarm for 3 AM.

Usually I’m like a zombie at 3 AM - that’s when I wake up to pee, but this morning I was bright eyed and bushy tailed. I didn’t take the dog. Penny gets upset when the weather turns bad, and I didn’t want to have to carry her in addition to my pack. It’s happened before. At 5 AM I was the first to arrive at the trail head, but before I got my gear on and set my GPS, there were two more cars with more brave souls anxious to tackle a fourteener. I spoke briefly with the two guys parked next to me. They said they had been planning the hike all summer and hoped to summit both Gray’s and Torrey’s. I wished them well, and then we both hit the trail, lighting our way with headlamps.

Gray’s / Torrey’s Peak Trail about 6 AM, August 26, 2016

Everything was covered with snow, and it became deeper as we climbed higher. I was prepared for the cold, but I didn’t anticipate deep snow, so I hadn’t brought my gators to keep the snow out of my boots. Snow quickly melts inside boots, and you don’t want to hike all day on wet feet, so I began to worry a little.

The other hikers were younger than me of course, so all morning I watched as they passed me. I take my time. I can walk all day if I pace myself, but if I try and push it, my legs soon start to ache. Also, you see more when you stop occasionally. It’s hard to take in much scenery when you’re concentrating on picking your way between the rocks. I look at the flowers, and the wild life, and I take a lot of pictures. I figure the more you take, the more keepers you’ll get. There weren’t many flowers poking their heads through the snow this morning, but the vistas were spectacular all the way.

The trail head for Gray’s and Torrey’s is right at the tree line, 11250 feet according to my GPS, so once it became light enough, I could plainly see snow covered slopes on one side of the trail, and steep cliffs in the other. The clouds were too low to see the peaks though until I was almost at the top. 

After two or three hours I noticed that some of the hikers ahead of me had stopped. Then I met a couple who had passed me earlier, coming back down the trail. The guy was wearing shorts, so I had wondered how far he’d get. They said the snow on the trail was getting deeper, up to their knees in spots, so they were giving up for the day. I was still worried about not having gators, but my pant legs come down pretty far over my boots so I decided I could handle some snow, and I kept going.

As I continued up the trail more people passed me going the other way. “The wind is really strong up ahead,” they reported, “and it’s getting colder.” I had worn a long sleeved undershirt and long handled underwear, but I began to feel cold too, so I put on my quilted jacket and got out my face mask and goggles. I had on glove liners, which I had brought mainly for climbing on the rocks, but I began to wish I had brought insulated gloves as well.

It wasn’t long after putting on my coat that I came to the place where the trail to Torrey’s Peak branches off. It was a little hazy up ahead, but I could see that the hikers who had taken the Gray’s Peak trail were having trouble. Those in front had slowed or stopped, and some were coming back. No one else had taken the Torrey’s trail so it was a little hard to see, but I had come to climb Torrey’s so I figured, why not? It looked steeper than the Gray’s trail so maybe the snow wouldn’t be as deep.

Me at the Start of the Torrey’s Peak Trail

Well the snow was pretty deep, knee deep in spots, so I tried to stay on the outer rim of the trail, which was closer to the surface. This only worked part of the time, so I still had to deal with some deep snow. That’s when I learned how to “post hole.” I had heard that climbers use it in deep snow, but I’d never really tried it.

What you do is stick your pole into the snow in front of you to test the depth before you take a step. It’s slow going but it’s better than falling up to your waist in snow. I’ve done that before. And then there were times when there was no choice but to step out into deep snow. Then I would stamp my boot down over and over to press the snow down in a larger area so that when I stepped out it wouldn’t leak into my boots. That was even slower going, but my feet didn’t get wet.  

So I made slow headway, and getting through the snow was not the only problem. I kept losing the trail, and then had to climb up or down to get back to it, but that’s one nice thing about starting at 5 AM. You’ve got plenty of time to piddle around.

After I had got pretty far up the Torrey’s Peak trail, I looked back and saw a strange sight. There was a person, tumbling over and over down the mountain. I thought he might be hurt, so I started to go back to him, but pretty soon he stood up and walked to where I was. He explained that he was coming down from the Gray’s Peak trail, and had decided that rolling down the snow drifts would be easier than walking. He and his partner had turned back because the Gray’s trail was too rough, and since I seemed to be making headway on the Torrey’s trail – I was still the only one on it – he thought he’d try it too.

“My name’s Keith,” he said.

“I’m Robin,” I replied, and off we went.

I couldn’t keep up with Keith, of course, but before he left me, I found out that it was he and his partner who had parked next to me the first thing that morning.

There was one more hurdle to pass before getting to the “saddle” between Gray’s and Torrey’s, and that was a cornice of snow along the rim of the slope. It was much deeper there than it had been anywhere along the trail, maybe four feet. Keith dived in and rolled right through it, but when I tried his technique my pack got in the way and I ended up tunneling through the snow on my hands and knees.

When I got past the cornice, I was able to brush the snow off my clothes pretty well, but I had to take my boots off to clean the snow out of them before it melted into my socks. By the way, I do carry an extra pair of socks, just in case.

After that the going got harder. The saddle was broad, and the snow wasn’t as deep, but the slope was getting steeper and the air was getting thinner. That’s a frustrating thing about climbing a big mountain, the higher you are, the harder it gets. I’m always singing to myself when I hike, and the song that was going through my head at the time – I didn’t have enough wind to actually sing – was “Somewhere, Over the Rainbow,” and it was really slow: “Somewhere” – step. “over the rainbow” – step. “Way up high” – step. On the way down, I remember that my song was “When the red, red, Robin comes bob, bob, bobbing along.” Going down is a lot easier than climbing up.

From the saddle to the top was a climb of about 500 feet, and it took me a good 30 minutes. I would watch Keith up ahead of me climbing up towards the cloud - the peak was still hidden in a cloud, and just as he was about to disappear, the cloud would rise a little higher. He finally did disappear, and was actually on his way down before I could see the top of the mountain. When he passed me I dropped my pack. Why carry that stuff all the rest of the way up? All I needed was my peanut butter sandwich anyway, and it was in my fanny pack, so I took one last drag off my water straw, and climbed the rest of the way to the top.

Keith Climbing up Towards Torrey’s Peak

It was 11:30 AM when I got to the top of Torrey’s Peak, still before noon. They always tell you to be off the peak before noon because of storms and lightening. I was lucky in that the sky cleared up for me at the top of the mountain. I could see the mountains all around. I could see Gray’s. It was wonderful!

 Triumph on Torrey’s Peak, Gray’s Peak in Background

Keith and I weren’t the only ones to summit Torrey’s that day. Just behind me was a man from Littleton, Co. and his two sons. They had actually climbed Gray’s and then come over the saddle to climb Torrey’s. Pretty good for a cold snowy day. I’m pretty sure they were the last ones though, because everyone was starting down about that time and I didn’t meet anyone else coming up the trail.

Coming down is the least enjoyable part of climbing a mountain, and my journey down Torrey’s was no exception. It is easier, but I haven’t found a way to step down a two or three foot trail step without jarring my knees and back. After three or four hours of that pounding – it took me four hours to get down, you can get pretty sore. What made it worse on this hike was the snow, which had turned to slush and was really slippery. And the weather kept changing. The sun would come out and it would get hot. There’s something about the thin mountain air that allows the temperature to change really quickly. Then I’d have to unstrap my pack, take off my coat, secure it in the pack, and then lift it back onto my shoulders. Then, thirty minutes later, it would get cold again, snow – it snowed about half the time on my way down, and I’d have to repeat the procedure, in reverse. That happened two or three times.

I usually take more time looking for flowers and critters on the way down, but there was none of that this trip, except for the ravens. They were everywhere for some reason. They must have been able to see critters to eat better as the snow melted. I tried to photograph them, but they were too far away to get a clear picture.

I was one of the last ones back to the car as usual, but I was happy. I managed to summit my tenth fourteener, and in winter conditions. What an adventure!

Torrey’s Peak, 14,267 Feet

Hell's Hole

Apology

Hi everyone. I want to apologize for neglecting my blog for so long. I have really missed the connections it's allowed me to make, and also the feedback I get from people. 

I've been thinking for some time about making some changes to my blog's content. So far I've stuck pretty much to Native American and family history, but there are a lot of other things that interest me, so I think I'll try sometimes just writing about subjects that interest me at the moment. I enjoy music and hiking, for instance, and I also like to make observations about events in my daily life. 

There are still a lot of stories I need to record about our family, and I'm still trying to learn more about Native American history, especially Chickasaw history, so I'll continue with that, so for those of you who think the new blogs are silly, just be patient, because I'll continue with the old subjects as well.

I hope this is agreeable to most of you. It will make the content a little less predictable, but hopefully more interesting, and we'll get to know each other a little better, so here goes.

Hell’s Hole

The Hell’s Hole Trail is a pretty good hike. It is listed as 8.2 miles out and back, starting at 9700 feet and climbing up to the tree line at 11600 feet. The Alltrails website describes it as a moderate hike, but I wouldn’t recommend it for a novice, or for a tourist from sea level.

Last week I got an invitation from Jerry, a friend from the hiking club, to hike Hell’s Hole, but I was reluctant to go. It’s been several months since I’ve been hiking, and then only a couple of “moderate” hikes with my grandson during his spring break. Jerry and Mary, who also decided to go along, are experienced hikers, and I wasn’t sure I could keep up with them.

I’ve been having some doubts about my physical fitness anyway. I’m getting older, 74 last May. My knees hurt, and my back hurts, also my left shoulder, my neck, my wrists, and don’t get me started on my feet. Also, I don’t have the energy I used to have. Penny, our dog, has to practically turn cartwheels to get me to take her walking, and I can hardly get through the day without my afternoon nap, a definite sign of old age.

But, I decided to go anyway. I have always enjoyed hiking, so it should be fun, I thought, If I could just get myself out of bed. Jerry and Mary were leaving at 7:00 AM.

The night before the hike, I filled up my water bladder to its full three liter capacity – don’t want to run out of water - made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and then loaded up my pack: rope, goggles, first aid kit, bear spray, insect spray, big knife, little knife, flare, map, GPS, compass, warm stuff if I have to spend the night, parka in case it rains, head lamp in case it gets dark, and two little sacks of ‘it’s nice to have’ stuff, like fire starter, tweezers for when your fingers won’t untie a tight knot, toothbrush, eye drops, extra batteries, insect spray, pencil and paper. About the only thing I didn’t pack was my sleeping bag, air mattress, and tent – overkill, I figured. After packing up, I laid out my clothes, set my alarm for 5:30 AM, and went to sleep.

Next morning I was awakened by my wife Sarah, asking, “Aren’t you going hiking today?” I instantly came awake and turned toward the clock. Sure enough, it was already 7:00 AM. I picked up my cell phone and called Jerry. “No, don’t wait for me,” I said, “It will take me 30 minutes to get there. I’ll catch up with you,” knowing full well I’d never catch them, even if I could get started in 30 minutes, but I was determined to go anyway, so I threw on my hiking clothes, laced up my boots, and raced out the door.

The trail head for Hell’s Hole is about 8 miles south of Idaho Springs, a little mountain town about 50 miles from Denver on I-70, the main highway going west. The road to the trail head is pretty good, only dirt for the last 3 miles or so, and it ends at a series of camp sites. I stopped at the first one, jumped out of the car and grabbed my gear. Looking at my pack, I thought, that’s an awful lot to carry on an easy little day hike, so I tossed out everything but my water, my parka, my peanut butter sandwich, my map, and my bear spray - you never know - and took off down the trail, the wrong trail, as it turned out.

The path I chose crossed a stream and then crossed back again, headed west, but I decided to stay on the east side of the stream, Chicago Creek, knowing that the trail followed the creek. I had glanced at the map the night before, confirming the direction of the trail, so I was confident. After all I’d been there before, only my memory wasn’t as good as I thought. Hell’s Hole Trail doesn’t follow the stream as do most mountain trails. It goes along the ridge above the stream, way above!

The Hell’s Hole camp grounds are popular, I discovered, and the campers venture pretty far out into the woods, so as I walked along the trail, I continued to see camp sites for quite a while, reinforcing my belief that I was on the right trail. Before long, I did start to encounter fallen trees, not too unusual, but also new growth. “Boy, this trail needs some work,” I thought.

After a while I stopped seeing camp sites, and I began to lose the trail, also not unusual for me. I’m notorious for getting lost. It kept veering off toward the stream, and then I’d have to climb back up the hill until I found it again. This, as I eventually reasoned out, is what you’d expect from a game trail. Deer, elk, and moose wander around eating grass, and then go down to the stream to drink. But I was in a hurry, and by the time I figured out there were no people traiIs, I was already a mile or so in.

Now I want to reassure my hiking friends that I would never have continued on at this point if someone had been with me. I would never subject anyone else to the struggles and risks of bushwhacking, or blazing your own trail. It’s strenuous work, and a little dangerous too, venturing out into the wilderness, miles from any road or trail. 

On the other hand, it's kind of exciting, and challenging too, constantly facing new obstacles, a fallen tree, a rock slide, a dense thicket, or a marsh. It’s foolhardy, especially for an old man, but when I’m by myself, I kind of enjoy it. 

Getting around fallen trees and underbrush can be tough. Those pictures of Little Red Riding Hood skipping through the forest are totally wrong. A primal forest is almost impassable, and long pants are a must. Unfortunately my fancy zip on pant leg extenders were among the things I had removed to lighten my pack. I followed game trails as much as possible, but still came away with scrapes and bruises.   

Detouring around a fallen tree can take ten or fifteen minutes. I passed by several that had been wrenched out by the roots, raising a huge pan of soil and tangled roots ten or fifteen feet high on one end, and a tangle of branches extending out 100 feet or so on the other. Usually I tried to detour around the top of the tree or climb through the branches, but one I encountered was just too dense, so I decided to go around the upended root system, which hung out over the stream.

In the cavity where the tree roots had been, was a broad stretch of mud. I didn’t want to get muddy, but my boots don’t leak, so I figured the worse that could happen was that I’d walk around for a while in muddy boots. I was wrong. That wasn’t the worse that could happen. When I stepped out onto the mud, I instantly sank up to my knee in thick, black, muck. And then, when I tried to pull my foot out, it wouldn’t budge. I just managed to lose my balance and fall. So there I was, sitting in the water, with my left foot stuck in the mud. I suddenly knew how the saber toothed tigers felt when they got caught in the tar.

My right foot was on fairly solid ground, so I used it for leverage and gradually wrenched my left foot free, and then clambered up on the bank. After assessing the damage, I was disgusted with myself. Nothing’s worse than hiking on wet feet, and I had left my extra pair of socks in the car with my pant legs, so I just slogged on with a muddy boot.

The other two things I had to deal with while bushwhacking were boulder fields and willow thickets. Boulder fields are the result of rock slides, and are pretty frequent at the base of mountains, and willow thickets grow in any flat moist area next to a stream. Since my path lay between a mountain and a stream, I was constantly avoiding one or the other.

Boulder hopping is not a sport for old folks. Sometime between the ages of forty and seventy you lose your sense of balance, and there’s something disorienting about a pile of boulders. I can cross a stream pretty well by balancing on a log, even stepping on rocks, but boulders scare me. I hurt my back a couple of years ago when one rolled under my foot and caused me to fall. I didn’t hike again for about a year.

Anyway, when I cross a boulder field, I use a walking stick to try and create a stable base, and then choose a route that allows me to hold onto a rock with the other hand. I usually carry gloves for that, but – you guessed it – I left them in the car with my socks and pant legs.

Willow thickets were my other main obstacle. I don’t understand the botany, but willows seem to grow everywhere in the mountains. It must have something to do with elevation. They seem to like water, because every marsh is covered with them, but they grow up on the mountainside too, which doesn’t make any sense to me.

The thing about willows is they grow close together and their branches intertwine so you can’t walk between them. If you try to walk on them they aren’t sturdy enough to hold you, or to lean on, and there’s nothing firm to anchor a walking stick, so you – I - usually lose my balance and fall into the water. I do everything I can to avoid willow thickets.

After about four hours of bushwhacking I finally came to the tree line, about 11500 feet in this area. In the mountains, there’s a special meaning to that saying, “You can’t see the forest for the trees,” because it’s only when you get above the tree line that you can really see where you are, so when I got there I breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down to rest, have a drink, and assess my situation.

With the exception of a few scratches, I didn’t seem to have any major injuries. I hadn’t twisted my ankle or wrenched my back, and remarkably, the mud on my left shoe had dried and flaked off. When I removed the shoe I found that my left foot wasn’t even wet. I guess mud is better than water.

But as far as reorienting myself, I realized that I was still lost. All I could see were mountains in every direction, and nothing looked familiar. I knew that the Hell’s Hole Trail ended at the tree line, at a little lake fed by Chicago Creek, and since I was at the tree line just above Chicago Creek, I knew I must be close, but why couldn’t I see the lake? Trying to come up with a plan, I decided that the most sensible thing to do would be to just follow the creek back to the trail head, so I headed back into the trees, toward where I left the stream.

As I walked, I started to get second thoughts about bushwhacking for another four hours. I wasn’t especially tired, but climbing up and down, over rocks, through muck and dense thickets does get a little old after a while. I had also remembered by this time that the Hell’s Hole Trail follows the ridge above the creek, not the creek itself, so when I got to the creek, I crossed it and headed up, hoping to cross the trail, or at least climb high enough to see it.

Climbing above the tree line, I could see the mountains again, but I still couldn’t make out the trail. The only thing that seemed vaguely familiar was a cliff looming high above me. I kept thinking about it until suddenly it hit me. It was the cliff above Hell’s Hole. I had seen it before, but only from above. That meant that I was actually in Hell’s Hole. Now I understood where the name came from. The guy who named it must have spent the day bushwhacking like me.

Central Ridge, View from Hell's Hole

The Hell’s Hole Trail follows a ridge that forms the western border of a glacial valley where the Chicago Creek runs. The valley and the creek split into two branches at the tree line and end blindly, enclosed by steep mountain ridges. Although the trail ends at the tree line, I had hiked up to the top of the central ridge on two previous occasions. There you can see both arms of the glacial valley, as well as the Chicago Creek meandering back down to the Hell’s Hole trail head. I headed for the ridge. There I’d be able to see the lakes at the end of the trail and also take in the panorama.

Getting to the top of the ridge turned out to be more of a task than I anticipated.

Climbing above the tree line is slow going, not just because it’s uphill, but because there’s not as much oxygen up there, so it was take a step and breathe, take another step and breathe, and so on. It took me another three hours to climb to the top of the ridge, about 1000 feet elevation gain I figured out later. It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon before I got there.

Having reached the top of the ridge, I sat down, ate my peanut butter sandwich, and admired the scenery. Looking down, I now recognized the end of Hell’s Hole trail, 1000 feet below me. I could see the little lakes at the end of the trail, and the willows bordering the creek. I could even make out the trail itself, extending down to the north, along the ridge, and just 50 yards to my right was the cliff overlooking Hell’s Hole, which I had been climbing out of for the last three hours.

There’s nothing like being in the mountains. It’s so beautiful, and peaceful, and relaxing, and I was getting sleepy, so just like I do every day about 4:00 PM, I lay down and took a nap. It wasn’t a long nap. It’s hard to sleep with a rock pressing against your ribs, and my camera case didn’t make a very good pillow, but I made my concession to old age, and I did feel better afterwards.

I woke up looking at a very pretty and unusual crop of flowers. I’ve seen most of the flowers above the tree line, but this one was new to me, so I took some pictures. Then I called my wife Sarah, who’s used to my little escapades. Actually I had tried to call before, but couldn’t get any reception. After explaining to her that I had gotten off the trail and might be in a little late, she just replied, “Quit lollygagging, and come home.”

Mountain Avens

I called Jerry too, who I figured was wondering why he hadn’t passed me on the trail, and left a message for him not to worry, that I would be just a little late, and that I would call him when I got down. Then I went over to the cliff overlooking Hell’s Hole, took some pictures, and then started down towards the trail.

Hell's Hole, as Viewed from Ridge

It was about 6:00 when Jerry called me back. He had gotten back to Idaho Springs and was getting phone reception. He warned me to stay on the trail in case I had to be rescued, and “Do you have a head lamp? It might be dark by the time you get down.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I replied, lying through my teeth, knowing that I had left my headlamp back at the car with all the other stuff I didn’t want to carry. Uh Oh, I thought, there’s another problem. The forest is always dark at night, even with clear skies, and I’m clumsy enough in good light, so I began to pick up my pace. I didn’t want to get caught out on the trail after dark.

I still had to cross a marsh to get to the trail, and pick my way through another willow thicket. I did have a slight advantage this time since I was coming down from above and could plan my route, so I made it through without hitting too many blind ends, or falling into the water.

It felt so good when I finally got back on the trail. It was rocky, but easy compared to any path I had taken all day, and I was able to speed up. In fact, I jogged most of the way back, and reached the trail head in only two hours, about 30 minutes before sundown. I felt pretty good too. I was a little sore, but no more than usual after a hike, and my muscles hadn’t cramped up. When I got into Idaho Springs, I called Sarah and Jerry, and then treated myself to a greasy bacon burger and a root beer.

My little adventure lasted a total of 11 hours, hiking probably twelve miles, with a net altitude gain of 2800 feet, from 9700 to 11500 feet, and down again, and I probably spent 7 hours and 1000 feet of it "lollygagging" as Sarah would say. It’s now a new day, and I still feel pretty good. I took Penny for a walk and I’m starting to feel a little sleepy. Think I’ll take a nap. 

Anniversary

May 2nd was the anniversary of my mother's death - she died two years ago. We visited some of my cousins in Texas last week so I got to talk about her a little with them. When their father was alive he suffered from emphysema. Once he was looking for a place to stay and at the age of 90, my mother got on the phone and contacted the head of Chickasaw social services to help him find an apartment.  

I went hiking a couple of days ago. I always think of my mother while I'm hiking, I guess because it allows my mind to wander. Jim was pretty much homebound for the last 10 years of her life, so she enjoyed hearing about my treks into the mountains, and seeing my pictures. When I went hiking I was always thinking about what I could tell her about my trip. I still find myself doing that, even though she's not here any more.  

Jim travelled with my father before he died, but she was a little afraid of the mountains. She told me once about getting a panic attack while trying to climb up the steps next to Seven Falls in Colorado Springs. The experience puzzled her because she had climbed on trees and on the roof of her parents' house as a girl without ever being afraid.  

A couple of days ago I hiked up the Ben Tyler Trail just a few miles SW of Denver. The trail is between 9000 and 10500 ft elevation. There's not much snow remaining there, but the vegetation still hasn't grown up much yet. We had hoped to see some wild flowers - Jim loved wild flowers, but there weren't many. They were like jewels when we saw them though. There were a couple of clumps of Pasque Flowers, and in the middle of a bed of dead grass and fallen leaves we found about four stems of Fairy Slippers, a beautiful variety of orchid.

                                                Fairy Slippers

 

We met a young woman on the way down and got to talking with her. She does a lot of hiking and was telling us how she struggles to keep fit while holding down a job. I told her about how my mother started exercising with Jack LaLanne in her mid 40's and continued until she developed bone cancer at the age of 96. She remains my inspiration for the benefits of exercise.

There was a story on the news recently about a bear who wandered into Boulder Colorado and had to be tranquilized and taken out into the mountains. About a month later the same bear showed up in Boulder again. He had traveled about 30 miles to return. That's the kind of story Jim enjoyed. She would tell me about her childhood and I would tell her about the mountains, or whatever else I was doing.  

I really miss her. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but she was always on my side; she was always proud of me; she was always interested in whatever I was doing, and she was always glad to see me or to hear from me. No one will ever be able to replace her.  

                                       James Wenonah Paul Gunning

Grieving in the Mountains

View from La Plata Trail

Last Sunday I took a hike, literally. I wanted to get in one more good hike this summer, and if I waited until after my trip to Oklahoma this week, chances were the mountain tops would be snowed in. So I got up at 5AM and drove over to the trail head for La Plata Peak, a 14000 foot plus mountain in the Sawatch range, near Buena Vista. It was my second attempt to climb La Plata. The last time I got lost, wasting 4 hours, and had to turn around before I got to the top in order to get down before dark. This time I got started about 8 AM, which I figured would give me enough time for the grueling 4000 foot climb.

Shortly after starting up the trail, I started to notice mushrooms. The vegetation is never the same in the mountains, so there’s always something new to see. These mushrooms were golden in color and I wondered if they were the same golden mushrooms I had heard were good to eat. Jim would be interested in that, I thought.

It wasn’t long before I started noticing photo opportunities. The trail through the forest offered a lot of variety. The tall pines can create such a dense enclosure it’s almost like being indoors. In contrast are the Aspen groves. The sunlight shines through the Aspens’ tiny leaves and that, combined with the trees’ white bark, gives Aspen forests a bright open appearance. I took some camera shots of the trail through the pines and then aimed one up at the sky through the Aspens. I wished I could send prints to Jim. She always appreciated the beauty of the forest.

As the climb became steeper the trail followed a mountain stream. It’s hard to get the feel of rushing water from a photograph but I still can’t resist trying. I like to get right in the middle of the stream and watch as it rushes past me. It’s like being in the center of a waterfall. The streams erode the soil away from the tree roots to make interesting patterns, and I love the way the moss and other vegetation grows along the banks. Getting just the right angle can be challenging though. I didn’t fall into the water this time, but I did drop my GPS and lost a couple of batteries. Jim would have enjoyed that story, and then she would have scolded me for taking risks.

This hike was a little late in the season for wild flowers, but there were a lot of berries. There were many different kinds. The only ones I recognized for sure were the wild strawberries. They’re smaller than regular strawberries but they taste just as sweet. The bears are eating berries this time of year to fatten themselves up for hibernation.

I didn’t see any bears but they were on my mind. I don’t carry any weapons, only pepper spray. I figure that I make enough noise the bears will probably stay out of my way. I met a hiker on the trail who told me a story about a mountain lion who attacked his aunt, but was so weakened by starvation he died in the attempt. What a woman!

Jim would have rolled her eyes at this story I'll bet, but she did love animal stories, and I told her any that I heard. I remember rushing to tell her about the fox that chased a squirrel onto our roof, and the bear that tripped the automatic door opener at our local hospital’s ER. Luckily he didn’t go inside.

I hardly ever see a big animal on my hikes, only squirrels and chipmunks, who don’t usually sit still long enough for a portrait. The same goes for birds, although last winter I got a really good picture of a Stellar Jay for Jim. They are a brilliant blue color.

Once I got up above the tree line I started hearing the picas chirping. The pica is a little mouse that lives among the rocks at high altitudes. Their ears are perfectly rounded reminding you of Mickey Mouse. I got a good picture of one for Jim a couple of years ago.

Another critter you see a lot above the tree line is the yellow bellied marmot. Marmots are about the size of a big cat, with thick fur. They hibernate like the bears during the winter. I saw a really fat one on this trip. They’re a little shy and I was never able to get a good picture of one for Jim before she died.

When you climb above the tree line you can literally see for hundreds of miles. I took lots of pictures for Jim of the majestic views from mountain tops, but you can’t really capture it in a photograph. I tried to tell her though. I didn’t want to scare her so I didn’t tell her about the chill that goes up your spine when you’re walking along a ledge over a thousand foot drop off, of about how easy it is to lose your footing on the rocks.

Jim had a fear of heights, and she would cringe to hear my stories even though I tried to tone them down. She told me about visiting Seven Falls near Colorado Springs one summer after dropping me off at a summer music camp. She said, “I got so frightened Don (my dad) had to practically carry me down the trail.” Jim was puzzled by the experience. She said, "I was never afraid of heights as a child. Bob and I used to climb up high in the big trees in Mamma's yard, and we also played on the roof of our house. I was never afraid then."

As I walked back down the trail, I realized that I had been thinking about Jim all day long, taking pictures to show her, planning how I would describe my experiences to her. Thinking back, that’s how it had always been during my hikes.

I began to wonder if it's time for me to give up hiking now that Jim is no longer here. After all it's pretty strenuous exercise at my age and I don't have anyone to go along with me who shares my interest. Sarah, my wife, is uneasy about my mountain treks, and would rather I stay home.
But looking back, I really did enjoy spending the day with my mother, so I guess I'll continue hiking, as long as my body holds up, and as long as I still can take Jim along, if only in my imagination.