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Notes from the Trail
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For a brief moment, spring rises through our elevation on its way up to the alpine. The aspens leaf out with a spring green and and the meadows show a flush of new green growth. Golden banner and blue flag iris are among the early season flowers that let us know summer is near. The waterfalls flow heavy with snowmelt and we wait for the snow to clear off the trails so we can hike to the alpine lakes.
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The More Things Change, the More They Stay the SameBy Barb Boyer Buck “What’s on your butt and why are you going to Cleveland?” I looked over at my dad who was sitting next to me while I was driving. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Barb! The speed limit is 45!” he said. Oops, I was going 50. I was excited about driving up above treeline on Trail Ridge Road and wasn’t paying close attention. Also, for the first time in decades, it was a beautiful, early June afternoon and the traffic was sparse. I was giddy about this – it had been more than 20 years since I’ve seen visitation this light in Rocky on a glorious summer day. I was driving his car, so I respected his wishes and slowed to 45 mph. Almost immediately, a large truck was tail-gaiting me. “See, now there’s a bozo on my butt since I’m going the speed limit!” I said, but Don heard differently. All three of us broke out in uproarious laughter when I explained to my dad that what he heard as Cleveland was “speed limit” and nothing was wrong with my butt. One of the things I love most about my parents is their senses of humor. When RMNP announced the timed-entry reservation system would start on June 4, I made a reservation for the first day. It is required to present your receipt (paper copy or downloaded onto your phone) at the entrance gate and that you enter during the time period you reserved. I told my parents my reservation was from 8-10 a.m. and asked they pick me up by 8.
Note to self: next time, tell them to be someplace one hour before I really need them there. There were rangers standing on the road, right before we reached the Beaver Meadows entrance of RMNP at about 9 a.m. to make sure we had made a reservation and then at the gate we showed rangers our reservation confirmation. My dad had a heart attack three years ago; he turned 78 this year. Sprague Lake was the perfect spot, I thought, for a small hike. We took a slight detour to show them the handicapped accessible camping spot. There is virtually no elevation gain and it’s a half-mile jaunt around the perimeter of this lake, which was created by Abner Sprague when he was building is lodge there in 1914. To my surprise, my parents had never been there. Our family moved to Colorado Springs in 1979 and my parents owned a house in Longmont for 30 years before they downsized to a smaller place in Johnstown, just two years ago. I had hiked with my parents in Rocky many times before; I guess we were all younger then and did more strenuous hikes.
While preparing for this trip, I had suggested to my dad that he bring his pole & flies. “I don’t have a current fishing license,” he said. What? I had envisioned Mom & I hiking while my dad fished – that’s what we had always done in the past while us kids were growing up, on the South Platte River at Deckers, in southern Colorado. But that was 40 years ago, I reminded myself. My mother was having a wonderful time – she loved discovering the different wildflowers and encouraged me to take close-up shots of everything. “That one is called Frauenschue,” she said, pointing at a golden banner. My mother is German and grew up in a small town in Bavaria, exploring the woods and hills of Ober Franken. Frauenschue translates to “women’s slippers.” “Oh, I think that’s a wild hazelnut bush!” she exclaimed. “After the war (WWII), my mother sent us kids out to the woods to pick them. We ate a few (they were so sweet!), but kept most of them because she would grind them up to make flour and cookies.” Hermine pointed out wild strawberries and gooseberries as well. She stopped to marvel at the striated granite rocks and pieces of wood with interesting markings from insect infestation. I think I get my excitement at seeing beautiful nature from my mother, who notices every detail. She doesn’t hide her enthusiasm when she is pointing these things out, and it’s an absolute joy to be with her in nature (unless she starts talking too loud to my dad, which can scare off the wildlife.)
“How can I take pictures if I have those in both hands?” he said. I pointed out the loops attached the handles. “You just let go of your poles & take a picture,” I explained. He finally agreed and was soon out-pacing my mother and I, who stopped often to admire the flora and features around us.
So, we hiked up there. Again, my father was outpacing my mom and I who were discovering more plants and flowers. On the way down we got caught in a sudden rainstorm and were pelted, somewhat painfully, with hail.
Note to self: patience is the key when dealing with children and elderly parents. Our drive up to the top of Trail Ridge Road was everything I hoped it would be. On that day, it was very warm and the snow that had been recently plowed through to open the pass was melting quickly, rivulets of snowmelt were everywhere. But Mom & Pop were too tired to take the trip all the way down to Grand Lake, so we turned around and drove back down to Estes Park.
beach, or the redwood forests, or vacationing in Yosemite National Park. In Colorado, you guys were older but we still went fishing and hiking all day. “What I liked was we also saw a lot of young families with their small children, instilling in them the love of nature. We saw people our age still hiking, even if they needed polls or sticks.” My skeptical and stubborn dad had a great time, too. “I was reluctant to go, having been almost exclusively in my house for about 100 days, but the park has been a favorite destination since I moved to Northern Colorado in 1988,” said Don. “We go two to five times a year on average and every trip before was enjoyable.“This time, with the Covid-19 around, I was not sure I wanted to be around people that much and the park has always been full in the past with heavy car and foot traffic. But I went because, 1. There were reservations to minimize attendance, 2. This is the best time to see the park emerging from its delayed winter, and 3. My daughter is a very persistent person, and enjoyable company.” Note to self: remember everyone, no matter what their age, have irritating quirks and differences in approach to life, including me. Both of my parents agreed the air was cleaner, the visibility was greater. “The whole park looks refreshed, like the pandemic gave it a breather,” said my mom. “Trail Ridge Road was always a special place for me,” she said. “It always showed me how unimportant we as humans are, even if we think we are so important. In other words, the park put me back to reality.” “The problem with the timed arrivals is that there are no timed departures,” Don said. “We, like I imagine most other visitors, decided that once we arrived, we were going to stay as long as possible. The result is, of course, that the further in the day, the more crowded the park became. “The air was crystal clear, even though we were breathing it through masks, a practice that about half the visitors seem to employ. The clarity of the air allowed us to see and photo extremely detailed features on the far horizon,” he said. It was a wonderful day for many reasons. I enjoyed reconnecting with my parents and reminiscing about the times we hiked as a family over the years. My mother experienced the burgeoning wildflowers and plants that she enjoyed so much. And my grumpy old dad got a little less grumpy. “Returning home, we felt that peaceful defusing of nerves that had started on entering the park and continued well into the night,” he said. “I realized that I needed that trip. I have three months of tension to get rid of, and Rocky Mountain National Park had once again worked its wonders.” This land is my land – and yoursBy Barb Boyer Buck Yesterday, Rocky Mountain National Park opened for the first time since it was closed to the public on March 20 in consideration of the national COVID19 crisis. But right up until yesterday (and during the day), there were rapid changes in both RMNP and Town of Estes Park policies, which made things a bit confusing.  Bear Lake with Longs Peak For the past 25 years I’ve lived in Estes Park and generally accessed the Rocky via either the Fall River or Beaver Meadows entrances, both located just west of town. These entrances handle most of the vehicles entering the Park; in the winter months, it can be a factor of 30 times more vehicles entering the Park from this side of the Continental Divide. Just to illustrate this dichotomy: in July, 2019 (the Park’s highest visitation month that year) more than 210,500 vehicles entered Rocky from the vehicle entrances near Estes Park, compared to about 61,000 vehicles on the west entrance, at Grand Lake.  Click for a larger image As the dust begins to settle on changing regulations at both the local and federal level, it appears that as of June 4, 2020, Rocky will host only 4,800 vehicles per day from any entrance, or 148,800 vehicles for the entire month, a little more than half of the vehicles that cruised through the Park’s gates last year in July, the year’s highest visitation month. (For the purposes of this comparison, vehicle counts at access points that don’t require an entrance fee are being left out, ie, Lily Lake, Longs Peak, and Lumpy Ridge on the east side.)  Purple Fringe wildflower Rocky Mountain National Park publishes vehicle counts on their website for all of these access points going back more than 20 years. 2020’s timed-entry for July will keep vehicles at 42,200 less than what was counted in 1996 for that month, according to RMNP.  Upper Fall River Wow. I’ve lived in Estes Park since then and I am absolutely thrilled about this! But I also realize as a National Park, this land belongs to every citizen of this country and access needs to be granted to everyone on a fair basis.  Flowering Oregon grape Park officials recognize this too; thus, the introduction of reservation system for entry into RMNP. At an Estes Park Town Board meeting on May 12, Rocky Mountain National Park officials presented the plan for a timed-entry system to be implemented with the opening of the Park to the public on May 27. Federal approval for the timed-entry plan did not come through until yesterday, but the Park opened anyway so I started my visit before 8 a.m., remembering how RMNP experiences so much congestion this time of year.  Puffball Mushrooms I took along a friend who is relatively new to the area and hadn’t seen much of Rocky previously. We ended up spending about eight hours in RMNP, touring all the areas we could access by car. We took a few short hikes, too – such as around the Bear Lake Nature Trail. Pro tip, especially if you have children: the Rocky Mountain Conservancy publishes a guide book to interpret the bear-paw trail markers around the lake: https://rmconservancy.org/product/bear-lake-nature-trail/.  Joe and I entered RMNP from the Fall River entrance station. Only one gate was open, but the line to get in was relatively short. There were two rangers at the entrance, both wearing masks. They were friendly and encouraging, and thanked us for visiting.  Pussytoes Currently, the Aspen Glen Campground (the first destination after entering the Park from that entrance) is closed; there are no plans yet to open this campground this summer. We continued to Sheep Lakes – a popular spot for Big Horn Sheep during the spring and early summer months. Unfortunately, we didn’t see any that early in the day.  Stonecrop Next, was the entrance to Endovalley and the Alluvial Fan created by the Lawn Lake Flood of 1982. Prior to the area being established as a National Park, a group of farmers from Loveland dammed the small lake in the upper portions of the Roaring River Valley. This valley descends 2500 feet in just six miles and when the long-forgotten dam finally deteriorated enough to fail, it resulted in a spectacular fan of rock debris, creating what is today an amazing waterfall. There are several indications of that flood still remaining at the site.  Mossy rock outcrop The road to Endovalley is closed to vehicles, but foot and bicycle traffic to the picnic grounds and Old Fall River Road is still allowed. I became a little anxious about this time; it was already after 10 a.m. and we hadn’t yet seen Bear Lake. As a local I have seen the Bear Lake Corridor become more and more crowded with every visit; parking at Bear Lake is usually completely full well before noon. Over the years, increasing visitation compelled Park officials to initiate several protocols: a sign before you head up telling you if the parking lot is full and several shuttle busses and shuttle-bus stops along the way.  Horseshoe Falls at the Alluvial Fan The bottlenecking at this location is caused by Bear Lake Road itself - it dead ends at Bear Lake after traveling through Moraine Park. The traffic was relatively light on the road; the shuttle stops were empty (as were the shuttle busses driving by) and it was easy to get a parking spot right at Bear Lake. The lake is located at nearly 9,500 feet above sea level in the sub-alpine region with glorious views of the Continental Divide, including the back side of Longs Peak. Yesterday, even though visitation was a fraction of what it usually is this time of year, it was still hosting lots of families and groups and there was a considerable amount of screeching and yelling, making it sound more like an amusement park than a national park. Masks were required at this location if it became impossible to stay at least six feet away from others (and it was). Unfortunately, quite a few groups and individuals did not observe this rule.
On the way back from Bear Lake we stopped where we could along the road. The Glacier Gorge parking area (that leads to Alberta Falls) was completely full, so we didn’t stop there. We walked around Sprague Lake, which was also moderately populated with people; some with masks, most without. The Glacier Basin Campground and road are closed at this time. Hollowell Park was open and the trail looked great – we didn’t hike much there because it looked like a storm was moving in and the trailhead leads through lots of meadows.
We stopped at the Moraine Park Discovery Center (also currently still closed) and were greeted with amazing views across the moraine floor. The new leaves on the aspen trees were lime green and many elk were brooding – it’s almost calving season.
Then, it was on to Trail Ridge Road. This is also US Highway 34, making it the highest paved thoroughfare in the United States. Currently, Trail Ridge Road is open to Rainbow Curve, just below tree line which is a little more than 11,000 feet in elevation in Rocky. Above this line, trees cannot tolerate the temperatures and weather to survive. At or near this line, especially on Trail Ridge Road, you will encounter trees that are some of the oldest organisms in Colorado – more than 400 years old, in some cases. They are also the most curious trees you’ll see – stunted and short, some twisted from the wind, with limbs growing only on the leeward side of the trunk. The side that faces the harsh elements are polished nearly smooth, like driftwood.
On the way up, we stopped at Hidden Valley - a historical site that once hosted a small, fully-developed day skiing resort just below the Continental Divide. The ski lifts have been removed, and safety fencing was installed after the resort’s closure in 1991. But yesterday, we observed several skiers, hiking up to the Divide to ski down some of the slopes that still had snow.
All in all, it was a perfect day! But when we got back into town (and cell reception), we discovered the mask ordinance in downtown Estes Park, which supplements regulations still in place for Larimer County, was revoked. This emergency ordinance was enacted on May 1 through a special meeting and essentially stated that mask must be worn throughout the downtown Estes Park corridor (even outdoors).
This ordinance caused some backlash from the downtown business owners who were having a hard-enough time controlling mask use inside of their businesses (as per county order). Visitors who were accustomed to strolling around downtown, eating and drinking various foods and snacks, were not thrilled, either. Also, during our day in the Park, the timed-entry reservation system for Rocky was finally approved by the Secretary of the Interior and will be implemented starting June 4. This means that between the hours of 6 a.m. and 5 p.m., a reservation must be held to access the Park. The complete description of the timed-entry reservations system is linked to from our site, https://www.rockymountaindayhikes.com/index.html. The reservation system is up and running as of today at https://www.recreation.gov/ticket/facility/300013 This means reservations to visit Rocky Mountain National Park from June 4-July 31 can now be made on this site. Pro-tip: if you are an interagency pass holder (America the Beautiful pass, allowing you to access any federally-managed land; a RMNP annual pass holder, or a Golden Access (lifetime pass holder for those 62 or older), you still need to make a reservation. All reservations will include a $2 reservation fee, even if you possess a pre-paid access pass. For those who need to access Trail Ridge Road for work or other non-recreational purposes, the Park will be issuing a $25 pass. Information about this can also be found on the RMNP website. We are still awaiting clarification on several contingencies that may arise, but at this point, I am completely in support of the timed-entry reservation system. I am thrilled to be able to experience this beautiful place without the congestion and delays caused by the more than 4.5 million visitors who visit RMNP annually, now the third most-visited national park in the nation. But I am concerned the Town repealed its downtown corridor mask ordinance. Most of these millions of visitors come through Estes Park, and at this time, we only have 23 hospital beds. The average age in Estes Park is 59; but we are a popular retirement part-time residence, so this this age demographic is a bit misleading. Our community swells in the summer months, with the snowbirds (second-home owners who only live in the area during summer). Snowbirds are not counted in age or population demographics and tend to be elderly. Rocky Mountain National Park belongs to every citizen in this country and hosts millions of citizens from all over the world. One hundred years ago, the last time a worldwide pandemic affected us, this area was sparsely populated and hosted hundreds – not millions - of visitors. A large-scale reinfection in this area, which to date has had very few confirmed cases, may force our governor to request NPS to close Rocky again; or even close down all in-store shopping in Estes Park. I believe if those who visit this area do so after careful planning, everyone will experience a less hectic and more enriching experience than has been possible for more than 20 years. We will be pleased to help welcome you to your Rocky Mountain National Park, one of the most beautiful places in the world. Having Rocky Mountain National Park closed has pushed the rocky mountain day hiker further east into the Roosevelt National Forest. That’s actually just fine, because at this time of year hiking east of the National Park is preferable. Not only is this area further east, but it’s also lower elevation. That is to say, this is where springtime in the Rockies starts. Although I haven’t been in The Park recently, I am certain there is still lots of snow in there and most of the main trails are not yet cleared, although maybe some of the lower Montane trails are. If the boundaries of Rocky had been established more on an ecological lines, it’s likely that this area, known as the Foothills Life Zone, would have been included all the way east to the high plains. So we could say the trails in Roosevelt National Forest are part of the Rocky Mountain Ecological Park, if such a Park existed. And there are a number of good representative trails to hike in this region during the spring months.
hillside. It’s about a 1000’ ft elevation gain through south-facing forest terrain in the first mile. Pretty much just straight up. But, eventually the terrain levels out and at the same time the trees end. Now the terrain is like a low-elevation grassy, rolling tundra. The views are right into Rocky Mountain National Park and it becomes clear, there’s still plenty of snow to melt out of the Park! Most of it will melt over the next month. It appears fire has passed through this rounded ridge top where we are hiking and the hiking is superlative, especially if you navigate over the rocky spine of the ridge.
I highly recommend exploring the eastern portion of the Rocky Mountain Ecological area of Roosevelt National Forest during the remaining month of May. Then you can follow spring as it ascends into the National Park all the way to the Alpine Zone.  Golden Banner signals the start of hiking season
by Barb Boyer Buck A little more than a month ago on my 54th birthday, I took a stroll into Wild Basin. This was just a couple of days before Rocky Mountain National Park closed for pandemic mitigation. A group of four young people wearing sneakers and light jackets were standing at the Sandbeach Lake trailhead. They discussed whether or not they should hike up to the lake.
Yes, I had been. It was decades ago and I wore the same hiking boots I was now putting on my feet. “A long time ago,” I said. “It was a hard hike, very steep.” The teenagers mulled it over a few more minutes and then got back into their car and roared off. I watched them leave and considered taking the hike myself. I started up the trail, but then broke left to follow the Ouzel Falls trail signs. I chickened out. I had the right shoes, fortified against the icy snow patches with YakTraks, I had a real jacket, but I’m not the woman I used to be.
before until after 11 p.m. and didn’t get much sleep. “How can you do this hike after working so late?” Tim asked, and I felt strong and admired. That’s a great feeling. We were going to camp in Rocky Mountain National Park’s backcountry for the first time as a couple.
But Tim has lived here as long as the Rotary’s Duck Race has been around. When I met him, he was well-versed on hiking Rocky. He was the expert. I was just in love with the landscape, the flowers, the weather - I documented every sight with my camera. I grew up hiking and camping with my parents in northern California and southern Colorado, but every place Tim took me to was something new and beautiful. Rocky Mountain National Park is one of this country’s richest treasures.
Anyway, he was my geek one week, and after I developed the black and white picture I took of him, Tim illustrated it with his cartoon art before it went to press. So, I had my dream job in a dream location. I lived in a tiny efficiency cabin near the hospital and after Tim and I got together, we moved next door to a larger, 2-bedroom place owned by the same people. We had the best landlords.
you’re in shape. I’d like to think we made it in less time – I was in the best shape of my life since I was on the swim team in high school. I don’t remember and since this is my story, I suppose I can say whatever I like about it.
We were heavily laden – we liked our food and drink and were not going to scrimp just because we were in the wilderness. I distinctly remember a bag of apples and a bottle of wine, but we brought other food, too. We also carried camp and cooking gear, sleeping bags. We didn’t pack many clothes, except for layers. It gets cold at 10,000 feet.
When we reached the lake, it was what I had imagined. And more. I remember bits and pieces – I remember taking photographs, most of all. Tim had some
We hiked back down under cloudy skies. It was cool and dry; the hike was a piece of cake (these days, I shudder to think what my knees would do). We stopped again for a few pictures. I took two rolls of film in those pre-digital days and I’m glad I did, even though it cost me close to $10 to develop them. That evening, I went to work at the restaurant again.
recovered from several major surgeries. I learned, the hard way, about patience and gratitude.
right away, I keep trying until I master it. And in this time of quarantine, my patience is being tested again. It seems to be holding up pretty well, actually, and I wish the same for all of you.  Under cloudy skies, Sandbeach Lake takes on a deep green color. by Sybil Barnes Sitting in my house wondering when this “social distancing” will end and there will be entertainment venues and gathering places open and restaurant or bar tables around which to gather, I remember when ... Won’t you return with me to “those thrilling days of yesteryear” as I look back on a simpler time when we wanted to mingle with other people?
In the evening, we usually went to a program at the Y camp. Sunday was the hymn sing. Other nights were movie screenings or talent shows or lectures about world events. And then there were dances at the Teen Barn or hanging out playing spades or ranking passers-by on the Ad Building steps or watching the local boys who came out to play basketball. At least once a week, we went downtown. My father loved to eat and talk to people. My brother and I went along for the ride. We usually drove to the Dark Horse parking lot. Our first stop was to visit the Kemple family at their arcade. They offered a shooting gallery and booths for tossing baseballs into milk bottles or bursting balloons with darts. We rarely played any of the games, just enjoyed talking with them. Our other entertainment there was watching who was coming in or out of the Dark Horse bar, Sometimes as a special treat, we went in and sat on the carousel horse barstools to enjoy a bowl of soup. My grandmother was a suffragist and a supporter of the Temperance Movements so my father’s drink of choice was water. Maybe that’s when I became a CocaCola addict. The Dark Horse and all of the Riverside entertainment complex were torn down before I was old enough to drink there. We went on our way across the bridge to the Wheel alley. There was another arcade where one of the Riverside Plaza fountains is now with pinball machines and other games. Sometimes my brother would peel off there to hang out with his friends. My father and I turned east on to Elkhorn for a refuelling stop - the Dog House. Hazel and Dale Stoner spent their winters travelling in the southwest to fairs and rodeos. In the summer they offered hamburgers, hot dogs and corn on the cob from their tiny storefront between Coulter’s Waffle Kitchen and the Macdonald Book Shop. The corn was on a stick - perfect for eating while walking - and kept in a pot of melted butter so we always needed a pile of napkins to wipe our greasy faces. The Dog House was a casualty of the 1982 Lawn Lake flood. Continuing east on Elkhorn, we passed Jerry’s Sandwich Shop and maybe stopped into the corner pharmacy - Alpine Drug - to look at the magazine rack. Further down the street we stared at the baron of beef lit up by heat lamps in the window of the Tender Steer. In the next block was Jax Snax, but not much was happening at that 3.2 bar until later in the evening. And Brodies Market was usually closed after 6 p.m. Our next stop was Casey’s little train, the Silver Streak Railroad, at Trout Haven. I felt way too sophisticated to go for a ride but I still loved to hear Phil Martin’s chant and always laughed when he would tilt up a car with a crowbar and call out “There’s a BEAR under there.” Past the train station, there was a gas station and the original Trout Haven pond. Small vending machines offered fish food for purchase Sometimes we picked up handfuls of gravel to throw in to see the fish rise to the surface. The small row of shops that signalled the end of the business district started with Andy Anderson’s liquor store and ended with Crowley’s Restaurant. In between was Gift Haven where Lois and Ted Matthews entertained us with stories of the customers they had that day or their adventures hiking in RMNP. I used to have a collection of porcelain animals that were purchased there. Then it was on to DieAlte Delicatessen for another food stop. They had wonderful sandwiches. My memory is creaky about whether it was owned by Peter Marsh’s family or some of the Crowleys. (maybe both at different times.) Munching on our sandwiches and chips, we crossed the street and turned west to walk by the football field, soon to be turned into a parking lot after the new school was built out by the fairgrounds. We got a drink of water from the fountain in front of the original library with its Hobbit House wooden door in Bond Park. Then we passed the Chamber of Commerce, the Town Hall/Police Department and the Coffee Bar before reaching one of our favorites - the Silver Spruce Pharmacy.
Refreshed and fortified, we continued up the street, maybe stopping to watch the airbrush artist painting sweatshirts next to Western Brands. In the next block we ducked into the Taffy Shop to say hello to Mr. Slack and get a small box of our favorites - mint, lemon and cinnamon. On past the Community Church and the Dinner Bell and across Fall River for more ice cream at the Dairy King. My choice there was a chocolate dipped soft-swirl cone The bathrooms at Tregent Park mark that location. Back across the street and turning east, we looked in the windows of Kings Casuals to see the latest women’s fashions and at the horse paintings and tiny carousel in the Haff Sisters studio before stopping at the Chevron to visit with Fred Bonelli when he wasn’t having to dash out to fill somebody’s gas tank or work on fixing a flat tire. If you’ve ever seen a brochure for Helen and Tom Justin’s original Lazy B Ranch/Chuckwagon on Dry Gulch Road, Fred is the cook in the cover photograph. More food was on display at Hart’s Cottage Inn Buffeteria and further down that block there was another window full of meat under heat lamps at the Continental.Besides a bar, that was a fine dining establishment in several different incarnations. Next door we stopped to visit Lois Schmidt at the Estes Park Times and Old Fashioned Candy Store. Usually my father picked up some horehound drops and I went for the butterscotch disks or cinnamon bears. One more stop - up Moraine to the original Tony’s in Gaslight Square where we picked up more sandwich fixings to enjoy at home or sometimes had a sloppy joe burger or smoked oyster pizza.to counteract the earlier inhalings of sugar. Stuffed to the gills, we might stop at the A&W (now the parking lot across from Snowy Peaks Winery) for a jug of root beer. And then it was home again to watch the stars, listen to the burble of the Big Thompson, and think about what to eat tomorrow. What do you remember about your early visits to Estes Park? They could be from half a century ago or last summer. Share them with us. This essay will appear in a slightly different form in the Estes Park Museum newsletter sometime in the coming year.
By Barb Boyer Buck There is a quality to the early spring air in the Colorado Rocky Mountains that makes me want to get outside. The weather changes quickly here, so I wear layers and bring snowshoes or spikes in case I’ll need them. Once I actually start walking in it, the fresh air entices me to rip off my hat and gloves and unzip my coat. It’s still chilly but if the wind isn’t blowing, it’s an amazing feeling on my skin – more invigorating than cold. The air is a call to come out of hibernation and embrace the wilderness again. This is weather made for humans: calm, with temps ranging from chilly to warm. Rocky Mountain wildlife thrives in many conditions but humans can bask in this pleasant weather, rediscovering hope in Spring.
the recent closure of Rocky Mountain National Park and all accommodations in town. Nor to the fact that no one is eating out anymore and pretty much staying in their homes. This year, with the threat of the dreaded COVID19 keeping everyone inside, the spring air is even more tempting. Truly, the air smells and feels so fresh it can’t help but draw me outside.
I imagine it smells like mustard because that’s what it looks like. It covers every surface, even creeping through all the cracks in your home to make deposits on your furniture. But right now, in early Spring in the Rockies, the air is nurturing and clean. When the temperature is mild, I open my windows to let the glorious breeze touch everything that has gotten dreary in my house over the winter. My plants perk up and start stretching even more toward the promise of Spring.
I went to the store on March 16, wearing medical exam gloves and a face mask (not the 95 kind, just the kind that I already had). I dragged my friend along with
Just two days later I took what turned out to be my last hike in Rocky Mountain National Park “until further notice.” I saw many groups of people, hugging and kissing each other for selfies. It seemed like summertime – almost as crowded and just as noisy. I began wondering if we should practice social distancing outside, too. On March 20, our mayor asked the Secretary of the Interior to close Rocky Mountain National Park; that evening, RMNP closed for an indeterminate period of time. And three days later, all hotels were ordered to stop operations by the Town of Estes Park. Why would a town that depends on tourism to survive discourage visitation of any kind? This situation is very serious, I realized.
For all of us who take solace in nature, we handle it by answering the call of the spring air.
Accept Nature’s invitation to shed the dreariness of Winter and be renewed by Spring. By Rebecca Detterline The fall colors were not quite popping on my recent trip to the Thunder Lake Cabin, so as I stumbled happily around Wild Basin, I began to take notice of all the wild flowers transitioning into their autumn expressions. As we await the peak of fall colors, we tend to forget the wildflowers, assuming they are ‘done’ for the season. What if the wildflowers are not done? What if they are just now taking their truest, most beautiful form? Maybe wildflowers are like humans in that they do not become their most genuine selves until they have weathered a few storms.
‘No spring or summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.’ -John Donne The Mountains Have Seen it All
By Sybil Barnes There’s a saying you might have heard - “The only thing constant is change.” Sometimes I wonder how true that is. When I look up at Longs Peak or Twin Owls or the thumb on Prospect, I can imagine that I’m Patsey Estes or Isabella Bird or Esther Burnell seeing them for the first time. There are many other places in Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park about which I can’t say the same. But aside from a radical change in population of both visitors and residents and the associated buildings, roads, and services that go along with that increase, what changes have truly happened here? Let’s start with some of the history we know. Perhaps as a way to escape from the turmoil of the approaching Civil War, Patsey Estes and her family chose to live a hardscrabble life of subsistence ranching in a place with no neighbors. She had followed her husband from a relatively comfortable life in Missouri to this place he had discovered on a hunting trip and thought was beautiful. As far as we know, none of her letters or other writings exist so it’s impossible to say if she shared that feeling. This open space offered sweeping views with no neighbors. Though there was an abundance of wild game and fish to eat, it was a lonely life. The Estes family only had each other and the rare visitor for entertainment. Joel and his sons made trips to Denver to sell meat and skins but Patsey was home with the other children and a million chores. They eventually moved on to New Mexico after selling their “improved” property with its panoramic views from Longs Peak to Eagle Rock. Isabella Bird shared a lot of her feelings when she arrived as one of the first tourists to enjoy the hospitality of Grif Evans and his family. Evans had only moved up the hill from Lyons to take over the Estes holdings and was one of the first to recognize the potential of entertaining visitors as a revenue source. Ms Bird had a horse and was interested in exploring the area both on horseback and on foot. As a visitor, she had few of the responsibilities of providing a home or entertainment. Her writings may have encouraged an Irish nobleman to explore this part of Colorado while he was on a hunting trip to Wyoming. Unfortunately, no known record exists of the guests at Lord Dunraven’s hotel on Fish Creek. There are a few photographs which show women “taking the air” in front of the hotel. And it is known that the Irish Earl was not accompanied by his wife or daughters on most of his American trips. He spent his days riding and hunting and his evenings with food and drink. His visits were mostly made in the summer or fall but he left a land manager here year round. By the beginning of the 20th century, there was a town forming in the open space that had been named Estes’ Park by the newspaper editor, William Byers. Ranchers like the MacGregors and the McCreerys and the James and Hondius families arrived in the later 1880s and had become used to the conveniences of a general store and weekly mail delivery. More and more dudes were discovering the delights of a summer spent in the cool mountains. Shops selling souvenir photographs were opening at the confluence of the Big Thompson and Fall River in the space between Elkhorn Lodge and the MacGregor holdings. Horses and hiking were the main means of transportation and a pleasant way to explore the area. Other families, including the Spragues and Chapmans had ventured further west and created another small community in what they called Willow Park. Private cabins were built on the eastern hillside with sweeping views of the meadow between the moraines. Fish were abundant in the Thompson River and Frank Bartholf grazed his cattle further to the south on what would become the Bear Lake Road. Flora Stanley first came to Estes Park with her husband in 1909. He saw the potential for growth and development as a summer tourist destination. He had the discretionary income to build a fine hotel and create an infrastructure of utilities for the town that had been platted by Abner Sprague and was being marketed by Loveland businessman C.H. Bond and others. The hotel needed electric lights and indoor plumbing, so Stanley funded a power plant and a sewage system which would serve the entire village. He donated some of his property for public use as a community park and gathering place. Flora had vision problems so she was unable to comment on the view. She was probably delighted that her husband’s respiratory problems were solved by spending summers in the mountains but possibly just as happy to return to Maine for nine months of the year. When Esther Burnell and her sister Elizabeth came west on a summer vacation they discovered another settlement in the Tahosa Valley at the base of Longs Peak. The young women were hired to be nature guides at Enos Mills’ lodge. After a summer spent climbing mountains and identifying wildflowers, Elizabeth went to California to continue her education and Esther stayed to homestead property on the Fall River Road. She married Enos and became the mother of Enda Mills Kiley. After Enos’ untimely death, Esther and Enda carried on his legacy by running the Longs Peak Inn and making sure that his nature writings stayed in print and his ecological philosophy was brought forward through the 20th century. Growth of the town of Estes Park has always been limited by the topography of the area. Many people wanted to visit in the summer but not that many wanted to spend a windy and cold winter here. That changed with the construction of the Adams Tunnel to bring water from the wetter west side to the plains of eastern Colorado. When Bertha Ramey’s family moved from Lyons to start providing insurance and related services to the businesses and homeowners, the land where the Estes family had settled was still a meadow with the Big Thompson River meandering through it. By 1950, that property had been flooded by a reservoir called Lake Estes. Now when visitors make the last turn down Park Hill, they see water reflecting the mountain ranges beyond. Also by the 1950s, a few hundred people had decided to spend the winter months in Estes Park. Many of them worked for the National Park Service. Others spent the slower months getting their tourist accommodations ready for the next season. By the 1970s, young business people were seeing the potential for attracting visitors all year round. Though the main business district of the town was still only three blocks long, development had reached across all the flat spaces and was beginning to creep up the sides of the surrounding mountains. Geologic time outlasts any kind of human time. And the mountains can withstand climate change more easily than any animal or plant life form. In a hundred years or a thousand years, the approaches to Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park will still be up from the lower elevations with a last drop to a valley surrounded by mountains. Whether your view is of Twin Sisters or Lumpy Ridge or Ypsilon or our favorite fourteener, Longs Peak, and your family has been here for four generations or you are one of the four million who visited during the last year, remember these words from a song by Cowboy Brad, who we also know as Longs Peak Ranger Brad Fitch, “We live in Paradise.” (This article appeared in a slightly different form in the Rocky Mountain Conservancy newsletter. Are you a member of the Conservancy?) ‘If I fall asleep right now, I can get four full hours of sleep before my hike across the divide tomorrow. Unfortunately, I’m still at work!’ It’s that time of year when those of us who are lucky enough to live, work and recreate in the Estes Valley are stumbling around like a bunch exhausted zombies living on a diet of coffee, craft beer, beef jerky and gummy worms.
It is the season of back-to-back 4 am wake-up calls followed by showers at the Rec Center and eight hours of slinging beers at The Rock Inn. I can’t remember the last time I sat down for a meal with my boyfriend. I think we maybe shared some bleary-eyed sips of early morning coffee earlier this week. I love the busyness of it all, especially knowing that it is the final push before we transition into fall. I’ve heard folks say that if you’re lucky enough to live in the mountains, you are lucky enough. That is certainly true and I am so grateful for my good fortune! On top of that, I have been blessed with a strong body, a (relatively) sound mind, and a job and coworkers (and customers!) who make work fun. I get to play outside almost every day. Sometimes I am not sure what I did to deserve all this and I even feel a little guilty about it. The best way I know how to thank the universe for all I’ve been given is to practice gratitude every single day and share experiences and knowledge with others. Lately I’ve noticed people declining my invitations to get outside because they feel intimidated. To me, this is hilarious and these concerns are completely unfounded. I have never considered myself an athlete. Being able to walk a long way in the mountains carrying a heavy pack does not make a person an athlete. It does make one a good candidate for manual labor, though. My late husband was a classic sandbagger, forever lowering me down ice climbs that were grades above my ability level or taking me on adventures that lasted twice as long as he remembered, causing me to show up to more than one shift at work unshowered and wearing ski pants. While I wouldn’t change a single one of those zany experiences, I am very careful to respect other people’s tolerances for risk and suffering. For me, getting out into the mountains with someone is about the time spent with that person. Whether we are going across the continental divide, up Longs Peak or walking to Mills Lake, time in the mountains is for sharing laughter, stories and sometimes tears. It is certainly not about getting to some destination I have likely visited many times before that will still be there next week or even next year. All that being said, I am so grateful for the amazing adventure partners who have helped me expand my comfort zone. I, too, love seeing people push themselves beyond what they believed they could do. Let’s all continue to encourage one another to reach new heights while respecting boundaries, limitations and fears. Cheers to the end of another great season and to the memories made and friendships strengthened as we continue to navigate the peaks and valleys of this beautiful life. August first is my 40th birthday. Moving into 2019, I made it my goal to hit 40 feeling awesome, at least physically. No diets, no scale, no strict workout routine. Instead, I promised myself that I would try to move my body every day.  While I’ll admit that I’m kind of limping over the finish line with two toenails about to fall off, a skinned knee and a sore shoulder from my latest bicycle wreck, I am feeling healthy, fit and happy. I’m blessed to live in a place where there is no shortage of insanely fit people with whom to ski, trail run, mountain bike or rock climb. And even though I’m mainly there for the hot tub, you can even catch me doing bicep curls at the gym once in a while. I am filled with gratitude for my first 40 years on this precious planet. I am thankful for every single moment, good and bad, that have landed me in this spot. My Gosh, I am one lucky girl. I love these mountains. I can’t believe I get to live in this magical place with a wonderful man and amazing dogs. My body is healthy enough to allow me to go wherever my legs may take me. Summits, lakes, streams, trails, meadows, wildflowers and snowflakes are my religion. I didn’t need a lesson on appreciating each day and living in the moment, but the universe decided to give me one anyway on October 25, 2016 when my husband passed away in a climbing accident. After surviving the initial shock, anger, depression, anxiety and general hell that was my life for that first year, I can look back and honestly say that I am better for having gone through that, even grateful for it. What a strange thing, I know, to feel gratitude for a loss of this magnitude. I believe our highest highs are directly proportionate to our lowest lows. I know what it feels like to be in the fetal position, sobbing on the bathroom floor mid panic attack at 2 am. Those dark moments are a stark contrast to my current reality. These days Indian Paintbrush in that perfect shade of reddish-pink seem to jump out of the hillsides to greet me. The sweet vanilla-caramel smell of a Ponderosa Pine is richer now. I savor the sound of a quaking aspen grove or the cool spray of a waterfall like never before. I live and love differently now. I don’t get my panties in a bundle over the little things, but I also know how to stand up for myself and make my opinions heard. It has taken me these entire forty years to really come into my own. I feel strong, smart and beautiful. I feel confident enough to strip down to my skivvies and jump into an alpine lake without thinking twice about how my body might look. I love my scars, my freckled shoulders, my tanned legs and white belly. I’ve learned to love my body for what it can do instead of for the way that it looks. Rather than an extravagant trip or big celebration, I plan to spend my 40th birthday hiking with my girlfriends in Wild Basin. There’s nothing I’d rather do and no place I’d rather be! I’ve shed a lot of tears over the fact that my husband can’t be here for my special day, but in the same moments I am so grateful that I have such an amazing boyfriend who wants to share this chapter in my life. I have no idea how I got so lucky. There are not words to thank every single person with whom I’ve crossed paths in these last 40 years, especially my fellow mountain women!!! Here’s to the next 40 years of loving these mountains, loving myself and embracing the ups and downs, as I’m sure there will be many more!  Rules of the Road By Sybil Barnes
I’ve had a Colorado driver’s license for more than fifty years. Not many things make me feel as old as that sentence does. Back in the day, one could get a learner’s permit at 15 and that meant driver’s ed was on the curriculum for sophomore or junior year in high school. One day a week we watched those gruesome state patrol videos with totally mangled cars and police officers giving us a serious look and a sonorous lecture about how dangerous it is to drink and drive. Or drive with a car full of teenagers trying to distract you by asking who your current crush was or whether you were going to the basketball game or the wrestling match. The other four days three of us at a time actually got to go out in a car with the teacher, who was also the football coach and the counsellor. The rest of us had study hall. Since there were more than twenty of us in the class, that meant we had a chance to be in the car every two weeks. And since it was a 90 minute period, that meant we each had about 20 minutes of time behind the wheel. Some days we drove around the downtown practicing how to parallel park and how to stop at red or yellow lights. Other days we went out in the country and learned about how to pass other cars or change a flat tire. The driver’s ed car had a “three on the tree” manual transmission, which was quite a challenge for some of us. Towards the end of the quarter when we all had mastered the basics, we each got a full period to be the driver on Skyline Drive, a one-way scenic loop along a hogback to the west of town. That was a challenge for those of us who felt the road was a little too narrow and winding on the way up. And we all had to learn to use a lower gear instead of riding the brake all the way down the steep east side, which we used as a sledding hill in the winter. I think about driver’s ed a lot when I go to Boulder or Loveland or over to Allenspark or Grand Lake. One of the first things we learned was “look at least three to five car lengths in front of you and scan both sides of the road as well as the traffic lanes.” This tip comes in handy when the elk or deer pop up from the ditch to cross the road and also when the car, two cars in front of you, decides to stop to turn into an unmarked driveway. Another tip was “try to keep a consistent speed.” My favored speed is 40-50 mph on dry pavement. There are only a few places where this means I am going under a posted speed limit of 55. Many times it means I am going over the posted speed limit of 35 for a curve. I have driven the four egress routes from Estes Park at least once a week and sometimes up to once or twice a day for many decades. I have some muscle memory about where those curves are. As long as the road is dry, the posted speed limit is conservative. When the roads are icy or snow-packed and/or when there’s fog, 35 mph is possibly too fast for any section of the road. My father used to say “Don’t take your half of the road out of the middle.” People who aren’t used to driving on curvy mountain roads tend to hug the center line and sometimes slide over it, so I usually tend toward the fog line on the outside of the road. It takes 30 minutes to get to Lyons. Plan for that. Once upon a time I had a low-slung muscle car which one of my friends described as moving like “a swift gray rain cloud.” In that car, late at night when there was no traffic, I’ve gotten to or from Lyons in 22 minutes. But I’ve also been in a line of traffic from Lyons to Estes for the Scottish Festival or some other event when it took 90 minutes to see Lake Estes. Now I have a Subaru. Even if you pass all the looky-loos going down/east on the straightaway at Meadowdale, you will probably end up behind somebody else before you get to the round house or Tedderville. And you will definitely end up just in front of the same car at the stoplight in Lyons. Or maybe you’ll be the lucky one who catches the attention of the Colorado State Patrol or the Larimer County Sheriff. The next place to pass legally is about nine miles out of town, near the house on the hill which used to have an entrance gate marked “Ensenada.” (There’s another way to identify yourself as “of a certain age.” You tend to make references to places and/or things that don’t exist anymore.) You can hope that the lollygagger in front of you in the rental car with fleet license plates will be intimidated by your aggressive tailgating and pull over before that at the Homestead Meadows trailhead parking lot, also known as Lion Gulch. But if you’re behind me and I’m already going 15 miles over the speed limit, I don’t think you need to pass. Cool your jets and enjoy the scenery. Just this past week there have been two crashes at the passing lanes just west of Lyons. Both resulted in fatalities. Considering the volume of traffic that uses this road, it surprises me that it doesn’t happen more often. As they used to say on some 1980s tv show (maybe Barney Miller or maybe Hill Street Blues) - Be safe out there by Rebecca Detterline Hiking to Ouzel Lake? I’m gonna need two jackets, rain pants, hat, gloves, first aid kit, water purification system, hand sanitizer, map, compass, sunscreen, headlamp, too many snacks and probably some wine. Running to Ouzel Lake? Well, I’ve got half a liter of water and five squares of toilet paper. No matter what size of pack I choose for a particular outing, I always seem to fill it. Outside of my very first solo backpacking trip to Lawn Lake (good thing I brought a four person tent), it’s hard for me to recall many times that I’ve truly overpacked for a backcountry outing. Underpacking, now that’s my real forte. There was the time I hiked Ouzel and Ogallala Peaks on a bluebird day without sunglasses or a cap. Once my friend Ben and I spent three days at the Hutcheson Lakes with plenty of Cup O’ Noodles and dehydrated ravioli, but no pot to cook them in. (He forgot shoes and hiked the whole time in Chaco sandals. He did bring a bottle of Sailor Jerry and a copy of Jimmy Buffet’s ‘A Salty Piece of Land,’ though.) And let’s not forget when I decided against bringing pants to Desolation Peaks on the windiest day I have ever experienced. (This tennis skirt should be fine!) No harness at the base of the Cables Route on Longs Peak in Winter conditions? Been there. While the underpacking situations are definitely more memorable, overpacking is much more common and something the majority of hikers could work on. While it’s important to have the essentials, hauling unnecessary gear up the trail just slows you down and frustrates your hiking partners. Do your friends a favor and check the weather forecast. If it’s a high of 75 degrees and 0% precipitation, do you really your down ski jacket and winter gloves? I try to consider the bare minimum and then throw in one extra layer just to be safe. Also, start off a little bit chilly. Don’t be that person that needs to stop five minutes from the trailhead to de-layer while everyone who dressed appropriately to start off with gets cold waiting for you. How much water do you really need to carry? Do you know how much three liters of water weighs? Me neither, but it’s way more than one liter and a SteriPen.(I love my SteriPen! Worth every penny!) Many trails offer lots of delicious rocky mountain snowmelt. A quick glance at your map will let you know where you can resupply. Get on the pre-hydration program and chug water the day before any big day in the backcountry. I have a strict ‘no booze’ rule the day before any big day in the mountains. As a bartender, I’ve seen so many people put down three pints of beer six hours before their first-ever Longs Peak attempt. Why? Start off hydrated and you won’t have lug a bunch of water uphill while fighting dehydration and a mild hangover. Only one person in the group needs to carry a first aid kit. If there is a situation that requires multiple triangle bandages and SAM splints, I’m probably going to send someone out for help. With these simple tips you can easily lighten your load or better yet, make more room in your pack for salami, cheese and red wine! Is this Brave New World of Blogging for me? by Sybil Barnes
I don’t remember when I learned to read. It seems like something I have always done and always enjoyed. I can be transported to Oz or Everest or the blue highways at the turn of any page. I find the list of ingredients on cereal boxes fascinating. In addition to being a reader, I always thought that I was a writer. I wrote letters to my friends and kept a diary until I began to call it a journal. I wrote little plays for the neighbor kids to perform in the backyard, created graphic novels from pictures cut out of the pages of catalogs and magazines, and thought up dialog to speak when we played cowboys and indians at school recess. In fifth grade, I wrote a haiku which was published in a national anthology. I can’t remember it now. Maybe it went something like: From the car, I see Ponies on the grass. Alas They do not see me. Were the judges impressed that a fifth grader would try to paraphrase or plagiarize Gertrude Stein? Am I kidding myself that I knew who Gertrude Stein was in 1960? Maybe she was an entry in the 1950 Book of Knowledge which was our home reference source. I just liked the way grass and alas sounded together. And I thought poetry, even Japanese poetry, had to rhyme. I realized much later that someone having their name in an anthology probably guaranteed another sale of the book. Maybe more than one if they had a large family. Skip ahead another decade. I graduated from college but I didn’t want to live in a city. So I came back to the mountains and got a job in food service. Then I bought a book store. After the 90-day economy of Estes Park and my own propensity to spend more than whatever profits I made in the remaining 275 days on entertainment of various forms convinced me that I wasn’t cut out to be a businesswoman, I was hired at the library. I still wasn’t writing anything. When anybody asked, I said I was working on a children’s book about my cat. So many years past that early success, I’m still not a writer. I get up before dawn to walk dogs or drive the mail to Allenspark and then I walk some more dogs or go to the library or a book group and then I walk some more dogs or scoop some litter boxes and go out to eat and maybe sit down with somebody else’s novel and fall asleep before the 10 o’clock news. Some afternoons or nights I go to movies and try to stay awake through them and the drive home from Boulder. Most evenings, I wake up on the couch to some 4 a.m. infomercial or a whining dog who needs to go out. After I pick up the book I have inevitably dropped on the floor, I start all over again. But maybe a deadline and a word limit will be the ticket to productivity. I’m only the length of this century late to the party. And I hope I won’t just add to the general detritus of your day. Or send you down a rabbit hole that will prevent you from realizing your own dreams or projects. Let’s just see how that goes.
We moved to Canon City, Colorado partly because my brother flunked first grade and my parents didn’t want him to have to repeat it here. I don’t think he ever learned to read very well. We came back every summer. That makes me eligible for the “almost local” group. And after college I moved here because my experiences in the real world qualified me as a country mouse and eligible for the “stay here” group. I’ve had jobs in every sector of the hospitality industry from scrubbing toilets to greeting customers at restaurants to owning a small business. My favorite career was as the local history librarian at the Estes Park Public Library and the reference librarian at Rocky Mountain National Park. I have a listing in the Library of Congress for a Story Corps interview with Enda Mills Kiley and also for my pictorial history of Estes Park, an Images of America book published by Arcadia in 2010. I’m interested in local history, current events, movies, plays and music, books, traveling, and random thoughts I hear or see on radio or tv or the street or even FaceBook. Maybe some of my posts will include those topics or others.
While I am always excited to see a place for the first time, attain a new summit or fish in a lake I’ve never visited, spring is the time of year to find comfort in the familiar; to return to the trails we’ve hiked dozens, if not hundreds of times. What a gift it is to revisit a favorite tree or boulder, to note the ever-melting snow drifts and enjoy the spring wildflowers as they begin to bloom seemingly one species at a time.
After the flood of 2013, the NPS put in a beautiful new bridge below the falls to replace the one that was washed away. I see a lot of folks admiring Ouzel Falls from this vantage point. It’s a lovely view, but an extra couple of minutes of rock-hopping and ducking under tree limbs will take you right up to the base of the falls. Regardless of what else may be going on in my life, any day I get to feel the spray of a waterfall is a pretty good day. Once the snow melts out, hikers can continue on an unmarked trail up to the big beautiful valley through which Ouzel Creek meanders before plummeting 40 feet and joining the North Saint Vrain Creek. This valley, which lies within the scar of the Ouzel Burn of 1978, is a lovely place to spend an afternoon fly fishing for small brook trout or simply enjoying the sounds of the gurgling creek while Ouzel Peak towers above you in the distance. Like me, the young aspens and fireweed in this area got their start on this beautiful planet during the summer of 1979. Nature presents us with many silent metaphors. The juxtaposition of charred trees and wildflowers reminds us that what appears completely void of life can be reborn. Calypso Orchids alongside a trail carpeted in last year’s dead aspen leaves give hope that that which appears to be completely void of life may be just moments from blooming. May we embrace this season of renewal and awakening with gratitude for the quiet lessons from Mother Earth. This is the season to return to return to the places that have greeted us year after year. Spring is a wonderful time to rediscover the lower elevation hikes in RMNP while reflecting on the past year and looking forward to the one that lies ahead. In addition to Ouzel Falls, my favorite spring hikes include Fern Falls, Bridal Veil Falls, West Creek Falls and MacGregor Falls. Mount Lady Washington is a lovely (although much more strenuous) springtime favorite at 13,281’. While the high peaks remain guarded by the lingering snow, I choose to embrace the springtime and its gifts, knowing that the season to stand atop summit after summit is just around the corner. “Hope is not born on mountain tops, but in valleys when you’re looking to the heights and peaks that you’ve yet to climb.” Here is my introduction to Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado’s Crown Jewel. Spending time in Rocky has brought to me not only the world of climbing but the world of wildflowers. I have immensely enjoyed learning and expanding my knowledge of Rocky Mountain Wildflowers and had the honor of the Colorado Mountain Club to publish three pack guides I authored. The Alpine Flowers pack guide will be available in March, 2019. You never know how spending time in Rocky Mountain National Park will change your life forever! MY BEGINNING OF THE FINAL THREE It began innocently enough in 1974. That is when I came to Colorado for a summer job at the YMCA of The Rockies in Estes Park. I arrived from New Orleans, yes below sea level, in mid-May that year. Being a proper southern young lady I wanted to make a good impression on my new employer. I had worn a sleeveless silk dress, rather short as I recall, stockings and the cutest little heeled sandals you ever laid eyes on. It was approximately 30 degrees and spitting snow. I must tell you, my arrival ended up to be one of the scariest days of my young life. I recall saying to myself, “I have made a terrible mistake!”
From a short silk dress to summits, my progression came fast. By the end of that summer I had climbed most of the major peaks in Rocky Mountain National Park. Having graduated from college, I decided to stay in Colorado. You might say the rest is history, but it was not that simple. I lived in Estes Park for twelve years and climbed in Rocky year-round. I found myself focused on the major peaks, different routes with a few new peaks thrown in once in awhile. Then came a career move away from Colorado and my beloved mountains. To say I began grieving would be an understatement. I made the effort to spend a lot of my summers back in Rocky with “my” familiar peaks. In 2001, I returned to live full time again in Estes Park. Dorothy may have been on to something, “There is no place like home.” After completing the 54 Fouteeners in 2005, I was hit with a pain of guilt. I imagine you all know what it’s like to ignore a friendship. This was worse; it was like neglecting your own husband. After all, Rocky Mountain National Park was now my backyard! I began to rekindle my relationship with Rocky, started studying the map with new interest and curiosity.
Then, reality struck me hard. THE FINAL THREE were The Sharkstooth, Hayden Spire (both Class 5 technical climbs) and Pilot Mountain a difficult Class 4 climb. Had I set myself up for this? Shouldn’t the last peak be easy, like Estes Cone or Twin Sisters? I hadn’t climbed anything beyond Class 4 in years. I came to the realization that THE FINAL THREE were meant to be my grand finale. I needed a challenge; I wanted a challenge! I needed to gain my confidence back on the rope; I needed a plan. It sounds like I needed a lot! The Sharkstooth was the first of my FINAL THREE. My climbing partner and I left the parking lot at 3:45a.m. I once read that eighty percent of success is just showing up, I liked my chances.
As I climbed toward the summit tears were in my eyes. This was what it was about: I hadn’t gotten here because of a list, but because I had taken on the challenge of exploring the new. For me this comes with great joy, satisfaction and fulfillment. Next was Pilot Mountain, which thinking back, I over rated the difficulty. It was a fun Class 4 climb in Wild Basin. The ridge out to the summit is awesome and the view of Falcon Lake from the summit breath-taking! The last of the FINAL THREE was Hayden Spire. I had admired this peak from afar for decades, now I was coming close to standing on the summit.
Reflecting on THE FINAL THREE, I will forever remember the air beneath my feet, the sudden flight and song of finches above my head, the sense of inner relaxation and burst of excitement at the same moment and the incredible sound of the silence around me. THE FINAL THREE was my way of remembering Dick’s 20+ year companionship on these peaks. In the mountaineering world this is a speck. But it is my speck in my world and I am grateful for the opportunity to hold it in my heart. You may ask, is there anything left of that southern girl from 1974? I like to think so. My father was a riverboat captain; he lived with patience, endurance and perseverance. I like to think I gained these traits from him. And, oh yes, I still love wearing silk dresses (a little longer now) and cute heeled sandals. “I swear I begin to see little or nothing in audible words, All merges toward the presentation of the unspoken meanings of the earth, Toward him who sings the songs of the body and of the truths of the earth, Toward him who makes dictionaries of words that print cannot touch. “I swear I see what is better than to tell the best, It is always to leave the best untold. When I undertake to tell the best I find I cannot, My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My breath will not be obedient to its organs, I become a dumb man.” Walt Whitman, from A Song of the Rolling Earth, Leaves of Grass “Moreover, I find that though I have a few thoughts entangled in the fibers of my mind, I possess no words into which I can shape them. You tell me that I must be patient and reach out and grope in lexicon granaries for the words I want. But if some loquacious angel were to touch my lips with literary fire, bestowing every word of Webster, I would scarce thank him for the gift, because most of the words of the English language are made of mud, for muddy purposes, while those invented to contain spiritual matter are doubtful and unfixed in capacity and form, as wind-ridden mist-rags.” John Muir in a letter to Jeanne C. Carr, a former professor  These are the struggles that two great nature writers, a generation and a continent apart, find themselves in; words that are not adequate to express what they experience in nature. And yet Whitman and Muir do write, splendidly, exquisitely. How can I possibly think that I will find the words in these notes that I jot down about my experience in nature? I do not. And while I’m under no allusion that my words will do anything but possibly get across some notion of what my experience in nature is, I will also write because, what the heck, what I experience in nature is worth the try. I cross over the hump of piled snow left by the snowplow in front of the gate that closes Trail Ridge Road at Many Parks Curve. I clip into my skis and follow the snow path made by a couple of snowshoers. Fresh snow has fallen and avalanches are crashing down all over the state, closing roads that haven’t been shut down from the overpowering snow slides in over a half a century. But here, it’s quiet, not even wind music, and I’m caught up with making my skis function. Because I still ski on skis that need wax for propulsion, and because I forgot to tend to my skis by putting on new wax before I left and so I am going with whatever wax was left on the skis from my last outing, and because this snow can be so difficult to wax for which can cause the skis to either not grip and slip too much or form large clods of snow that hang off the bottom of the skis making them impossible to move, I wonder about how well things will go. But so far, everything seems fine. So I keep moving forward. The new snow is warm snow; good snow for building snow forts and stockpiling a collection of snowballs to be lobed at others. But I am an army of one fighting against an army of none, so the effort is left behind. There are views down into Horseshoe Park, but the encompassing peaks are hidden by low clouds. The somewhat wetter snow clings easily to the trees, and though it is fresh, it seems to hang on the branches like damp laundry.  Of course, the very thing that Whitman and Muir find so impossible to write about is not simply describing the beauty they see in nature, but the spirit or essence of nature, the internal eternal that one experiences in nature. Nature is more than beauty, it is a life unto its own and when we walk into nature, we are entering a world that already exists, we are walking into a life that knows how to take care of itself, and does so with such exquisite beauty and grace that it feels magical. We are left in wonder. There’s an outward bending curve in the road as it follows the contour of the hillside and it would seem the wind must always blow around this bend because, despite the many feet of snowfall that has accumulated all around, there is pavement showing here. And indeed, the wind is now gusting snow into my face and I lower my head letting the top of my hat take the pelting. But not long after, back in the trees and no longer in wind, the snowshoe tracks lead off to the outter edge of the road where they sit and rest on a rock wall. But the snowshoers have had enough and their tracks head back, leaving me to break a new track. Without even the snowshoe tracks to keep me company, the surroundings now seem quieter and I begin to trace a skinny trail as I head farther up the road.  “I swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be complete,
The earth remains jagged and broken to him or her who remains jagged and broken.” ~ Whitman I fall into a steady rhythm and my eyes focus primarily on the forward placement of the skis, occasionally looking up to track my progress. But my mind wonders into all sorts of everyday thoughts. Fortunately, the extra work of making a new track forces me to take a few more breaks and I am given an opportunity to gander about while catching my breath. My mind also takes an opportunity to rest and soak in the silence and calm. This is what I came to find. The clouds dissipate some and the sunlight falls between the trees and lands gently onto the snow. I came to a spot where I wasn’t quite sure which way the trail went. Up to this point the trail had been easy to follow, despite the deep snow. But here, the trail could go either way. With my snowshoes, I paddled off to the left of the big snow covered fir tree and began navigating, keeping the creek on my right. The way I chose was not the trail way, but that was ok because I knew how to get to where I wanted to go. I saw hoof prints in the snow, but they had a layer of snow on top of them, so I knew they were not fresh. And were those elk turds or moose? Also not fresh. Navigating through some trees, I came upon a spot where a large animal had been laying. This did seem fairly fresh and I stepped just outside of the bedding spot. I continued through some more trees, keeping the snow covered stream on my right. I could see the stream was heading toward a small canyon wall on the left, with dashes of snow on narrow ledges dotting the cliff. And then there it was! Off to the right standing by the creek and looking at me through some short aspens, a moose! I stopped in my tracks and looked at it. It was not a big moose and she stood there looking at me. As I glanced around for others,
With the stream cutting toward the canyon wall, I had to find a narrow spot to cross. There was a spot where a patch of snow formed a bridge across the ice. With the moose watching, and probably hoping I would break through the ice and fall in, I placed my left snowshoe down along the edge of the bridge and stretched my right snowshoe as far over to the other side of the snow bridge as I could. When I began to push off with my left foot, I heard the thin ice underneath the snow start to give way, but it did not. I sidestepped over and there I was with the wooded forest stretching upslope ahead of me and away from the moose. I glanced back, wished the moose a good day and again apologized for disturbing her. I started to make my way up through the trees, scanning the surroundings for the best route to take. In mostly aspens, it was fairly open traveling with about a foot or more of snow. This was the first time I had used the snowshoes off trail and I found the navigation around the trees much less complex than when I used to do this kind of thing with my 190mm cross country skis with 3 pin bindings. It had been a long time, but I remembered how fun it was to wander about the woods like this. Suddenly this feeling of joy welled up from within. I was wandering in the woods! I felt free! I loved making my way through the woods in the winter, and the snowshoes were making it really easy to do (I had resisted for so long). That feeling, that delight
temperature a little cool, but my feet were warm, and I was warm and myself, finally. I had found myself, here in this moment of pure joy. It felt so good to feel that again. It was a moment I was ready for and I felt a little bit of healing occur from within.
The reddish orange canyon walls rose up across the stream and contrasted with the white snow. There were thick icicles hanging off an overhang. I navigated away uphill, and then suddenly, there was the trail! I looked back from where I had come and smiled. I swung my car onto the Moraine Park Campground road and looked beyond the vast Moraine Park up into the mountain valleys where my destination lie and I knew at that point I wasn’t going to be having any lunch at my destination. My destination was Fern Lake and from the looks of things, there were ferocious winds and snow channeling its
I parked in an empty parking lot at 8:50 am. This was going to be one of those rare days in the Park when no one was going to be on the trail. I was on my own on this day. From the trailhead, the Lake is listed as 3.8 miles, but nobody gets a parking spot at the trailhead anymore. Either the small lot is full in the summer, or the road going to it is closed for the winter, like today. The walk from the extended parking lot, where the shuttle bus will drop you off, is an additional .7 miles. So, the real distance to Fern Lake is four and a half miles, or 9 miles round trip. I grabbed my snowshoes out of the car and hoisted them under my left arm. There was only a thin layer of packed snow on the road from the parking lot, and there wasn’t likely going to be any significant snow all the way to the Pool, 2.4 miles away. I wasn’t sure just how much snow I would encounter after the Pool, but I was very sure I would need the snowshoes somewhere after that. So carrying them seemed the best option to me, better than wearing them over rock and frozen dirt. I was curious about the conditions up higher because we hadn’t gotten very much snow in Estes for quite a while. And, I guess, I wondered just how adverse and horrendous I would find the conditions at the lake. I also wondered how I would do getting up there, I had not done a winter outing like this in a while. I felt like I was dressed for winter travel, and I didn’t really question my ability to get up there, though I wondered how worn I would feel by the end. But I think I wanted to see what it would
but here in the trees, the wind was mostly overhead, and travel on the trail along the Big Thompson River was familiar and easy going. I stopped several times, putting down the snowshoes, to photograph the frozen river ripples on the river and consider the undulating and sensuous form and beauty of the ice. Even in its frozen state, the river was to be admired. Though water still flowed below the ice, the river was silent. But the noise from the constant raging wind overhead filled the void left by the river and made me want to keep moving. Soon I was at the Pool. I thought this might be a good time to put the snowshoes on, but then thought the trail for the next half mile might still be mostly cleared, so I carried my snowshoes about another 30 yards and then encountered a sizable drift over the trail. I went ahead and put them on and I didn’t regret having done that, I found there would be plenty of snow from here on. This next brief section of trail above the Pool stills travels along the valley floor and three streams converge along this stretch. After I carefully negotiated a narrow footbridge with my snowshoes, the trail begins to rise up toward the glaciated hanging valleys of the Odessa Gorge by crossing the south hillside of Spruce Canyon. From the trail in the trees I could hear the constant wind tearing out of Spruce Canyon like a high pitched freight train. The trail switchbacks through tall spruce trees to Fern Falls, then cuts west and switchbacks again before finally turning towards Fern Lake. By now, most of the elevation to Fern Lake has been gained and there’s considerably deeper snow. Even though there are no new tracks and the wind has covered over most of the old tracks at this point, the snow path is easy to follow as it holds a steady course through the spruce trees. Some trees are holding up other trees that have died and fallen into their arms and all along the trail you can hear these trees that are holding the dead moan and squeak and sing, caused by the friction between the two trees as they sway in the wind.
I knew if I approached the lake in the normal way over that rise, I would likely get blasted with a face full of freezing wind gusts, which didn’t appeal to me. I opted to work around the back side of the patrol cabin through the trees. The snow was piled up super deep here and my snowshoes were having trouble keeping me afloat. But I paddled my way through the snow and down to the lake’s edge. There were patches of exposed ice out on the lake where the main wind channel flowed. In order to get the obligatory lake photo, I kept the wind to my back and skirted the edge of the lake, finally wading across that wind channel to the lakes outlet. Along the lakes edge, the wind sculptures interesting patterns and I would have loved to spend some time photographing these pieces of nature art . But the lighting was
camera bag for very long. So I huddled behind some small pines and peaked around them across the lake and up the Gorge. On a clear day, Notchtop, the Little Matterhorn and Gabletop provide supreme backdrops to the lake. But on this day, the other side of the lake was hardly visible and only Galbetop struggle to barely appear from the low, snow filled clouds, and my camera’s exposure didn’t even acknowledge its effort. Not finding much reason to dilly dally any longer, I left the lake to be more thoroughly enjoyed on another day. My destination was reached, and it was lunch time. I retraced my steps back and quickly descended to Fern Falls before dropping my day pack for a bite. Then I moved back down the trail at a good pace. I was surprised that at certain sections of the trail, the wind had already blown over my own tracks from just less than two hours ago and at one point, back down on the valley floor before the foot bridge, I briefly lost the trail. But then I was back at the Pool removing the snowshoes and continued without stopping until I reached the trailhead. By 2:50, I was back at the car, a 6 hour day. My pace averaged 1.5 miles an hour, including stops.
of an effort. Winter though has it’s own beauty, of course. And if you accept it for what it is, a part of a larger seasonal picture, it is possible to find the connection. But just to be sure, I think I’ll take a few trips.
We are not built to survive in these conditions for very long, but we are at times built, for briefs moments, to laugh at them and smile at them, or be humbled by winter’s ferociousness. And there are those rare souls that find winter their greatest joy, live for the defiance, find love and happiness even in all the desolation of winter.
Some call this sort of nature pondering mindfulness, a wakeful presence, a form of spiritual practice. Laura Sewell observes that “perception, consciousness, and behavior are interdependent. Skillful perception is the practice of intentionally sensing with our eyes, pores, and hearts wide open.” Being in nature can slow time, provide solitude for contemplation and reflection. And through this process, there can be growth, even as one is grieving.
By Rebecca Detterline
I have always appreciated the views of Longs Peak offered by mountaintops near and far. So many times I’ve stood on a summit and asked a friend to get my photo with Longs Peak as the background. From the popular trail up to Dream Lake to the obscure summits of Wild Basin, there is no shortage of views of Longs Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park. That unmistakable, blocky summit seems to appear in unexpected places as well. Last fall, I was surprised to catch a glimpse of Longs when I hiked Torreys Peak, a popular Colorado 14er near Georgetown. Skiing down Parsenn Bowl at Winter Park Resort on a bluebird day, Longs is clearly visible in the distance. It’s almost as though that mountain follows me around, protecting me on my travels through the high country. My favorite view of Longs Peak, though, is the one from Colorado Highway 7, where the Longs Peak Inn used to stand. From there, you can see it all: the Diamond, the Loft, the Notch Couloir, and that beautiful skyline featuring Mount Meeker, Longs Peak and Mount Lady Washington. I etched that skyline onto every silly homemade card I made for my husband. He loved that mountain more than any place on this earth, and although my connection to Longs Peak did not run quite as deep as his, I definitely understood. I know what it’s like to feel Mother Nature wrap you in a blanket of wildflowers as you look up at the snow-capped peaks you hope to climb. I know what it’s like to feel a tear roll down your cheek because a sunset is just so damn beautiful that you cannot help yourself. I know what it’s like to try and catch your breath seconds after jumping into a frigid alpine lake. These are the moments that make you feel alive and I’ve been lucky enough to have had about a million of them. Upon returning from a backcountry camping trip in 2016, I was shocked to find out that I had lost my husband, Jim Detterline, in a climbing accident. Jim passed away on a Tuesday. The following Saturday I got in my car and drove to the Longs Peak Trailhead. After days of shock and being shuttled around and surrounded by so many people, that time alone was a really big deal. On that trail I had the first of so many one-sided conversations that start with, “Well, Jim…” followed by a flood of tears. Who knows what I might’ve talked about? I certainly don’t remember. I walked up the drainage that leaves the trail at Lightning Bridge and soaked in the quiet solitude and crisp fall air. When I rejoined the trail, I sat down and took out a t-shirt I had pulled out of the hamper because it still had his smell on it. I sat there at treeline, buried my face in that shirt and sobbed. I know every shortcut on the Longs Peak Trail and I really thought I’d enjoy a quiet hike down the old phone line, remembering all the times Jim and I raced down straight downhill after a successful climb, talking about what we were going to order at Ed’s Cantina. I took the regular trail down, though. No one could see the bloodshot, puffy eyes behind my sunglasses. I talked to people as though it was my first time to ever hike that trail. “You guys went to Chasm Lake? Wow! What was it like there?” I said to a group of young hikers. I remember some lady complimented me on my skirt. Someone else looked disapprovingly at my sneakers. What a feeling of freedom to be so anonymous! After days of being terrified to walk into the grocery store because I felt like everyone I saw either stared at me or averted their eyes, I felt free! No one knew me; no one knew my deep emotional connection to that trail and the peak it was named for. I know I’m not the only one who thinks of Jim every time I look up at Longs Peak or set foot on that trail. How lucky are we all to have that majestic peak to remind us of that laugh, those piercing blue eyes and that drive to stand atop that summit again and again! If you were lucky enough to share the summit of Longs Peak with Jim Detterline, you know that his enthusiasm for that peak never waned. He was as excited for summit #428 as he was for summit #1. For many people, the best part of a Longs Peak climb with Jim was the hike down. If you could keep up, you’d get a history lesson for sure! “Just imagine Rocky Mountain Jim and Isabella Bird riding on horseback up this very same trail,” he’d say as we cruised down the abandoned trail from their time. I don’t worry about my safety on the Longs Peak Trail anymore. I have a guardian angel who knows the terrain. I like to think that we all do.  Post Comments:
Kay Rusk 2/14/2017 06:24:52 am Wow, beautiful Rebecca 💜 Thank you jennifer mills 2/14/2017 07:56:40 am So beautiful Rebecca. My heart is with you. Jo Stegura 2/14/2017 08:21:33 am So beautiful Becky. Happy to see you wrote this for you and Jim on Valentines Day. Jane Lopez 2/14/2017 08:28:33 am So touching, thank you for sharing Rebecca. Love is all around you and always with you. Kaci Yoh 2/14/2017 08:57:32 am This is beautiful, Rebecca. Mary Ellen Banfield 2/14/2017 11:18:26 am Thanks for sharing this beautiful tribute. My heart goes out to you! Holly Hampton 2/14/2017 02:20:41 pm Wow. This sure brought tears to my eyes. Both for the joy and for the grief. Such an agonizingly beautiful love letter. Steve Mitchell 2/14/2017 04:30:56 pm Beautiful! Jim was truly legendary. Ann Wagner 2/14/2017 05:01:17 pm This is precious our dear Reebz ... we love you so very much . Thanks for sharing Donna Egan 2/14/2017 10:20:41 pm Really beautiful Rebecca. Patti Donahue 2/15/2017 06:27:02 am Rebecca, so beautifully written, I could hear you speaking in my mind, I wish you peace and blessings, and the comfort and wonder of Longs Peak to wrap you up and hold you in all the days ahead. We love you, thank you for sharing, so well done. Laurie Button 2/15/2017 07:28:27 am Beautifully written, Rebecca. Thank you for sharing your heart with us. Gail Albers 2/15/2017 08:21:49 am Rebecca, thank you so much for sharing this particular journey with us all. What a blessing your life with Jim has and will always be! Cindy Elkins 2/15/2017 07:50:57 pm This is a lovely tribute to your relationship with Jim and Longs. You are an amazing woman and I enjoyed our art therapy last weekend. Let's do it again soon!! Anna Rumi 2/28/2017 06:27:40 pm Beautiful! Debbie Linkhart 4/18/2017 09:43:23 am Beautiful Rebecca and heart wrenching James Disney 10/25/2019 09:52:05 pm Well said and certainly heartfelt ... thank you. Gary Doak 1/7/2020 04:57:19 pm Hello, Ms. Rebecca. My family and I had the privilege to have Jim take us on a short snow shoe hike off the Long's Peak Trailhead the week before Christmas '15. We had a fabulous time. My 18 yr old daughter started whining about cold feet and as I'm basically telling her to "suck it up and drive on," Jim stops and lays out a bag and pulls off her boots & socks & warms her feet. He did it all in such an unassuming & compassionate manner. We didn't really get far that day, but we all will remember that glorious afternoon we got to spend with Jim and getting to know him, if even just for a little bit. Thank you for sharing him with us. Courtney Dean 2/14/2020 10:49:40 am I too had 14 summits and an equal number of failures. Weather and other events contributed to the unsuccessful attempts. I have often thought about attempting Longs again, however I think I’ll leave my last summit with Jim....Thank you...God bless Becky Beckingham 2/15/2020 11:18:50 am Beautiful, I loved hearing your voice as I read this. Jim is loving it as well ❤️ Peter S Schiaroli,Esq. 4/2/2020 06:29:35 am Jim and I were friends since the early 1980's. We met at a YMCA summer camp, Camp Conrad Weiser in Wernersville, PA where we both worked together for 4 or 5 summers and I would visit him at Moravian College in Pa.. I true friend,... a man with no prejudices who brought no preconceived notions or opinions to whatever he did. A man of boundless energy with a BIG LOVING HEART for everyone he touched and for everything he did. With his passing, of which I recently learned of, my heart is like the mountains he climbed, full of cracks...I love you Jim...Rebecca, my most sincere and deepest condolences, Respectfully, Peter Schiaroli, Esq., Reading, PA  Good Morning from Lion Lake #1 — at Wild Basin, Rocky Mountain National Park. Photo: Jennifer Davis by Rebecca Detterline I love summit registers. I love seeing my friends’ names in them. I love opening one up to see that no one has signed it in over a year. I love that when I finally summited Pilot Mountain after running all over Wild Basin I found that the best man from my wedding had placed the register there in 1974. I love that only two and a half pages were filled. So of course I was filled with guilt when the only pencil from the register on Comanche Peak fell out of my hands and disappeared into a deep rock crevice just as I had finished signing all 5 of my girlfriends’ names. The sky was angry and we’d a seen a few lightning bolts already, so we screwed the cap back on the register and bailed for our campsite back at Mirror Lake. Suffering from a dissonance in my summit register karma and knowing I was unlikely to return to Comanche Peak any time soon, I recently set out to right my wrong on some other peak in Rocky Mountain National Park. From the old metal NPS canister on Tanima Peak to the tiny plastic jar atop the Cleaver, summit registers are as varied as the peaks they reside upon. The most popular type seems to be the PVC pipe with the screw-on cap, sometimes connected to a piton with a wire cable. Just this year, I’ve seen these PVC canisters on Mt. Meeker, Mt. Alice and Chiefs Head Peak empty with the caps missing or broken. It seems that every year someone tries to pry off the wrong end of the canister on Longs Peak with an ice axe. In contrast, on the remote Eagles Beak deep in Wild Basin, a plastic parmesan cheese shaker holds the seldom-signed trail register. The only change to this register between my visits in 2012 and 2016 was the addition of twelve signatures. As I was slicing up salami and cheese for this week’s ‘Tour de Wild Basin’, I decided to scrub out an empty peanut butter jar and toss in some paper and pens, just in case I stumbled upon a summit in need. My friend Jennifer and I set out from the Wild Basin Trailhead at 4 a.m. As I was finishing my coffee, the alpenglow on Mt. Alice reflected magnificently Lion Lake #1. We enjoyed the walk up to the saddle between Mt. Alice and Chiefs Head Peak. As we began our ascent of the Hourglass Ridge on Mt. Alice we met the only other soul we would see that day. He was headed to Boulder Grand Pass and out to Thunder Lake. The summit register on Mt. Alice was broken and empty, but I didn’t replace it. It simply needed a new PVC cap. Maybe I’ll replace that next year. Jennifer and I were on to Chiefs Head Peak, which offered stunning views of Longs Peak and all of Glacier Gorge. Here we found another PVC canister without a cap. Unlike the one Mt. Alice, this one was not attached to the rock. I was happy to take the broken canister home with me (Hopefully, I’ll replace the cap and leave it on another summit) and replace it with my peanut butter jar, notebook paper and two pens. My karma restored, we descended to Orton Ridge. Despite spying Sandbeach Lake from the forest above, we managed to miss the lake and eventually ended up on the edge of Sandbeach Creek. After a little map and compass work and a couple rounds of Marco Polo, we found ourselves on the south end of the lake. I couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough once I reached the sandy beach. That feeling of being a little lost in the woods coupled with the downhill pounding of 3000 feet of elevation loss had exhausted me mentally and physically. That soft sand between my toes and the cold water washing over my sticky skin left me feeling refreshed and ready for the final push out to the Sandbeach Lake Trailhead. Despite my shins screaming at me on account of the previous day’s run to Thunder Lake, we hiked the 4.4 miles to the trailhead in one hour and twenty-three minutes. We were back to where we had met each other in the darkness fourteen hours earlier. I’m now carrying a little golf pencil in my backpack, just like the one I dropped into the crevice on Comanche Peak. It’s the only writing utensil guaranteed to fit into any summit register. If leaving one here or there means that someone else will get to sign a summit register on one of the peaks that I hold close to my heart, I suppose it is well worth this tiny bit of effort.              Click on the photos to see the gallery.
My feet were soaked by 5 am, which is pretty much the norm since I traded in my heavy hiking boots for sneakers. My two girlfriends and I had just left the dry, well-marked trail to Black Lake to traipse through a marshy meadow in search of the steep section of unmaintained trail that leads up to Shelf and Solitude Lakes.
In the early morning light, the river crossing was easy to locate and we made great time on the steep trail leading up to Shelf Lake. Reveling in the beauty of one of Rocky Mountain National Park’s seldom visited alpine cirques, we continued along rock slabs and grassy ledges to the next shelf that holds the aptly-named Solitude Lake. Our objective for the day was Arrowhead, the highpoint on a ridge that runs north east from McHenry’s Peak. I’d had my eye on this one for a while, but was nervous to attempt it based on reports of difficulty in route finding. Luckily, my friends Jonna and Jo had no idea what they were getting into and eagerly agreed to join me on this adventure. After stopping for a breakfast of salami and cheese and consulting the photocopies we’d made from the guidebook, we began our search for the route up this gigantic rocky ridge. There were several gullies, but according to the guidebook, they were all technical. We were in search of a Class 3+ ledge system and every route we tried quickly turned to 4th or 5th Class. We decided to investigate the lower section of one of the gullies to see if it might somehow grant us access to this elusive ledge system. It didn’t. Things got sketchy fast. Loose gravel and scree mixed with a smattering of larger rocks made for a completely unstable ascent into the base of the gully. After sending a shower of soccer ball-sized rocks down upon my friends, I told them to descend while I stayed in place. It seemed as though every time I even thought about shifting my weight, another barrage of rocks haphazardly released toward my dear hiking partners. If you’ve never had a giant rock with leg-breaking, internal-organ-destroying potential break free into your arms, I guess you’re probably in the lucky majority. I watched in horror as my friend Jo dislodged and somehow spun out of the way of a rock that easily weighed more than she did. Both my friends were now safely out of the gully from hell. We’d known from the start that the route finding would be the crux of the matter and decided that persistence and perseverance would give us the best shot at the summit. We headed back down the cirque in search of the ledge system that we hoped would grant us passage to the summit ridge. We were all quite shook up from the multiple downpours of sliding rock and began to doubt whether it was our day to make it to the top. After re-reading the directions from the guidebook and taking a compass reading, we found some 3rd Class terrain that seemed a bit more like what we had anticipated. Hearts still pounding from the gully episode, we headed up, very careful to avoid rockslides. The terrain was pleasant and comfortable, but we were all struggling to calm down after our recent series of near misses. The crux move involved hoisting ourselves over a chock stone in a narrow chimney. Lucky for us, someone had placed a piece of webbing to assist in the ascent and descent. Despite its sun-bleached and frayed condition, not one of us chose to forego this potentially rotten piece of aid. We were stoked to find that someone else had obviously gone this way before us, as we’d yet to see a single rock cairn. Of course now that that the terrain mellowed out and the route seemed obvious, there were cairns at every turn. Except for the occasional loose boulder, the hike up to the ridge was enjoyable and the views of Longs Peak and Glacier Gorge were astounding. A gentle ascent along the ridge took us to the remote summit. I was disappointed to find that there was no summit register. I really should start placing them on some of these random peaks, especially considering that I need to restore my summit register karma after dropping the one and only pencil from the Comanche Peak summit register into a deep rock crevice while trying to beat a lightning storm earlier this summer. The descent down to the Black Lake Trail was quick and pleasant. As usual, the down climbing was easier than expected and our spirits were very high once we got off of the trickier terrain. My shoes and socks were practically dry by the time we reached the marshy meadow. As I prepared for my fruitless attempt at maintaining semi-dry feet for the remainder of the hike, a lovely trail that had been invisible to us in the early morning hours revealed itself and we began the easy hike out to Glacier Gorge Trailhead. Although not for the faint of heart, Arrowhead was a wonderfully remote summit, an incredible mental challenge and an opportunity to connect with some great friends in a magnificent alpine environment.      Click on the photos to see the gallery So Much More than a View September 4, 2015 Elevation: 14,259 feet Elevation gain from trailhead: 5,100 feet Roundtrip distance: 14.5 miles (Click on photos for larger image) Summiting Long’s Peak was a thrilling whirl of physical and mental obstacles. Low winds and an unbroken, unforgettable bluebird sky were so worth the wait for our first Long’s summit! For three hours up until sunrise, we moved under a star spangled sky and were guided over a wide, well-maintained trail through the forest, which eventually gave way to an excitingly broad boulder field. The city of Boulder was radiant from all those miles away, while the mountains ahead were giant shadows with no discernable edges; allure, intimidation, and inspiration.
“The Ledges” tested our judgement in navigating the best path from A to B to C to D et cetera, et cetera! This area is marked with several “targets” that, while undeniably helpful, leave the best route in-between each one up to some tricky interpretation.
As Adam happily hopped up the Trough, I happily staggered and crawled, drinking in the stunning V-shaped formation I was traversing, I was truly small and appropriately insignificant.
“The Narrows”, while not quite as narrow as I had fantasized over my year-and-a-half wait to summit this mountain, took complete focus and demanded attentive footwork. “The Homestretch” was an ultra-fun jungle gym! With rock just vertical enough to force upward stretched arms and a climbing instinct, I understood what it means to be “on top of the world.” It was the most legitimate scrambling I have ever done, and it left me wanting more, and more… and more.
The Rocky Mountains have not once failed to showcase their electrifying beauty, and an innate sense assures me they never will. |
"The wild requires that we learn the terrain, nod to all the plants and animals and birds, ford the streams and cross the ridges, and tell a good story when we get back home." ~ Gary Snyder
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“Hiking -I don’t like either the word or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not hike! Do you know the origin of the word ‘saunter?’ It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, A la sainte terre,’ ‘To the Holy Land.’ And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.” ~ John Muir |
