Upon leaving my campsite at the Chatfield Reservoir where I had just endured three rain-drenched days in my tent, I was like a caged animal released. Cock the hammer! Cock the hammer, it's time for action.
My only choice was to head west into the mountains to try to find an escape from the massive Memorial Day crowds that were oozing out of Denver. During my aforementioned marathon tent experience, I had plotted a fiendish hike that, if successful, would easily be the most demanding excursion thus far on The First Journey.
Only a 90 minute drive from downtown, the Lost Creek Wilderness covers 106,000 acres right in the middle of Pike National Forest. The Colorado Trail, which is a 470 mile-long volunteer-built "jaunt" running from Denver to Durango, goes right through the Lost Creek area. I was salivating to drop my boots all over an enticing 30 mile section from the Lost Acres trailhead to Kenosha Pass.
According to proper LNT pre-trip planning measures (don't y'all be calling me LNT geek), I stopped into the Forest Service outpost just off of Hwy 285 on my way to Bailey. The ranger told me that my only worries would be bear raids, snow patches above 10,500 feet, and wildly fluctuating inclement weather. As if those minor obstacles weren't enough of a deterrent, I would have to hitchhike from Kenosha Pass back to The Rig upon completion. Strapped with bear bags, waterproof boots, and full-on Gore-Tex gear, I got my schwerve on at about 6 p.m. on a Friday evening.
The din of the city folk melted quickly away as I began my hike
through the splendor that is Lost Creek. Bedecked in thick layers of pine, spruce and newly-budding aspen trees, the mountains here look like big leafy cakes frosted white by the gods. Heading off-trail just before nightfall, I stumbled across a glorious campsite which I have since dubbed The Amphitheatre.
Once a month since the beginning of time, The Amplitheatre has been putting on a show that probably precious few have been blessed enough to witness. I was there on such a night. The seats are located at the top of a steep outcropping of rock. Forty feet below, a gurgling stream plays out music to accompany the production. The stage is arcing hills of varying distances, the actors a dense thicket of pine covering a full 180ยบ swath of vision. The photo above has little effectiveness in displaying the full scene.
As the sun went down, the lights were slowly extinguished and the show began. A cricket chirped-in from the bleachers evidencing his joy to rub legs on this momentous night. The trees onstage drew darker and darker, slowly losing their hold on the safety of the day. And then, just when I thought that the production would fail for lack of practice, the heroine silently entered from behind me to shine her thick, sticky light on the stage. The perfectly full moon vanquished the darkness and revealed the stage's new purplish-grey costumes. I watched the slow progression of night until my lids grew heavy with sleep and I could watch no more.
In the morning, it was
back to a bit of the mundane grind of a tough hike. As I walked, I was grateful to have proper gear for wet conditions. The snowmelt has turned every gully and much of the initial ten miles of the trail into a boggy stream. Once you reach 10½ grand, the snow shows itself in patches that are difficult to cross and that obscure the trail from sight. I got lost for about three hours when snow covered the trail and it took some skilled compass and map work to bring me back without harm.
Along the way I met a horsepacking trio of ladies and a couple other groups of young hikers out for a weekend in the woods along the Colorado Trail. What I particularly noticed was the pride with which each of them spoke of this amazing trail and of their treasured environment in Colorado. The Colorado Trail gets little hype compared to the Appalachian and Pacific Crest Trails but that is simply an unfortunate oversight. I only saw less than 10% of the entire trail but what I did see was eye-popping.
At this point, for the first time on my entire journey, I would like to make a dramatic call for volunteers to help complete a project that is equally as important as the Colorado Trail. It is called the Bay Area Ridge Trail. The Bay Area Ridge Trail Council is a non-profit volunteer-driven organization and since 1987 has been working to create a 400 mile ridgeline trail system connecting the San Francisco Bay Area's remarkable greenbelt of parks, open spaces and diverse communities. About half of the designated trail has been completed and the Council needs volunteers to help finish it. How I would love to travel a trail in my own backyard (I'm from California) with the same pride that Coloradans have when visiting theirs. I challenge you to volunteer to work toward the completion of the Bay Area Ridge Trail. The benefits of this effort to save undeveloped portions of Bay Area greenbelt to complete the trail will someday be immeasurable. I hear you people talk about it; but I'm still seeing bodies with the white lines of chalk around it.
On my second
night, I stayed at a campsite that, if my previous roost was The
Amphitheatre, then this one was The Symphony Hall. From a rocky vantage point high above the reddish North Fork stream valley, and huddled in my sleeping bag, I listened to the excited banter of coyotes. At night, I could distinguish two separate packs whose howls and yips grew ever more frenzied as the night wore on. How many times I woke up to sounds of the dogs' partying is unclear but it took me at least an hour to clean up their keg cups in the morning. The photo shows my view from the Symphony Hall.
On the third day, the weather threatened but never showed its teeth. Good thing, too, because I already had a slew of physical ailments. Nothing serious, but backpacking has a tendency to really ding up your body. After a 12 mile hike and covered with scratches, cuts and bruises, I showed up at my last resting point on the Colorado Trail at a place
called Johnson Gulch. It was all the energy that I could muster to put up the bear bags one more time and collect enough downed wood to heat my bones for the evening. What a spot to rest, too. In the morning, a pair of elk grazed in the meadow below me as I munched on my "suicide" mix of apples & cinnamon/maple & brown sugar oatmeal.
The final day in Lost Creek consisted of a short hike up to Kenosha Pass where, despite my disheveled appearance, I was able to thumb a ride back to Bailey with ease. I can truthfully say that my romp through this portion of Colorado has been one of the most incredible experiences in my life. Without places like this to play in and unload the mental chamber, I think my life would hardly be worth living.
I leave you with one last look at me frolicking in the Lost Creek Wilderness.
My only choice was to head west into the mountains to try to find an escape from the massive Memorial Day crowds that were oozing out of Denver. During my aforementioned marathon tent experience, I had plotted a fiendish hike that, if successful, would easily be the most demanding excursion thus far on The First Journey.
Only a 90 minute drive from downtown, the Lost Creek Wilderness covers 106,000 acres right in the middle of Pike National Forest. The Colorado Trail, which is a 470 mile-long volunteer-built "jaunt" running from Denver to Durango, goes right through the Lost Creek area. I was salivating to drop my boots all over an enticing 30 mile section from the Lost Acres trailhead to Kenosha Pass.
According to proper LNT pre-trip planning measures (don't y'all be calling me LNT geek), I stopped into the Forest Service outpost just off of Hwy 285 on my way to Bailey. The ranger told me that my only worries would be bear raids, snow patches above 10,500 feet, and wildly fluctuating inclement weather. As if those minor obstacles weren't enough of a deterrent, I would have to hitchhike from Kenosha Pass back to The Rig upon completion. Strapped with bear bags, waterproof boots, and full-on Gore-Tex gear, I got my schwerve on at about 6 p.m. on a Friday evening.
The din of the city folk melted quickly away as I began my hike
through the splendor that is Lost Creek. Bedecked in thick layers of pine, spruce and newly-budding aspen trees, the mountains here look like big leafy cakes frosted white by the gods. Heading off-trail just before nightfall, I stumbled across a glorious campsite which I have since dubbed The Amphitheatre.Once a month since the beginning of time, The Amplitheatre has been putting on a show that probably precious few have been blessed enough to witness. I was there on such a night. The seats are located at the top of a steep outcropping of rock. Forty feet below, a gurgling stream plays out music to accompany the production. The stage is arcing hills of varying distances, the actors a dense thicket of pine covering a full 180ยบ swath of vision. The photo above has little effectiveness in displaying the full scene.
As the sun went down, the lights were slowly extinguished and the show began. A cricket chirped-in from the bleachers evidencing his joy to rub legs on this momentous night. The trees onstage drew darker and darker, slowly losing their hold on the safety of the day. And then, just when I thought that the production would fail for lack of practice, the heroine silently entered from behind me to shine her thick, sticky light on the stage. The perfectly full moon vanquished the darkness and revealed the stage's new purplish-grey costumes. I watched the slow progression of night until my lids grew heavy with sleep and I could watch no more.
In the morning, it was
back to a bit of the mundane grind of a tough hike. As I walked, I was grateful to have proper gear for wet conditions. The snowmelt has turned every gully and much of the initial ten miles of the trail into a boggy stream. Once you reach 10½ grand, the snow shows itself in patches that are difficult to cross and that obscure the trail from sight. I got lost for about three hours when snow covered the trail and it took some skilled compass and map work to bring me back without harm.Along the way I met a horsepacking trio of ladies and a couple other groups of young hikers out for a weekend in the woods along the Colorado Trail. What I particularly noticed was the pride with which each of them spoke of this amazing trail and of their treasured environment in Colorado. The Colorado Trail gets little hype compared to the Appalachian and Pacific Crest Trails but that is simply an unfortunate oversight. I only saw less than 10% of the entire trail but what I did see was eye-popping.
At this point, for the first time on my entire journey, I would like to make a dramatic call for volunteers to help complete a project that is equally as important as the Colorado Trail. It is called the Bay Area Ridge Trail. The Bay Area Ridge Trail Council is a non-profit volunteer-driven organization and since 1987 has been working to create a 400 mile ridgeline trail system connecting the San Francisco Bay Area's remarkable greenbelt of parks, open spaces and diverse communities. About half of the designated trail has been completed and the Council needs volunteers to help finish it. How I would love to travel a trail in my own backyard (I'm from California) with the same pride that Coloradans have when visiting theirs. I challenge you to volunteer to work toward the completion of the Bay Area Ridge Trail. The benefits of this effort to save undeveloped portions of Bay Area greenbelt to complete the trail will someday be immeasurable. I hear you people talk about it; but I'm still seeing bodies with the white lines of chalk around it.
On my second
night, I stayed at a campsite that, if my previous roost was The Amphitheatre, then this one was The Symphony Hall. From a rocky vantage point high above the reddish North Fork stream valley, and huddled in my sleeping bag, I listened to the excited banter of coyotes. At night, I could distinguish two separate packs whose howls and yips grew ever more frenzied as the night wore on. How many times I woke up to sounds of the dogs' partying is unclear but it took me at least an hour to clean up their keg cups in the morning. The photo shows my view from the Symphony Hall.
On the third day, the weather threatened but never showed its teeth. Good thing, too, because I already had a slew of physical ailments. Nothing serious, but backpacking has a tendency to really ding up your body. After a 12 mile hike and covered with scratches, cuts and bruises, I showed up at my last resting point on the Colorado Trail at a place
called Johnson Gulch. It was all the energy that I could muster to put up the bear bags one more time and collect enough downed wood to heat my bones for the evening. What a spot to rest, too. In the morning, a pair of elk grazed in the meadow below me as I munched on my "suicide" mix of apples & cinnamon/maple & brown sugar oatmeal.The final day in Lost Creek consisted of a short hike up to Kenosha Pass where, despite my disheveled appearance, I was able to thumb a ride back to Bailey with ease. I can truthfully say that my romp through this portion of Colorado has been one of the most incredible experiences in my life. Without places like this to play in and unload the mental chamber, I think my life would hardly be worth living.
I leave you with one last look at me frolicking in the Lost Creek Wilderness.
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