Endurance Challenge - Phantom Canyon Bike Blitz

Signing up for our Private Crippler

After two years of relatively short overnight bike + hike trips, we decided to mix things up a bit. Given my current dislike of life above 10k feet and having been enthralled by numerous tales of the legendary Pueblo Slopper, we picked Soutern Colorado as the base of operations. The only route that made any sense was the Phantom Canyon + Shelf Road loop, altogether around 75 miles and 7000 feet of elevation gain on dirt roads of questionable quality. Since neither of us have had a single day of that magnitude in 13 long years, we thought it would be a great "motivator" to get us into serious biking shape. In other words, it was going to be a genuine Endurance Challenge! Luckily, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that the route is the basis of an annual bike race known as "The Crippler".

Endurance Challenge: Grappling with my Bike

ML was kind enough to go out of his way to get an absolutely smoking deal on a likely non-stolen gravel bike on Craigslist, so that would be one less thing to worry about. However, I still had to contend with my own bike in the Hudson Valley It just happened to be one of the cheapest non-Walmart bikes you could buy in 2019. Due to the shoulderless, traffic-clogged roads around my neck of the woods, I seldom find myself motivated to go on a good old fashioned weekend ride. With the fearsome 75 + 7k looming closer each day, I knew I had to get in some serious saddle time lest I become a complete wreck on game day.

On the very first training ride through Harriman State Park my bike demonstrated what 4 years of maintenance neglect coupled with commutes in the rain can lead to: shifting all out of index, wheels out of true, and a tire with a very concerning bulge causing a fender rub. That initial ride was all of 7 miles of constant tinkering and swearing. An ominous start to be sure!

The bike troubles were just beginning. The rear wheel wobble was due to a broken axle(!), and not long after I was rolling again I suffered a broken spoke out of nowhere, luckily only 2 miles from home. Needless to say many hours were spent fantasizing about a shiny new road bike. Yet I was determined to see the training through on my bike, for I knew it was all part of this Endurance Challenge.

Endurance Challenge: Rail Trails

Most of my training time was on various parts of the Empire State Trail, an ambitious project to link rail trails across New York. While I certainly appreciate a paved, car-free surface with plenty of shade and trailhead latrines, the tedium of hours of straight, flat, monotonous riding was as much of a mental Endurance Challenge as a physical one. I had to train myself to take it easy, for my instinct was to come out of the gate on a dead sprint in order to get the ride over with as quickly as possible. I found myself with my tank 1/4 full with 3/4 of the ride left on several rides. Plus, in that environment the 7000th pedal stroke was the exact same as the 6,999 that preceded it, causing one to slightly go crazy. I realized why group rides are so popular in the road biking scene: at least you can pass the time having in-depth discussions about the all-consuming bike rider topic: gear.

Endurance Challenge: Mechanized Travel

I took a deep breath on travel day, because flying in and out the Big 3 NY metro airports is always going to be interesting. As per usual I rode the M60 bus from Harlem to Queens, and I believe we were purposely being packed in order to film a music video of the Weird Al classic "Another One Rides the Bus".

Much to my amazement my flight departed LGA on time! ML picked me up for what should have been a pleasant 45 minute drive to his house, but the heavens were on fire with a terrific lightning storm the likes of which I had never seen. Just as I was admiring the aesthetics of such a display all hell broke loose with driving rain and vicious hail. ML's "late-model" Mazda was already covered by hail dents, otherwise he'd have been more concerned. Nevertheless we thought it prudent to pull underneath an overpass for cover. Believe it or not, we weren't the only geniuses with this idea, and while we all fought for a pitiful space the waters were rising at an uncomfortable pace. Suddenly we all looked like imbeciles, violating the old Turn Around, Don't Drown directive. We navigated back to I70 and crawled "up the hill" in what was an Endurance Challenge in of itself.

Endurance Challenge: Punishing our Digestive Tracts

By early next afternoon we had left the hail-scoured evergreens behind and had made the transition into the dry lowlands. It was high time for grub, so we swung into a one-horse town called Hartsdale. We had two choices: an upscale pizza joint with a dozen fully-loaded touring bikes out front, or a dirty, unkept bar that was deserted except for 3 guys who looked like they just played golf and were thoroughly out of place and ill at ease. As a proud snobby New Yorker I refused to entertain the idea of eating pizza outside of the Empire State, so into The Highline Cafe and Saloon we went.

I half expected to see a guy stop playing the piano to stare at us, while a grizzled regular growled "You boys ain't from around here, are ya?". At this hour of the day they were more accommodating, but I can certainly imagine many of a barstool has been broken across many of a back at night. The place didn't seem to bother with cleanliness or orderliness, and the bathrooms made a state park outhouse look inviting. Nevertheless, we tucked in for a pile of tamales with green chile, and they were actually quite good. With that said, we made sure to keep the trusty Wal-Mart shit bucket close at hand.

Endurance Challenge: Finally on the Bikes

The moment we had been anticipating had finally arrived: time to saddle up and hit the trail. We got up at the break of dawn (we were in Colorado after all, the only place on earth where people get up earlier on their days off) and got some relatively healthy breakfast at the venerable Bean Peddler, the Coffee/Beer/Breakfast Burritos/Mountain Bikes combo store that is as ubiquitous in Colorado towns as the Book Store/Cafe/Poetry Slam Nights with cats store that are in New England college towns.

After the usual fumbling and farting around with gear we finally hit the road. The first several miles were on a shady, level bike path through a riparian area next to a raging, swollen Arkansas river. It was such a pleasant ride we couldn't understand why we just didn't ride on that all day. Alas the ride must continue as planned, and we eventually found our way to Phantom Canyon road. We knew we were on the right track when we started seeing signs indicating that the road was treacherous and steep.

Almost as soon as we left the pavement for the endless miles of dirt we were treated with spectacular rocky formations along the beautiful Eightmile Creek. We went past several outstanding campsites, wondering why we elected to stay in a cramped campground. The grade was gentler that we had anticipated, and the road was seemingly well cared for. We felt like this was a wise move after all.

Even in the most beautiful landscapes, miles and hours of continuous effort will grind your enthusiasm away. The gentle grade had gradually become less gentle, with each additional mile seeming to require downshifting one gear. Most alarmingly we were almost completely out of water with the resupply point of Victor forever hovering in the shimmering distance as some sort of mirage (did it actually exist at all?). Fortunately ML was wise enough to pack a water filtration device for such an occasion. Unfortunately the device managed to spring a leak while sitting in the closet, making filling our water bottles a tedious chore. To add to the tedium hordes of gnats were swarming all around us. The fact that bugs are seldom a concern in Colorado, especially in the drylands, gave us the conviction that once we were past that we'd never have to worry about them again on the trip.

As a flatlander, I found the brilliant, unceasing, intense sunshine a real nuisance once the novelty wore off. I was getting to be downright delirious as the world seemed to be one infinite overexposed, oversaturated picture. We agreed to stop at what we felt was the high point of the trip at just a shade under 10k feet. Victor seemed to be receding with every weary crank of the peddle.

Satisfied as we could be with our break, we were about to head out when ML suffered the cruelest indignity of bike touring: the realization that you have a flat tire with absolutely no explanation. This pleasant ride in the park was becoming the genuine Endurance Challenge we feared it would be.

At long last we reached Victor, the object of our imagination and symbolic halfway point. At first glance we thought we were heading into an operational mine and that we would need to check in with the foreman and wear hard hats before entering town. It was quickly apparent this was not your typical gentrified yuppie playground; this was a Real Colorado mountain town, so real to be shocking. While ML went to see a man about a horse I inquired at the one-room visitor's center where one could get water, and the proprietor ordered the younger guy in a dayglo vest to turn on the pitcher pump outside, since "he works for the government and needs something to do, otherwise he just sits on his ass all day." As the guy who evidently runs the visitors center (he could very well just hang out there all day to enjoy the air conditioning), someone must have considered him to be the face of the community, and he certainly had a face to match the no-nonsense, hardscrabble frontier mining town. He looked like a genuine prospector with countless missing teeth, asynchronous eyes, and glasses held together with a bungee cord. He wanted us to know where the bars were, and that Cripple Creek up the road had all the casinos and more bars. That was pretty much the sum total of his knowledge of the town.

I noticed men in interesting uniforms gathering on a baseball field across the street. As it turns out this was a "Congress of Ballists", a gathering of people from around the US who like to play "base ball" as it was in 1864, complete with vintage uniforms and equipment. That this was happening in such a place as Victor was astounding and preposterous. If I were on some sort of solo mission with no set itinerary there is no doubt in my mind I would have stuck around there for several more days just to live out some surrealist fever dream.

Alas, we had a schedule to keep and the shadows were growing longer, so back on the bikes we go despite the desperate pleas from our asses. As we were rolling through town a guy on the porch of a saloon (likely cut from the same cloth as The Highline Cafe) asked us where we were riding from. Upon hearing we started from Canon City he yelled "You guys are my heroes!", which was a well-needed morale boost.

Our morale soon took a nosedive as we entered Cripple Creek, which ML knew from a fondly-remembered childhood trip and I knew from a song by the venerable guitar virtuoso Leo Kottke. The Cripple Creek we rode through was a collection of casinos from one end to the other and tourists desperately trying to convince themselves they are having fun. There are few places more depressing than a town that is desperately clinging to a manufactured past, the equivalent of the overweight 50 year old slob who would love to tell you about how great he was at high school football.

Endurance Challenge: No Coasting on This Downhill

We left Crippled Creek cranky, hungry, tired, and sunburnt. The one solace was that we were finally going to be going downhill: we were thrilled to have finally made it to Shelf Road (with more ominous signs about bad road conditions, steep dropoffs, etc.). However, almost immediately we learned this was not going to be a leisurely cruise. For every mile of downhill there would be a quarter mile of brief yet steep ascents that coaxed our quads to life after being on the verge of submission. As if that weren't frustrating enough, the road seemed to be in much worse shape than Phantom Canyon road, full of jagged rocks, occasional soft sand, and frequent washboard sections that make you feel like you are riding a jackhammer. ML seemed to be navigating these obstacles with ease, but I had a death grip on by bike, riding the brakes all the way down. This downhill was becoming an endurance challenge unto itself.

Much like Victor earlier, paved Garden Park Road seemed like a mirage forever receding into infinity. The scenery was still beautiful, and I was grateful the punishing sun had descended behind the walls of the canyon, but we were running late and our fuel reserves and morale were plummeting rapidly.

Once our organs were sufficiently rearranged through all the pummeling, we finally reached pavement, and now, finally, we could enjoy a leisurely coast to a huge pile of slop. However, we were entering the runner-up to the cruelest indignity a bike tourist can encounter: a fierce headwind on a descent. The wind was whipping up through the canyon directly into our faces; my eyeballs were thoroughly sandblasted and painful for days after. At this our training came into play as we had no choice but to invoke Suffer Mode to get this cursed ride over and done with. The time to enjoy the ride and the beauty of Colorado had long since passed.

Finally, mercifully, we crawled into The Old Mission restaurant in Canon City, a very full 11.5 hours after leaving the Bean Peddler. We were whipped and ravenous. We chose the Mission because it was still open, and served sloppers that were apparently popular with the newly-released felons from the nearby maximum security prison, although they would not likely be very discerning diners. The place was packed and it was an Endurance Challenge to sit in the hot room waiting patiently. After a small eternity plates full of beef, cheese, fries, and green chile arrived much to our delight. Under normal circumstances I would avoid such gratuitous slop, but it was the perfect way to celebrate a long, hot, hard day that was genuinely difficult, but not necessarily in the ways we expected.

Endurance Challenge: Campground Life

ML and I would have been perfectly content to spend the following day in a library reading books in comfortable chairs, but that would have to wait another day. It was time for some family camping, and with two rowdy young boys rest was completely out the question.

While our site was one of the best in the campground thanks to MLs diligent reconnaissance and scouting, we did have some unwelcome visitors: hordes of gnats. None of us were not adequately prepared for a day of enduring the tiny pests. A guy at an adjacent site was wearing a bug net, which initially elicited mocking laughter from us but that quickly turned into seething envy. It was really quite incredible as they persisted the entire day, despite being largely absent the previous days, with the exception of our water resupply spot. In addition, relief from the scorching sun was hard to come by given the absence of shade, adding fuel to the fire of annoyance. I advised ML to follow my grandfather's advice in such situations to "block it out of your mind", but that didn't seem to be very effective.

We did manage to stroll on the nearby trail network out to a promontory that, much like the town of Victor the day before, seemed to recede the further we approached it. The desert flora was impressive thanks to the same abundant rainfall that apparently brought out the dreaded gnats.

The only creature enjoying the infestation was a plump lizard living in the firepit, appropriately named "fat guy" by NL. It was a genuine anomaly; with a missing tail it was half the length yet twice the girth of the typical lizards scurrying about the area. We speculated it was happily feasting on gnats to get as large as it was. We were disappointed the others were not following suit.

After the sun set below the hills I took a dusky walk. With the heat mercifully away, the local deer finally emerged. It was a very pleasant night, and it made me contemplate the feasibility of full moon night rides in this climate. Perhaps it would take the edge off the endurance challenge.

Endurance Challenge: It Doesn't Stop When You Get Home

The gnats had mysteriously vanished by the next morning, much to our relief. I stopped at a local KOA to spend $8 on a highly-anticipated shower where I scrubbed off about 2 inches of sunscreen and burnt skin so as to be somewhat presentable for my flight home. I arrived at the Denver airport just in time to find out my flight had been delayed, keeping my streak of NY-based flight disruptions intact. One hour in the airport is hardly something to endure, but that led an hour wait at the Harlem Metro North tracks, which was difficult considering it was 11:30pm on a Sunday night with nothing to do but stare at my watch and block out of mind the sound of saws and jackhammers operating in the street directly below me.

Satisfied that the Endurance Challenge was over, I planned on going back to my typical schedule of post-work weeknight hikes at nearby Bear Mountain State Park, leaving my pitiful bike to slowly seize up until next year's ride. However, that plan came to a sudden halt when the Hudson Highlands were hit with some epic flooding, washing out several roads, compromising the integrity of bridges, and causing general disruption in the area that was to last for weeks, if not months. And that would be for those of us fortunate enough to not have sustained damage to our residences. Suddenly, I had another Endurance Challenge: a summer bereft of one of the true highlights of living here.

With convenient hikes no longer available, I can still pass my weeknights indulging in another life-long pastime: watching my beloved New York Mets find increasingly creative ways to lose despite being the highest-paid team in baseball. Come to think of it, being a Mets fan may be the ultimate Endurance Challenge.

Onwards and Upwards: Waterton Canyon and Indian Creek

In the Malarial Swamps of Colorado

"Wanna try some of this? It's just dehydrated vegetables with a heaping dose of chili powder. Not too bad really."

"I'll stick with this Mountain House. Funny how it has 150% of the recommended amount of sodium yet I feel like it needs more salt."

I had finally arrived at the point in my life where I felt it would be prudent to strictly limit my salt intake. As the great vulgarian Sam Kinison once remarked, "if salt and sugar kick your ass, then the game's pretty much over". My attempt at healthy backpacking meals would lead to exceptionally violent flatulence, but for the time being we were trying to extract what little pleasure we could out of the situation. We had found ourselves camped out in a section of trail too far from the pond to have any redeeming aesthetic qualities, but close enough to harbor several colonies of mosquitoes overjoyed by our presence. We had about 10' of trailside real estate to set up a tent in marginally flat terrain. Scarfing down our disappointing grub with one hand while swatting away insects with the other while trying not to think about the fact we chose to backtrack to such a place on blistered feet, we were exactly right where we wanted to be.

Achieving Escape Velocity

Since last year's excursion to the golden heights was such a success, we decided to execute another 24 hour multisport Freedom Sprint. After weeks of staring at maps, making excessively nerdy spreadsheets, and greatly exaggerating our abilities and ignoring constraints we decided on a mid-June ascent of Waterton Canyon via bike and then backpack around Indian Creek. Our preparation was flawless, and the late start from last time would be a non-factor as this time we would hit the trail bright and early. As usual, fate would have other ideas for us.

A freak power outage at ML's sons' school left us in an ominous state of limbo from the very get go. Hemming and hawing, we decided to cautiously get on the drive knowing full well we may have to abort mission before we properly got underway. As if that were not enough hanging over our heads, the dreaded specter of COVID-19 made its presence known in the caregiver situation, which was a lynchpin to our escape plan. Suddenly our entire excursion was in grave jeopardy, necessitating an intense and interminable strategy session at a gas station.

After much handwringing and teeth-gnashing, we were on our way in earnest, but with less than a pleasant taste in our mouths (in my case it was due to an off-brand caffeinated seltzer). We finally arrived at the Safeway parking lot which would serve as our base of operations. Since we were already off to a late start, we decided we may as well have lunch at the fast Mexican place located next door. Unfortunately, the food was lousy enough to be disappointing, but filling enough to make us unmotivated to get on our bikes.

A half a day late but with still plenty of bright Colorado daylight (fortunately it was near the summer solstice), with heavy guts we shoved off out of the parking lot and into adventure.

Waterton Canyon: A Pleasant Uphill Cruise

Waterton Canyon is a beautiful stretch of the Colorado trail that is deservedly quite popular. The slope is gentle, the trail is wide and well maintained, and there is a lot of wildlife. We were lucky enough to see several bighorn sheep amble close by.

In an attempt to remove some of the time spent fumbling between one activity and another as experienced on the previous trip, we decided to make things easier on ourselves by simply biking with gigantic backpacking backpacks strapped to us. Yet another idea that sounded great as we sat comfortably at our desks daydreaming and not dealing with extreme awkwardness and back pain.

Nevertheless, the weather was a bit warm but very pleasant as we reached a bike rack under cover near the picturesque dam. A ranger station was nearby. While resting at a picnic table we saw a geezer ride up wearing a parka on this cloudless 90 degree day as if he were going to spend a rainy late November afternoon in the stands of Lambeau Field watching a Packers game. Some folks would believe the bike rack would be an ideal place to leave bikes overnight: clearly meant for bikes, out in the open for rangers to keep an eye on them, and located right before the road deteriorates into a challenging trail for bikes. ML, on the other hand, believed it to be a thief magnet and the worst place imaginable to leave our trusty steeds, so off we trudged up the canyon looking for a place suitable to lock up for the night.

After scouting back and forth we found the "ideal" spot: steep, inconvenient, and overgrown with various poisonous plants. Only a lunatic would want to steal bikes from that location. With bikes fully secure, we hit the trail on foot.

Hiking Indian Canyon at a Blistering Pace

The Indian Canyon Trail was exceptionally maintained and graded as it is meant for mountain biking. I was grateful for the moderate slopes and soft tread after a year of dealing with the knee buckling, boot shredding steep and rocky trails of the NY Hudson Valley Palisade and Shawangunk ranges. Being a Thursday we largely had the normally busy trail all to ourselves.

Hours passed blissfully, until ML began to develop blisters on both his feet. Gradually the pleasant stroll through the CO woods became a painful trudge. Luckily, we were nearing our objective for the evening: The Indian Creek Campground, where we were to spend two nights, the second with ML's elated family as we'd spend an idyllic time in a beautiful campground.

No Vacancy

The blisters were quickly becoming a big distraction for ML as we hobbled past the equestrian campground into the camping area devoid of large herbivores. Another advantage of starting this trip on a Thursday was that the campground would surely be empty, allowing us to snag the best site.

Unfortunately, many other folks had the same idea. To our sinking dread we discovered site after site was occupied as we marched around the rather forlorn looking campground, each site looking more pathetic than the last. We came to the rather grim discovery that every single site was taken; our entire plan was crumbling under our raw feet.

One site remained ambiguously open: a small site with a sign indicating that it is for the camp host. As seasoned campers we found this situation to be odd: typically the host has the nicest, largest site and is permanently occupied by someone spending months on end there. This one didn't so much as have a single camp chair lying about, and was barely big enough for a Prius, let alone a 45' RV a typical host would have. ML had the guts to ask the neighboring site if they had seen anybody there, they indicated that nobody had ever been there that they know of. However, these people looked as if they could have been right out of a remake of Deliverance and seemed as shady as a palm tree, so we had to think fast as the long summer daylight was rapidly running short.

We had two clear choices: continue further down the trail into the unknown making tomorrow shorter, or backtrack to an attractive pond we felt was a mere few hundred yards away. We initially went with the former, bolder plan, but soon realized that we had no water with none likely to be had for quite some time. Rather disgusted at our haste, we backtracked to the campground for water, then reluctantly went back the way we came. I was confident that the pond with ample flat land was a mere hundred yards away, and I still felt that way as we ended up going 3/4 of a mile back into the swamp. Quite certain this alleged Shangri-La of backcountry campsites was simply a shared delusion, we threw our ever-heavier packs down on the site of the trail to share our sad dinner with the mosquitoes.

Slow Stroll Back to the Canyon

Soon after sunrise a pair of typical Colorado early birds walking past our sad little camp at 6am, proving once again it is the only place in the planet where people consistently wake up earlier on their days off. Since the mosquitoes were not about to take off, we hurriedly packed up and headed back to the campground to regroup and at least have a civilized place to sit down.

The equestrian camp seemed half full at best, so we realized our folly in not poaching one of those sites the night previous. Surely those folks had enough things to worry about than two hobbling dirtbags with a Eureka Spitfire. With no clear place to stay, we hatched a plan to get back to the car ASAP so we can rendezvous with the rest of the family and proceed from there. As a side note, ML was in complete "tape delay" radio silence mode for the duration of the trip as his beloved Celtics had played in Game 6 of the NBA Finals the night before. Thus, all the majestic peak bagging detours we had planned in the comfort of our homes were hastily dismissed.

The rest of the loop was pleasant enough, and once again we had the entire trail basically to ourselves, a rarity on a beautiful summer day in Colorado. It wasn't exactly a fine stroll as the high temperature reached 98 degrees that afternoon, with the mid-June sun poring its rays deep into us. It was a case of one battered foot in front of another until we finally arrived at the canyon.

We quickly realized that we were fools for not using the bike rack, for we had to slog further uphill to get to the bike stash. It was the last thing we wanted to do at the moment. After much wrangling, swearing, and dodging poison ivy we hauled our bikes and prepared for a leisurely, tranquil descent back to the car and a job well done.

Waterton Canyon: A Miserable Downhill Struggle

That pleasant cruise we had longed for was short-lived. After perhaps a half mile at most ML heard the most dreaded noise you can hear on a bike tour: a slight hiss coming from beneath your feet. Yes, the flat fiend had found us yet again. If there was any consolation it was a very beautiful place to spend the next 20 minutes fumbling with a tire, well aware of the fact you are already running far behind schedule.

Just as we were about to resume our journey a young lass rode up to us and asked us what we were doing with these monstrous backpacks on our backs (we had forgotten how ridiculous we looked). After we explained our mission, she was quite in awe of our hardcoreness and admitted that she wishes to do something like that someday. That was precisely the morale boost we needed at the moment, for we were out for more than just a walk in the park.

The morale boost would be short lived as another classic bike touring foe came tearing out the canyon in the form of a fierce wind. ML couldn't believe that the wind would have the gall to go up the canyon; didn't it realize it was supposed to go down the canyon? For some reason he was really struggling with the wind, whereas it hardly had any effect on me. In fact, there were moments when I could simply cruise along where ML had to pedal furiously to keep pace. My bike had large knobby tires and was altogether too small for me, so I should have been the one to suffer.

Just when we needed it most, another unexpected morale boost came slowly bouncing up the canyon in the form of a little old lady cruising along on a mobility scooter. She had a delirious smile on her face, as if she had just escaped from assisted living and is going to enjoy the day outside come hell or high water. She clearly did not care whether or not the batteries gave out on that contraption, which would place her in quite a precarious position indeed. We imagined her to be the happiest person on the trail today, and her pure enjoyment for the outdoors despite her circumstances is a great lesson for all of us.

But that spirit was short lived, as the trail seemed substantially longer than what he breezily accomplished just the day prior. The last mile in particular was the worst as it involved a steep climb on a busy road with very little shoulder. The Safeway parking lot seemed to be receding in the distance. The final few hundred yards through the lovely housing development next to Safeway was full of loud and sincere cursing. The car finally appeared, and (as it often is) was a far more beautiful sight than any majestic sheep-filled canyon could possibly be.

Freedom Camping the Right Way

Even though the multisport adventure may have come to a merciful end, we still had a night of camping ahead of us. We didn't have a dedicated spot at this point, so we had to improvise. Fortunately, ML had some potential great car camping spots in mind as we motored up a road that shall remain nameless. At a nondescript pullout we surveyed the area, and it held promise: Plenty of flat open ground, little evidence of camping or hooliganism, and reasonably close to home. He dropped me off to secure the spot and start a fire while he fetched the rest of the family.

Thoroughly satisfied with my ability to start a fire after a brief downpour with wood found on site, ML returned to explain his downhill struggles were a direct result of an engaged brake pad, thanks to haste during the flat change. We pondered this hilarious-now-but-not-at-the-time situation while in the midst of a truly fantastic car camping spot. If you have spent your life east of the Rockies and have never had the pleasure of true freedom camping with a car, your life is not anywhere near complete. To have the space and solitude of a backpacker with the creature comforts of home (2 burner tabletop stove, enormous teepee tents, and a Walmart shit bucket) is a joy on earth.

Alas, there was a small hitch: unbeknownst to us (or did we intentionally not read any of the signs in the childish hope that if you ignore something unpleasant it will go away?), we were in direct violation of the fire ban that recently went into effect. The local Fire Marshall Bill paid us a friendly visit to inform us of our misdeeds, and we quickly complied. Dousing out a perfectly fine fire gave me the same sense of sadness I would feel if a gorgeous new Porche were to get totaled rolling out of the lot.

Later that night, a fierce wind came out of nowhere and rattled the old Spitfire pretty hard for what seemed like hours on end. Suddenly, the fire ban went from an annoying restriction to a rather wise move.

A Bad Day for Competition

ML could not enjoy the moment to the utmost, for at the back of his mind he was wondering if his beloved Celtics were still in the running for their 18th NBA championship. As soon as we returned to the house ML turned the game on. I did my best to distract the boys while ML spent the next two hours swearing at the screen showing him disturbing images of a season slipping away. The game finally concluded, morale down the drain, but at least he could resume contact with the outside world.

In order to lift his spirits, ML proposed a game of frisbee golf. The last attempt was rather cutthroat and involved a lost driver, but this one was more cordial and successful, despite it being rained out before the halfway point due to typical Colorado summer thunderstorms. We called it good and wolfed down an immense Indian feast that refreshed out moods.

Epilogue: Unexpected City Day

ML agreed to take me to the airport despite the fact it was probably the last thing he wanted to do on Father's Day, but at least we got to give it a proper celebration of breakfast in bed. As it turns out he could have just stayed in bed for my flight was ultimately canceled for vague and dubious reasons. Nevertheless, I relished the opportunity to have my personal 24 hour blitz of freedom, solo style in Denver. Too late to attend the Rockies game, I wandered around aimlessly in the "Rhino" district, which may or may not have been the inspiration for South Park's genius SODOSOPA parody.

After an exciting night of watching a cornhole tournament on ESPN2 in my hotel room, I needed to get a final lungful of fresh Rocky Mountain air before the tedious journey on multiple legs of public transit to get back to the Hudson Valley. Luckily the Rocky Mountain Arsenal Wildlife Refuge was a brisk walk from the hotel, so I indulged in a quick poke around. The sky was clear, the wind was brisk, and the trails were inviting, but I had a plane to catch (I hoped) so I couldn't stay long. But as with any good adventure, despite the shortcomings and frustrations it left me was a desire to explore further.

Peeping Leaves: Golden Gate Canyon Bikepacking

Prologue: "I Wash My Hands of You!"

"But John wasn't interested in hunting, so he refused to go to the hunter safety course. Grandpa told him "I wash my hands of you!". "Tell it again daddy!".

It's Thursday afternoon in early October and we're in a Mazda 3 creeping along the eternally clogged I-70 west of Denver. We had heard the saga of John's refusal to learn how to wear blaze orange and always point the muzzle in a safe direction for the third time. Young NL thought this was the most fascinating story ever told, and ML to his credit told it admirably and patiently. The story is a good parable for our present situation: I had recently "washed my hands" of a situation that was going nowhere slowly and made the leap into far bigger and better opportunities, and now I found myself based in the Eastern time zone for the first time in 15 years. Ironically this return to a location-based lifestyle yielded the time and morale to finally restart my long dormant engine for adventure with ML, last undertaken several lifetimes ago.

In the years since our last epic quest we have experienced: 2 new children (ML), a mortgage (ML), moves to 6 different states(CRS), and 2 new US Presidents (both). Our disgust at our lack of activity grew by the day, until we had to wash our hands of our complacency, lest we allow ourselves to rot away in regret.

Our creeping slog back to Evergreen finally completed, we scarfed down green chile cheeseburgers from Freddy's and plotted our plan of attack.

Packing it all in

Due to various circumstances unknown to us on our previous adventures (familial obligations for ML, a job that had limited (albeit paid) time off for CRS), there was an element of desperation hanging over our plans. We were essentially limited to 36 hours to do as we damned well pleased; we resolved that not a second would go to waste. Like a stoner at Cici's pizza buffet we intended to gorge ourselves until we couldn't take any more.

After much planning, agonizing, mapping, negotiating (ML had questionable knees; I have had a poor track record above 10,000 feet), and endless fantasizing we devised a beautiful plan. We were to immerse ourselves in the most sublime Aspen fall colors Colorado had to offer while simultaneously subjecting our bodies to miseries not experienced in quite some time through ambitious bike touring and backpacking.

ML let me borrow a hardy mountain bike that was state of the art in 1995. Although on the small side, my knees didn't hit the handlebars and the brakes worked, so it passed muster. A quick few test laps around the driveway is no substitute for grinding up endless hills with a comically oversized and overstuffed backpack, but that was for my future self to deal with. We determined we were never going to be more ready, so the only thing left to do was to do it.

Tortoise and the Hare

Our 36 hours of blissful freedom kicked off with tears and tantrums as we tried to leave the house at a reasonable hour, immediately placing us in a pensive mood. However, our spirits were lifted by sightings of pockets of gold in "them thar hills" as we drove through the always enchanting canyons of Colorado.

We parked at some forlorn dirt lot complete with dilapidated bridge designed solely for lowlifes and miscreants to congregate. I had decided to wear my 75 liter backpacking pack on the ride stuffed full of gear, much to the horror of any person even slightly familiar with ergonomics. ML carefully and methodically packed, unpacked, repacked, and depacked over several iterations until his bike was the picture of efficiency and comfort. While he was doing that I was making the best possible use of my time by staring at my watch and pacing, knowing that the bottom of our hourglass of freedom is already getting sandy.

This parking "lot" tableau encapsulated our 12 years of adventures together: the unorganized impatient clock watcher and the methodical perfectionist working in some sort of unexpected harmony. I keep us from being caught in the darkness, but ML always knows exactly where his flashlight is.

With our loads secure, we began our trip in earnest. Almost immediately we were presented with the challenge of a very steep ascent of Douglas Mountain Drive. I used the pent up energy from the parking lot to all but sprint up the hill as if I were in the Tour de France and convinced I had a shot at the yellow jersey. I pumped, grinded, sweated, and cursed my way up the hill to the gates of Centennial Cone Park. Needless to say I was quite proud of my exploits, but I would soon grow to realize I had made a grave mistake.

Bikepacking Part 1: Centennial Cone and the Dastardly Robinson Hill Road

Centennial cone is an exceptionally popular mountain biking destination, containing trails for all ability levels. We took the Elk Range trail through the middle of the park over gently rolling terrain and relatively smooth trails. My previous efforts at mountain biking consistently led to damaged equipment and morale, so the equivalent of a bunny slope seemed just fine for me. The fact that I was without health insurance at the time did not inspire any risk taking on my part.

At one juncture we met an overweight surly man riding solo who gave us the most disapproving glare he could conjure. Our overstuffed packs were definitely unusual in these parts, and he clearly saw us as dangerous interlopers into what he undoubtedly considered "his" park. For all he knew we were full-on vagrants hell bent on organizing a drug-fueled rave destined to end in a catastrophic brush fire.

After some pleasant riding we arrived at the parking area at the other end of the park, which was very attractive and well kept. While shoving piles of various carb-heavy bars down our throats our old chum arrived at the trailhead. He glared at us some more and asked us how many nights we planned to stay out. I told him we are heading up to Golden Gate Canyon for the night, and he replied "Well I hope it doesn't rain too much on you guys tonight" in a tone of voice that indicated nothing in the world would give him more delight than to learn we were thoroughly soaked and miserable.

Thankful to leave that old bastard behind us we immediately faced a deceptively steep climb out of Centennial Cone to Robinson Hill Road. Once again I pumped and grinded, slowly rolling past a couple out walking their dogs and commenting on our outrageously overloaded bikes. Yes, it was as unpleasant as it looked. Soon enough we were on a very pleasant bucolic country road, the sort of road that makes you want to drop everything and live the quiet humble life in rural Colorado. Much to our delight dogs were either absent or properly restrained, as they tend to be a common hazard on otherwise lovely rural roads.

Soon we came to a fork in the road that featured a decaying building called the Douglas Mountain Ranch, which looked very enticing. Also nearby was a house sublimely decorated for Halloween, complete with several skeletons out in the yard. We soon discovered that those skeletons were actually the last fools who tried to do this ride fully-loaded.

The fun and games quickly ended as the pavement turned to dirt and the real climbing began in earnest. Almost immediately I had to take several breaks lest my legs explode. The road was brutally steep, and was soft enough to really sap your mechanical advantage. I hadn't experienced riding like this since the infamous Shasta Circle Jerk, something I wasn't keen on repeating. Being a dedicated mountain biker ML navigated this unholy stretch of Robinson Hill Road with more grace than I, but it was certainly no picnic for him either.

Eventually the dirt gave way to pavement, but the elevation gain kept on at a relentless pace. While we were busy trying to keep our lungs from collapsing we noticed that we were progressively entering gold country, with beautiful aspens aplenty. This glimpse of what was to come gave us the slight morale boost necessary to complete this endless climb.

Another morale boost came from an unlikely source. In the middle of nowhere on this third-rate country road someone had erected a small library, the likes of which you may see in gentrified neighborhoods in cities. Never one to pass up a smoking deal, ML grabbed himself a copy of some works of French diarist and Henry Miller advocate Annias Nin, which rendered the whole situation even more absurd. When you are packing 5 or 6 bags worth of multisport gear, why not add another pound of paper that you will certainly never read?

If Robinson Hill Road was unpleasant enough, it was mere training for Smith Hill Road. The good news was that we were now one step closer to the screaming descent down Golden Gate Canyon Road to our destination for the evening (at least as our poor overloaded bikes were concerned). The bad news was that Smith Hill road was every bit as steep as the early stretches of Robinson Hill road, with the added pleasure of being even sandier. My quads could take no more punishment, and I spent significant time on this stretch performing the humiliating bike tour walk/push of shame on the steepest parts. As a consolation the views and foliage were becoming increasingly more brilliant, so all our struggles were not in vain.

At long last we reached Golden Gate Canyon Road. From here it was a fast descent down into the park. We immediately realized the main problem here: As enjoyable as this stretch would be, we will have to backtrack up this steep hill tomorrow. The shoulders were non-existent and the traffic fast. Plus, tomorrow being Saturday the leaf peepers from Denver would be out in full force. Even at this moment of triumph we were filled with dread.

But that would be for our future selves to deal with. For the time being we were grateful to be on smooth pavement with a coast down to the park, where we would finally ditch our bikes and commence with the backpacking portion of the adventure.

"What am I supposed to do here?" - Backpacking Golden Gate Canyon State Park

Glad to give our sore asses a break from our bike saddles, we decided to get some info and take advantage of the restrooms at the visitor center closing in 15 minutes. Our chief concern was water availability at our reserved campsite in the Greenfield Meadow campground. I stood patiently in line while the visitor center staff dealt with the influx of folks venturing from who knows where to snap a few pictures of yellow leaves. The woman directly in front of me was likely 60 and seemed like the sort that read about the park in the local newspaper in the "Weekender" section. She walked up to the desk and asked the young fellow with clearly frayed nerves "OK, so what am I supposed to do here?". The look on his face said many things: That was the 76th stupid question of the day and I can't wait to get out of here in 15 minutes; I went $35,000 in debt for an Enviornmental Science degree and this is what I'm reduced to; I despise these Aspens and the morons they attract. With the poise that can only be gained through several weeks of holding one's tongue, the young ranger responded with a courteous but blunt: "Just find a place to park. That's all you need to worry about now." She was unsatisfied with the answer, but seemed to realize further interrogation may lead to an ugly scene. When it became my turn I quickly asked about the status of the spring at the campground, and he stated that we had better pack as much water as possible as it had almost dried up. I thanked him and left, well aware that there is no chance he knew what he was talking about.

ML and I performed our ritual of staring at watches and pacing vs. methodically packing, unpacking, depacking, and repacking as we transitioned into the backpacking portion of the exercise. The short October days meant our daylight was limited, making the watch staring ever more intense. Eventually we got on the Black Bear trail to make our ascent up to the campground. By this point my quads were howling in misery and I had developed a fine chafe to boot, making this easy little trek far more challenging that it appeared on paper. Nevertheless we persevered and reached our campsite right at sunset, if not a bit later. The views on the way up made us excited for the following day's exploration.

One of the chief benefits of being past 40 years of age is that time becomes more valuable and you tend not to waste it as much as you did when you were younger. ML and I both detest cleaning dishes in camp, so we elected to go full-on freeze dried meals for the first time. We could not believe we had not been doing this earlier. My Mountain House Asian Chicken and Rice pouch was rather nondescript, but definitely edible. ML's Chili Mac was far superior. Unfortunately fires are not allowed in these backcountry sites, which saddened me greatly but relieved me of carrying my boy scout-approved hatchet and other fire starting materiels. We turned in quickly into ML's legendary Eureka Spitfire tent that once had its very own website in its honor.

We were pleasantly surprised to discover that the adjacent campsites were unoccupied on a Friday night in peak season. Despite this auspicious sign, ML stated "Be prepared to have some company tomorrow morning. This place will be incredibly busy"...

The first group of leaf peeping city slickers walked by our tent around 6:45am, dawn barely breaking. They clearly embraced Colorado's early to bed, early to rise culture developed through the avoidance of perpetual afternoon thunderstorms. Following this vanguard was a steady stream of hikers that relentlessly trod all around us. Realizing that laying in peaceful slumber was futile, I walked to the spring that the ranger cautioned me was on the verge of drying up. I was happy to see he was completely wrong and it was flowing freely through the pipe, leading me to speculate neither he nor anyone working at the front desk had ventured beyond the parking lot in months.

Finding the crowds increasingly annoying we decided to have our breakfast on a rock outcrop about 50 yards beyond our tent. More freeze dried delicacies. I was a bit perturbed that my egg skillet breakfast tasted exactly like my Asian chicken dinner the night prior. While the quality of food left a little to be desired (the tiny bottles of Tabasco that come with MREs would have saved the day), cleanup took exactly 0 seconds, leaving more time to savor the views.

We were packing camp when a large group of daytrippers ominously walked up to our site. One of them commented "Let's take a break at this campsite" and proceeded to "take a load off" just a few feet where we were obviously still occupying our site. It was an egregious breach of etiquette, as if a group of loud morons walked into your house while you were reading a book and had a noisy conversation at your dinner table. As bad as that was, to really grind our gears a woman with an unbelievably grating rising inflection explained in gratuitous detail her child's (or maybe her dog's?) nut allergies. I was about to vomit myself. Despite the fact the whole situation was repulsive, several more groups of greenhorns decided to take a break right next to us, probably because they saw everyone congregated around us and figured that's where you are "supposed" to take a break. At that moment Edward Abbey once again seemed like a genius holy figure. With that in our minds we joined the conga line to see what all the fuss was about.

The loop around Frazier Meadow was truly quite sublime, the apens quite glorious. It really was the ideal time to be at Golden Gate Canyon, and although you were never out of sight of other human beings it was worth the grueling punishment the day before. We checked out other campsites for future reference (verdict: ours was fine, but there are others that would be much more off the beaten path), including one that someone had taken the time to write "Love Ass" with sticks in the middle of the tent pad. We were unsure if that was a positive or negative sign.

Alas, the clock was still ticking on our 36 hours of freedom and the day wasn't getting any longer. We hiked back down to the visitor's center, now a scene of chaos and bedlam. Some poor sap had the unenviable job of parking lot attendant, telling each and every car that rolled in they could only park there for 10 minutes, they had to pay a fee at the box on the porch, and if they were going hiking they had to park in some other lot. He looked exhausted and exasperated, and it was still midday on Saturday. Hopefully he was being fairly compensated in one way or another.

I had a long opportunity to observe him at his pitiable task as ML was packing, unpacking, depacking, repacking in an attempt to get back to his initial bike touring gear setup. He was reviewing pictures to relearn how he bungeed everything together when we noticed there was a large festering pile of dog shit right next to our bikes. This proved to be quite a distraction, making the packing even more of a chore. When all this was going on a group of stoked bros are carbon fiber road bikes pulled in. I chatted with the ring leader, who looked like pro wrestler Matt Riddle wearing sunglasses that would have made 1987 Jose Canseco jealous. I told them about our mission, and they were rather impressed we were foolish enough to go up Robinson Hill Rd, especially with our primitive bikes and multi sport gear dangling off the sides. Knowing full well we had a steep climb immediately ahead, we reluctantly shoved off, wishing we had expensive road bikes with no gear. And cool sunglasses.

Bikepacking Park 2: The Ups and Downs of the Road

The climb was not as awful as we had anticipated, a case of exaggerated negative expectations leading to a relatively positive experience. The ascent was steady but never too steep, just the way you want it. With relentless spinning we made it to the summit, glad that the first ascent of the day was already behind us. What lay ahead was one of the best descents I ever had in my life as it seemed to go on for miles on end. Perhaps only the day of riding during the Salton Sea Siege where we rarely pedaled over the course of 20 miles was better (and I don't expect to experience riding anywhere near that blissful again). The heavy traffic was a distraction, and my puny sunglasses not worthy of a 40-40 man were admitting too many road particles into my eyes, but it was exhilarating to be riding through such beautiful country on a loaded bike at such speeds. Moments like those are what make the grueling slogs and gear frustration all worth it.

Alas, all good things must end, and our descent ended with a turnoff back on our old arch-nemesis, Robinson Hill Road. We had a steep, twisting ascent back to where we initially got on it post Centennial Cone. This ascent was relatively short and very picturesque, so it was not too bad all things considered. We did pass a shipping container in the woods on the way up that was completely out of place. If we weren't on a set schedule we would have set aside a few hours to bust into that thing to see what it could possibly contain.

Ascent achieved, we were back on the pastoral roads by the skeleton house and on to Douglas Mountain Road where this adventure began. More bucolic beauty and good, traffic-free riding followed. This road also involved a fierce descent, but the sharp curves and dodgy pavement meant I was squeezing the brakes most of the time, nearly running over a snake at one point. The views here were also outstanding, but my focus was on the road immediately in front of my front tire lest I hit a pothole and go "ass over tincup" at 30 mph.

Eventually we reached the entrance to Centennial Cone once again where we were met by a curious cat, and we had to decide our fate. Should we cruise back down to the car and call it good (taking less than a minute over known territory) or venture out through a dirt road of unknown quality and then along a river back to the car? Knowing the day was long and the sands of freedom were running low, we had no choice but to take the more adventurous option.

Grinding Along Rocks and Rivers

The road back to the Centennial Cone trailhead was shockingly endless and grueling. We had no recollection of it being as challenging as it was, but we were different people than we were 28 hours earlier. Surprisingly tired by the time we reached the trailhead, we were happy to see that the parking lot was completely empty save for one vehicle. Instead of a bro full of stoke after a ride, it was a little old lady who asked us if we were camping out here. She told us that it would be a foolish thing to do as she lives nearby and can show us photos of all kinds of critters that lurk out in the hills after dark. We thanked her for the advice and reassured her our mission was almost complete. We were quite impressed by the cranky senior citizens who want to keep us dirtbags out of their sanctuary, lest we become more critters stalking the hills after dark ourselves.

Our descent back to Highway 6 was via the Travois, Juniper, and disconcertingly named Mayhem Gulch trails. These turned out to be formidable routes of travel for bikes with dozens of pounds of gear strapped to them and piloted by riders not accustomed to mountain biking at the end of a day and a half of nonstop action. Much to my shock and relief I made it all the way down without a single incident. It was nothing but jumbled rocks, steep terrain, and a very steep unforgiving dropoff if you get cocky. To a seasoned MTB rider on a modern bike with no extra gear it would likely be a bit of a bore but I was holding on for dear life. I was squeezing the brakes so tightly the entire way my forearms were throbbing and cramping. I was extremely happy to be back on pavement.

The final few miles back to the car were along the Peaks to Plains paved trail adjacent to Clear Creek. It was a perfect way to end the adventure, a leisurely cruise along a gorgeous canyon at sunset. We arrived back at ML's car, pleased to see that would be thieves believed the "Nothing of value in here" sign wisely placed on the dash. For once ML was waiting for me as he hastily chucked everything in the trunk, glad to be done with the packing, unpacking, depacking, etc.

Of course the important matter at this point was finding some grub. This was much more stressful than anticipated, due to a combination of FOMO, irritating health and safety restrictions, and the odd habit of Evergreen area restaurants closing early on Saturdays (like everyone else in CO they want to get up at 4am to be back at the trailhead by noon). We settled on takeout from Saigon Landing downtown. We returned to ML's quiet country estate and chowed down on his deck, listening to the Elk bugling nearby and reliving all the good times of the past couple days of action and adventure. It really was as good as it gets.

Epilogue: A Template for the Future

The next day was back to the world of responsibility, but we made the most of it with walks to old rusty cars in the woods and a very aggressive game of backyard frisbee golf. A lost disc soured the mood (why did they color the driver black and not dayglo orange?), but we had pizza and watched Tom Brady defeat his former team in a close, well-fought game that left everyone satisfied. We resolved that it is better to have short, dense, and somewhat rushed adventures that we manage to squeeze in vs long, epic adventures that never happen. It would be worthwhile to inventory the gear and practice unpacking, depacking, and repacking because I have a hunch we have many more multisport overnighters in our (hopefully near) future.

Never Summer Wilderness: Baker-Bowen Loop

Placing an end to this regrettable silence...

Prologue: Bros Be Gettin' Stoked!

"Blaaahhhhh...so what about riding from Albuquerque to Evergreen? Of course the logistics would be a bitch, maybe a loop around the Olympic Peninsula would be optimal, if it weren't so damned wet...". So goes the daily conversations via chat, the never-ending yearning for escape, adventure, and the unknown. Anything but fiddling with yet another half-functioning WordPress plugin or some PHP code that I cannot for the life of me force to bend to my will. Hours spent staring at maps, turning flat paper into gorgeous canyons, towering trees, pure gushing streams, and well-paved backcountry roads where there is never any traffic and the bucolic farmers daughters happily pour us lemonade on a sunny day. For far too long it remained nothing more than a fantasy, a cruel joke under fluorescent lighting and the nagging suspicion of wasted years. Injuries, laziness, boredom, and inertia were becoming the dominant forces of our lives, and we knew that hitting the trails as soon as possible was a matter of life and death.

Thanks to some abnormally smoking deals on Southwest Airlines, tickets were purchased and everything came together suddenly. ML put his local knowledge and striking attention to detail to great use, conjuring up an optimal route that promised to take us into an uncrowded backcountry full of aspens, rugged peaks, and pristine alpine lakes. With GD on board, we knew we would have gourmet food and endless entertainment from his legendary overpacking and awkward shitting situations. I, for one, used the trip as a great excuse to spend every waking minute of my precious free time roaming the Oregon backcountry trying to coerce myself into some semblance of shape. The fact I was sleeping on a cot in my dirty stoner house was a matter of no importance, for with an imminent adventure on our hands we were becoming stoke incarnate, and that is all that mattered.

Winter Park and Lake Granby

At the kitchen table everything is a great idea, especially when suffering from premature stokulation. The flat maps and overloaded packs resting comfortably on the carpet create an illusion that all will be glorious and pleasant. The table was groaning under the weight of several dozen pounds of trail mix, yet we were concerned it would not be nearly enough for 3 days. Four mile peak bagging detours seemed quite sensible, and backcountry blueberry muffins were a total no-brainer.

Delusions and illusions aside we packed the Mazda 3 to the gills and set off for higher ground...only to be immediately ground to a halt by notorious I70 traffic, the bane of all greater Denver area residents. By now we were positively vibrating under the spell of the stoke, and the best thing to do was to have another listen of Toll Booth Willie. I suggest you do the same.

Once we finally left the gridlock, we were pleasantly surprised to discover that the aspens were at their absolute peak, an auspicious sign. Before long we arrived at the Jim Creek trail head near the Winter Park resort. The trail promised to be a fine acclimatization hike for our trio of gimps and flatlanders. The mellow, relatively unused path provided incredible aspen viewing, and ample space for tossing around the pigskin.

At this point we decided to find a campsite before dark. Some astute map reading led us to believe that Forest Road 4 near Lake Granby was the move, and it certainly proved to be the case. Once we ventured past the RV latrines and houses with lighted Ferris wheels in the front yard (obviously owned by the sort of eccentric you'd expect living literally on the edge of the national forest) we found plenty of places to pitch our tents, take loads off, and smoke our proverbial bowls (somewhat tragic aside: we were in Colorado, yet none of us were indulgent in the cannabis). ML and GD spent the next several hours attempting to haul dinner out of Lake Granby (ML suddenly realized he had completely forgotten about packing food for that night, lending a certain urgency to the fishing). If golf is "a good walk spoiled" I view fishing as a good sit ruined, so I traipsed around the lake, amazed by the colorful sunset. It became obvious that "purple mountain majesty" wasn't some tossed together bullshit phrase.

The fishing was something of a failure, so we had no choice but to go to the pleasant town of Grand Lake, somewhat in between seasons given the large Christmas tree erected and lit in September. Not wanting to wait for hours at the only hopping joint in town, we settled on a Mexican joint with the seductive offering of green chile. As any past or present resident of New Mexico knows, green chile anywhere else is somewhere between a sad joke and an abomination. This proved to be all too true here. The service was very fast, mostly due to the fact they didn't bother heating up the burritos all the way. The cure for a disappointing evening? Ending it with a fire in the woods and enough s'mores to place you on the verge of puking.

Baker-Bowen Loop

Enough preliminaries: the time had come to set out to put the fantasy to the test. The weather was absolutely fantastic for late September, our earlier fears of deadly-cold nights and freezing rain had completely dissipated. The trailhead actually begins at Rocky Mountain National Park, but quickly enters the intriguingly-named Never Summer Wilderness. Shouldering our laughably overloaded packs, we headed up Baker Gulch, where the surprisingly numerous aspens were at their absolute apex. By this point in the trip the 9000'+ altitude and several days of trail food/mediocre Colorado Mexican food had given us a fabulous dose of HAFE, and we passed the time recounting tales of our most magnificent triumphs.

Unsatisfied with the previous night's unsuccessful bid at catching dinner, ML and GD made the stroll up to Parika Lake from the campsite to see if the backcountry would yield better results. I could care less about trout; I was mesmerized by the seductive peak rising above it just waiting to be climbed. It brought back memories of my days with the seasoned veterans of the New Mexico Mountain Club, where off-trail pursuits were the order of the day. However, that was 7 years and 7000 beers ago and I was sucking serious wind almost immediately. With the memory my old mentors Joe and Melissa by my side I trudged on upwards at a glacial pace, eventually reaching the top of the unnamed peak around sunset, thoroughly knackered yet completely alive. Some folks seek solace through drugs, some prefer sex, and others dig power trips over other saps. For me, nothing beats fresh air, sheer exhaustion, and stark landscapes. Amidst this near-hallucinatory state I came to understand the sound of the silence of the desert is nothing more than God laughing at our feeble plans. Once on top, I realized that coming down was no trivial task, and I more or less performed a scree glissade, arriving at the trail where I saw three mule deer running past, surely the holy trinity made corporeal.

In this trance I happened upon ML and GD, returning with their big haul: a single plump brookie. Proud of our successes, we met an older woman on the trail whose leathery complexion, quality gear, and all around aura of confidence gave the impression of someone who has done this before. Seeing our handsome catch she remarked "Well, I hope you brought some side dishes". Gutted from that pithy remark we returned to camp to turn the catch into food.

Processing a fish is challenging in the best of circumstances, but in the backcountry it is downright diabolical. The whole process of preparing the poor bastard along with other camp chores all in the dark cold conjured awful memories of Air Force ROTC Leadership Labs, environments of artificial stress where nothing of consequence was ever accomplished. The scene was right out of a dull and poorly-lit Three Stooges episode, with the slippery corpse of a trout simply would not stay properly wrapped and secured, at one point falling into the ashes as if to defy and insult its murderer. ML desired to "meet the meat" to justify being an omnivore, and the ordeal (which yielded a few decent bites) was enough to make one a vegan.

Day 2 of the backcountry excursion began with an immediate ascent above treeline up to a 12200' pass with fantastic views of the Never Summer Range and the craggy peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park. The rest of the day was more or less above treeline, with non-stop magnificent views. It was exactly as the brochure promised: gorgeous scenery, ideal weather, shockingly few people (it was Saturday in Colorado, for Christ's sake), wildlife (3 marmots and dozens of mountain goats that may or may not have actually been white rocks), and entertaining latrine stops.

Our reverie was brutally shattered when two fellows crept up behind us on their obnoxious dirt bikes. It was downright absurd, as blatantly inappropriate as bringing a fifth of Maker's Mark to a Sunday sermon. They were struggling severely to coax their wheezing and sputtering machines up the steep, narrow, rocky trail. ML gave them a brief lecture on the folly and illegality of their ways, but recognizing their limited mental capacities he decided that it was far too pleasant of a day for combat. Besides, it is generally unwise to engage in fisticuffs with dudes wearing helmets and body armor. Despite our protests, they forced their machines up the trail to Bowen pass, where they had a quick look and then rolled their bikes back down to where they came from.

With our faith in humanity crushed and the shadows becoming long, we realized at Bowen pass that we were completely out of water, with a considerable length of ground to cover. We made the decision to head back down where we came by several hundred vertical feet to get more water, but more importantly to have a good old fashioned do-over of the ascent of Bowen ridge, this time with some goddamned peace and quiet. The decision to continue on the exposed, waterless route was somewhat risky, but ultimately brilliant as it let to some of the finest hours of trekking in my short happy life. Despite the setting sun and tiredness of a second day with the burdens of a full pack at altitude, we were somewhat saddened to have to leave the high country for the wooded enclave of Bowen Lake. Fully expecting to encounter an army of weekend warriors occupying every possible nook and cranny near the lake, we were shocked to find nothing more than a solitary couple who no doubt looked upon us as invaders of their alpine idyll. Being as tactful as possible we took over a few campsites and proceeded to have a relaxing, kill-free evening, punctuated by a rare moonbow sighting.

One of the drawbacks of being a flatlander is experiencing mild altitude sickness when you spend considerable time above 11000'. For me this manifested in a total inability to sleep, making me regret sidestepping the numerous marijuana dispensaries on the way. I emerged the third day in a total daze, operating at 20% capacity. The simple act of rolling up my sleeping pad required multiple rests and a few prayers that I'd make it through the day without puking. In other words, I was hungover without the benefit of a night of (perceived) fun and merriment. I suffered through my misery while my mates were enjoying a sensational morning coffee view of Lake Bowen. They had surpassed any desire to fish and were content to just sit and the let the poor creatures be.

The rest of the hike was rather uneventful, especially after being spoiled by the high-altitude brilliance of the day prior. The undoubted highlight was encountering a bona fide cowboy on the trail mounted on his horse, complete with leather fringed chaps, denim everything on a hot day, and a Sam Elliot mustache. GD's initial reaction was that it was someone who was trying far too hard (likely he was sore that the encounter ruined the momentum of his story of a cub scout tentmate who shit his pants), yet we came to conclude he was the epitome of authenticity, and we were awed and humbled by his presence.

We finally crawled out of the wilderness and returned to the paved parking lot full of windshield tourists and grandmas waddling to read the signage. Full of the unique and invigorating pride that comes from a physically-demanding activity in solitude, we laughed, bathed in the stream, and decided to play "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and embarked on our own windshield tour of the Park, gobbling a bag of buffalo wing flavored Snyders with a vengeance. After a spell we came to a visitor center with visions of soft drinks and Bugles, but the reality was a sinister parking lot as crammed as a Costco on Saturday afternoon, with hordes of tourists in line for the civilized restrooms and poorly-stocked snack shop, where we settled for vitamin water and chocolate milk. After several days in the wilderness as free as wild beasts, it was appalling and revolting to have such a shocking and brutal return to civilization. Edward Abbey never seemed so right. A couple was actually pickincking in the hellish parking lot in the bed of their truck, the sight of which both perplexed and enraged me. Needless to say we had to get the Hell out of there ASAP.

It just so happened to be the evening of a lunar eclipse, illuminating our ride back to Evergreen. ML was not impressed in the least, and his callous cynicism made quite a bit of sense: these periodic astrological "events" are as abstract as a Presidential debate or Broncos game, giving people something to witness and discuss, but ultimately without meaning. The flesh-and blood physical realities of thirst, hunger, aching shoulders, and sore feet are far more powerful and instructive.

Epilogue

Back to the dreaded, seemingly inescapable plastic indoor life where the greatest danger one faces is a spotty wifi signal. The sweat had yet to dry on our filthy shirts as we peeked at the Gazatteer once again, fantasizing about hidden alpine lakes, impassible crags, and colorful mountain meadows where moose and elk roam free. To turn that tantalizing world of contour lines and unmarked roads into a paradise of hardship and hunger is the eternal dream that we will chase until kingdom come. Until then, we return to the soul-sucking screens of the so-called civilized world, waiting ever so impatiently for the next adventure...