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...
