CT Day 15: Lost at Ski, Salida Bound

July 13
Miles: 11
Total: 262

CW 5 Mile 0 to Monarch Pass

Though the rain stops in the night (and we are not swept away in a flash flood), we wake to incredible dampness in the narrow canyon too close to the river. And there’s only more dampness to confront: damp clothes, wet packs, soaked shoes. I put this off, if only temporarily, cooking hot soup for breakfast from the comfort of my relatively dry sleeping bag.

It’s only 11 miles to town and the promise of showers and laundry and dry everything. But of course the divide stands in between and here I am all soggy at the bottom. So on go the cold, wet clothes and soggy shoes, which warm up somewhat as I climb the steep hill, past lakes (Lakes!) until I am again walking right on the continental divide following a pleasantly crooked path past old looking stone cairns covered in lichens.
Much of the way down is a ridge walk. Which is pretty much my favorite, views on both sides, until the trail deposits me on the dirt roads of an off season ski resort. The roads are a maze and there are no signs. I tried up a steep, steep road, double checking my phone all the way only to get to the top and find out I was walking up a black diamond run.

I drain my phone batteries using GPS to navigate, wondering what happened to Steph who was right behind me until she isn’t. I later learn that she did some steep bonus miles, lost at the ski resort (her phone GPS hasn’t been working).

On and on, the trail seems to go, winding full circles around unnecessary mountains. I hike to see amazing views, but sometimes nothing is more amazing than rounding the bend to see a giant parking lot and a weathered mid century modern rest stop- gift shop.Inside, near dusty taxidermy porcupines, stone arrowheads and other curiosities, there’s a hiker box tucked in a corner. A giant air freshener has been strategically placed, synthetic floral aromas doing serious competition with hiker stench.

We score a ride to town with the second person we acost, a father from Leadville out mountain biking with his young sons. He deposits us near the hostel in Salida (though it is out of his way – thank you again!), which is rumored to be hiker friendly. But the big NO glows orange on the vacancy sign. Out faces droop in such sadness, but we go in anyway to see if they have space for tomorrow.

But they are so hiker friendly we can sleep on the floor for cheap and there’s bunk space for tomorrow. So much happiness. And Glimmer and Arcade are here! 
We don crazy town outfits from the loaner clothes pile and hit up the grocery store. Finally, two weeks later, we make the eggs and veggies we dreamed up way back on day one.

CT Day 12: A Pass Beyond Hope

 July 10
Miles: 16.1
Trail Mile: 205

CW1 Mile 5.6 to CW2 Mile 11.9

Kick. Jab. Jab. Step. I kick another step into the soft snow, burry my poles deep and inch closer to the top of the cornice. Don’t look down, don’t look down, I repeat to myself. But it doesn’t really matter; I know what lurks just a (mis)step away: a vertical wall of snow that drops right off onto the steep, steep rocky slopes of Lake Ann Pass. There can be no mistakes here.

Lake Ann Pass isn’t even our first pass of the day. We went over Hope Pass early this morning, back when the skies were clear and the snow patches at non-lethal angles. Hope Pass was incredible, with strings of prayer flags and an incredible reveal of snowy peaks as you walk over the top.


 It also has to be one of the steepest climbs on the Colorado Trail, thankfully we had the fortitude to drag ourselves halfway up last night. This didn’t exactly help with the down-side, but the views were new and kept opening up into ever more striking vistas. Lake Ann, then, is the pass beyond Hope. And, with a significant cornice lingering at the top – a steep wall of overhanging snow blocking the way – it is the number one reason people are still skipping the Collegiate West Route for the lower, easier East option. Based on the number of hikers we saw today (none doing a CT thru), the steep snow is enough to keep most people away. Even the CDT hikers seemed scarce.

But as we near Lake Ann, the clouds do their usual noon thing with the sound of the sky-furniture being rearranged upstairs. So we alternate between walking slowly, and hiding from the intermittent rain, hoping the storm will blow over soon so we can get over the pass while the snow is at its midday safest-soft (we would need our microspikes that we sent home for morning ice). But the dark clouds refuse to move on, instead settling right on top of the pass and grumbling their discontent for hours on end, as if they too can’t figure out how to navigate the obstacle. 

Finally, the thunder seems distant enough to pop out above the tree line. I still want to attempt the pass, but am hesitant about the conditions. There’s an optipn to climb around the snow, but surely the rocks are wet and slippery from the rain? And the cliffs look as treacherous as the snow, and for much longer. Just as I really begin to worry about what to do, a CDT hiker comes our way, the first and only person we’ve met whose been over Lake Ann Pass today. He assures us that the snow is soft and sticky and that we will be fine. “But an older CDT hiker told me, one slip and I would die,” counters Steph (true story. He also seemed shocked that she would even attempt such a feat in a skirt). “You won’t slip” assures the CDT hiker and that is that.

Though the pass and associated nerves are looming, we can’t resist mini-side trip to Lake Ann proper. Snow and green and rock reflections swirl together on the surface, like marble, following is up the slope. 

Lake Ann Pass with lingering cornice (the overhanging snow bank up on the saddle)

It would be such a lovely place to camp, but neither of us can stand the idea of spending so long with the intimidating pass in plain view. I go first, taking charge of route finding and mentally break the pass into manageable challenges: to the end of the obvious trail; across the rock field; up to the cairn; across the safe snow; up the switchbacks. These all become, achievable, quite safe, and even fun tasks. Except in the end, the cornice remains. The path over the snow is obvious at this point, as we were told. Good steps have been kicked in, though they have melted quickly with the warm weather. And, in line with the accounts of those who were not inclined to downplay the risk (thank you Walkabout and Skipper!), the way is treacherous and exposed.

The first section is the steepest, like climbing a ladder made of snow. A third of the way up I stifle a minor panic, calm my self into continuing up the almost-vertical slope with the realization that going down would be worse than forward. The pass is doable with my intro snow skills, trail runners and hiking poles, but it is no joke. 

The second section is far less steep, but traverses the very edge of the drop off. I am so focused time seems irrelevant, I can’t even hear Steph following my steps. I’m somewhere beyond fear. It’s just me and this snowbank in the sky. Kick. Jab. Jab. Step. For five minutes? For thirty minutes? Forever? Until I am over the top and off the other side back on dry ground. We dance around the top of the pass chanting “We didn’t die! We’re not dead!”. Not dying, of course, is on top of my daily to do list. Just as photos always downplay the angles of slopes (and none were taken where it was most dangerous), today’s miles cannot possibly reflect the actual accomplishment. Of two massive passes, of conquering fears, of traversing the magical land that is the Collegiate West with almost no one else around.
 

CT Day 9: The Set Up

July 7
Miles: 23
Trail Mile: 169

Segment 9 Mile 3.5 to end of Section 10

If yesterday was a day of three distinct passes, today was a day of three far less rewarding hills. There was much slogging up and down through forest with few good views, with one exception: the Holy Cross Wilderness with its beautiful meadow of oh mah gorgeous. But the way out is up and the walls are rather imposing. I gasp my way along. It’s day 9, cardio where are you? Perhaps my I hate exercise program is finally catching up to me. What? Can’t I just go from desk to twenty mile days at elevation? A thousand mosquito coaches nag me onward, nipping my legs if I break for more than a few seconds. 

But the top, oh my. Even better than the valley: The usually solid forest is broken up by granite chunks, if not quite slabs. It’s almost the Sierra up here, complete with a tiny reflecting pond (and proud birthplace of a million mosquitos). Or rather, with so much green lushness, it reminds me of the parts of NorCal that remind me of the Sierra. I barely notice the second bit of uphill, distracted in part by the almost familiar beauty and by the odd snow patch across the trail that requires a wee bit of careful navigation.I have lunch with Glimmer and Arcade, a couple of CDT hikers who are doing Colorado southbound because of snow. Yay for cool people heading the same way at a similar pace. But the after lunch special is the steepest hill ever (so far on the CT). A brutal slope up, with almost no respite until near the top. And the reward at the top? A dirt road and crackling power lines. And mosquitos. Why trail? Why?

At first, I cant tell if it’s misting or if it’s just all the bugs in the air. But then with thunderous confirmation, rain begins to fall. Though still in the tree cover, I am up higher than I like and the trail climbs over one more ridge before heading back down. I pick up the pace, half running over the shallow saddle as the thunder grows nearer, then march on until I am back down to the relative safety of a creek in a narrow valley. Then there’s one last hill until camp, and decisions to be made: side trails to Colorado’s two highest peaks are near and we need to set ourselves up for early starts to beat the afternoon storms. Steph decides to camp near the turn off to Mt Massive, while I continue on a few more miles with plans to summit Elbert – Colorado’s highest and the second highest in the lower 48 states. Steph might attempt both, but the weather appears to be worsening in the next few days and I am content to wager my weather window on an Elbert shaped basket (mixed metaphors much?). My knees are currently holding up well, but back to back 14ers could be the death of them. Here’s Elbert looming above the trail just before camp:
I end up camped with another fast CT hiker I first met a few days ago. I’ve been kind of wigged out the past few times I’ve seen him because he bears an uncanny resemblance to an old ex of many years. We chat some, and the weirdness just continues as he, like the ex, is an economist. I panic mildly to myself. What if this is the same person? But that’s impossible, he grew up in Texas. What if this is all lies and it is the same person and he’s made up all his past to make me crazy?
On that (completely insane I am losing it out here) note, it’s early to bed tonight because tomorrow promises enough steep up and downs to make today seem like a joke. Hopefully the weekend crowd camped at the roadside trailhead across the river will stay quiet. And, as if on command, a tiny rain shower commences to ensure they do just that.

Colorado Trail! Gear and other pre-hike thoughts

In less than a week I’m setting off on my next adventure: a thru hike of the Colorado Trail! The CT begins just outside of Denver and ends in Durango, arcing 480 trail miles to the southwest. Along the way I will enjoy views from the ridges and meadows along the continental divide, climb a 14er or three and hopefully catch the spring bloom. There will be some new challenges too. Like angry moose. And afternoon thunderstorms charging through on an almost-daily basis. There’s also some lingering snow after a cool spring, but hopefully the melt will precede me. And it’s nothing like the current situation in the Sierra or Cascades! But I’ve been practicing just in case:​

 

​Other than possibly carrying microspikes, mostly I’m just bringing my PCT gear. I already own it, and know it works for me. Two very important qualities in gear! You can see my even-the-diva-cup complete CT gear list here. I have replaced a few worn out items, mostly socks and shoes, but also my Marmot Essence rain jacket that no longer beads up and is starting to de-laminate after three seasons (not terrible for such a lightweight item). I will re-waterproof the old one and still bring it on shorter trips, but wanted some factory-coated certainty for the whole summer monsoon thing. Also the new red really pops against stormy skies.Having re-sealed the seams after last summer’s storm debacle, my TarpTent Notch is still going strong after 150+ nights. I will be bringing the inner net because mosquito season, but would probably just go with the outer tarp for an August start. I keep dreaming about replacing my reeking-with-the-stench-of-a-thousand-armpits but still perfectly functional ULA circuit pack with something slightly smaller and more colorful. The ULA OHM in orange and Superior Wilderness Designs 35 in teal (swoon!) are top contenders, but I’ve talked myself out of it so far. Sorry airplane seat neighbors. It’s not me, it’s my pack. Actually, I have been fighting off the urge to buy all kinds of shiny-clean new things, but seem to have kept the consumerism mostly at bay. It wouldn’t be too hard to justify an upgrade to a full-sized Saweyr filter, but would it still feel like thru hiking without my daily mini squeeze struggles? I’ve made it five months patiently filtering through a pinhole, surely I can make it one more?

I am slowly learning not to invest big $ in hiking shirts since I tend to trash them (literally). I found a shfancy ex-officio Halo shirt on Sierra Trading Post for $30. It has some magic (anti?) fairy dust that keeps bugs away and hopefully won’t give me cancer. I’m not especially in love with the pale color, but it looks (excessively) respectable with my purple rain hiking skirt (as seen on Half Dome). Am I even hiker trash anymore?Resupply boxes are (mostly) packed. Data book torn into sections with care. And I’m even starting with a friend – Steph who I met on the High Sierra Trail last summer. We have hostel reservations in Breckenridge for the 4th of July (mile 104). I’m only bringing five days food as ‘motivation.’ I might not have told Steph about that part. Follow along and see if we make it on time!

Catalina Day 4: The High Road

January 13, 2016
Parson’s Landing to Two Harbors
Miles: 8

I roll over and poke my head out of the tent just in time to see the sky glow pink with sunrise. I am relieved to see that the ocean has stayed mostly in its place through the night. No need to test the limits of the crumbling seam tape on my aging tent’s bathtub floor. Still in my sleeping bag, I lean out a little further and boil water for breakfast in bed. I decide to relieve Hanie of some freeze dried yakisoba she’s carried all this way but left untouched. It’s terrible. Note to self: bring real food on short trips.DSC06055Hanie has decided to take the road back to town, content with seeing what we’ve seen, still feeling a bit under the weather. I think she also wants to test out solo hiking before hitting the Camino de Santiago later this spring. I will be looping back to town on the high route, climbing back up to the ridges for another dose of stunning views.

I wander lost a bit looking for the right trail since I’ve decided to skip the last out and back to Starlight Beach, the true end of the Trans-Catalina Trail. I’ve heard it’s anti-climactic, not nearly as nice as Parson’s Landing. I find the correct path, and am soon suffering the consequences. The ridge looms 1750 feet above the beach, and most of this elevation is gained in a single mile of trail. I tackle what is rumored to be an exceptionally steep – even by Catalina standards –  fence line trail in reverse, each step barely in front of the last. There are several stretches where I could have easily used my hands if they weren’t holding trekking poles. Hanie would have hated this, I muse, as I attempt to giggle while gasping for oxygen and instead choke on my own laughter.  It’s always impossible to really show how steep the grade is, but with that in mind consider the following:DSC06065

DSC06075After a few demoralizing false summits, I am back up in the sky. And, as always, on this captivating island, the views are so worth it. The ochre earth, saturated with recent rains, so bright against the deep blue seas. And finally, I have found a bit of island devoid of tire tracks. A sign reminds me that Starlight Beach is only 3.5 miles away. But it’s not really in my plans. I stop to reconsider, but do not want to tease the ferry – it’s Wednesday and the next boat doesn’t leave Two Harbors until Friday. No need to create a stressful day by power hiking an extra 7 miles with a deadline. Besides, I have nothing to prove (I lie to myself) so this is a good challenge in choosing fun over miles [Update: a year later I regret not doing those last miles. Darn purist ethics or ego or both].DSC06078After a few hours of ups and downs, the trail weaves its way back down to sea level, passing through a public works yard and back to town. I find Hanie at the beach. She seems surprised to see me, assuming I would have caved and added those extra miles instead of coming straight back. Hanie ended up walking with the dude from the beach.  His GPS conforming that the distance by road is closer to 8 miles, the same as by trail. The many signs and mile markers, while reassuring do not feel particularly accurate here.DSC06084 Though the trail is officially 37 miles end to end, we’ve manage to log 43 miles without even tagging the far shore of the island. I nap on the beach in the winter sun, rolled up in the tent against the ocean breeze, food bag and ziplocks strewn about. “That was very hikertrash” declares Hanie when I wake. 

On the ferry ride back to Long Beach, a friendly long-time local answers forty miles of accumulated questions, topped off with bonus stories aplenty. Hanie’s veterinary background makes for easy conversation with a live-off-the-land local. We learn that the many fences were built to assist in managing (read: culling) an out of control population of wild goats and pigs. The first attempt, you see, at machine guns slaughter via helicopter was not entirely successful. So they divided the island into quadrants, which were then meticulously  walked by teams that shot everything in sight. Oh, island life. It’s so gentle and peaceful. Less distressingly, we also learn that the bison are, ironically, one the the genetically purest populations. The original prairie herds where they originated  have since mixed with cattle. So now there’s an exchange program, whereby SoCal bison are deposited into South Dakota winter, and left to puzzle the mystery of the cold white stuff on the ground.

The ferry makes a stop in Avalon, and the sun sets as beautifully as it rose four days ago. A fitting end to a pretty trip with eventful skies.DSC06094

2031 Bridge of the Gods

I sleep in, having bought myself some extra time by making miles last night. And because the alternate is actually a bit shorter than the official trail. I have plenty of time to enjoy the string of magnificent falls along Eagle Creek, each more spectacular than the last. Though every step is blister pain today, raw skin jostled against each rock underfoot, I barely notice with so much to see. There’s Twister falls, spinning off into the abyss; the famous tunnel falls, draped in moss and ferns dripping with mist. No one is here, so I take a million terrible selfies before ceremoniously walking through.

So much of this trail, like the tunnel, is dynamited through the rock face, the kind of aggressive trail making that would never happen here today. Paths blasted from the cliff faces, strung with thick cables to provide handholds between mossy cliff and sheer drop offs. IMG_7708The crowds thicken as I near the trail head, hoards of day hikers at Punchbowl falls, where a day hiker plunged to his death just last week. The falls are mostly obscured by vegetation and he fell after having climbed the safety barrier for a better view.

At the trail head parking lot I rush to use the facilities – there’s been nowhere at all to go, stuck between the cliffs and the crowds. Then the last miles on the paved bike path parallel the river. And during these miles, the tears well up as they do when something so deeply burrowed into your soul is coming to an end, until the Bridge of the Gods makes me cry. The bridge is named for Native American legend-as-oral history, in remembrance of a landslide that once connected these distant banks. Now a lacy expanse of steel spans the river-as-colonial-border. IMG_7759I feel excited and sad, proud and guilty all at once. I’ve made it so far, yet still have that 80ish mile stretch back by Crater Lake tugging at my conscience. This year has been so strange, being on and off trail so much. But I guess that’s to be expected when you attempt a long-distance hike while technically holding on to a full time job. So I head to town to eat my feelings until family arrives to whisk me back to my default life (and the biggest nicoise salad of my dreams), though already I’m dreaming of fall in the Sierra.

August 6th, 2016
Miles 14
Trip: 644 PCT Miles for Summer 2016
Total PCT Miles Hiked: 2070ish
PCT Mile Marker: 2144

IMG_7782

2098 Thirty + One

Spoiler: I did it!

My alarm goes off early, too early. It’s August now, and I have forgotten how much the days are shortening toward fall. I wake up all ambitious, but it’s still dark out, darker than I enjoy wandering alone in the woods. I wait a bit for things to brighten, but eventually anticipation overcomes fear and I wander into the barest dawn light to fetch my ursack from a nearby tree.IMG_7926I am off to a clunky start, all stiff in the cool air, slow on the downhill and there’s a lot of it today – almost 11,000 feet. But the views are plentiful, waterfalls crashing into steep ravines, sky rosy with sunrise. Eventually I make it down the first big hill, not feeling super optimistic about my mileage goal. There are several creeks to cross, cloudy brown and swift with glacial melt. Sandy Creek on a slapdash pile of branches that somehow support my weight, and Muddy Creek on a sketchy double log situation where you can’t see your feet and everything gets narrower as you go. At Ramona Falls, I take a break I wasn’t meaning to take, because I had them all to myself. For the next few miles, repeated from yesterday, I half expect to see my dog leading the way. But she’s home safe in Portland and it’s just me vs. the miles.IMG_7654After the creek obstacles, there’s a massive hill of switchbacks, unusual for Oregon. But at least they are lined with berries – ripe excuses for pauses on the way up. Over the next few miles, I gorge Hungry caterpillar style: blue huckleberries, blueberries, red huckleberries, salmon berries, thimble berries. I even score a trail magic banana to add to the fruit salad accumulating in my belly. But miles! I am supposed to be making miles… Luckily I can go a very long way on a bit of caffeine and some good tunes. Also, voodoo donuts help. I made a detour to add them to my resupply on the way to the trail.IMG_7540On I push, trees opening up here and there to reveal ever-shrinking views of Mount Hood, until my feet force a break. I peel off the tape and inspect my feet. Small blisters have sprouted on heels and toes; worse than they ever were even in the desert PCT last year. But at least not swollen and tender on the bottom like those first weeks back on trail in NorCal this year.IMG_7662These last miles before the gorge are like a mini-review of Oregon: forested ridges, distant lakes, paths through lava. And the volcanic peaks, those in Washington now looming closer as Hood shrinks in the distance.IMG_7929I stop for dinner at a picnic table, just where the Eagle Creek alternate, the path almost everyone not on a horse or chasing a record takes, branches off. The sun is sinking below the hills, but I decide to bravely go on. The trail careens downhill, like some daredevil mountain bike track. It makes no pretense of easing you into the terrain. There are no switchbacks, no campsites, no water sources. Up or down are the only options. To my relief its not especially slippery either, a relief considering the angle. Make short work of it all the while glad to not be going up, particularly after 26 other miles.

The rewarded is an Eagle Creek trail so blissfully flat, soft and well maintained. The last lingering rays of sunlight filter through the trees, warming all the greenery, Oregon grape drooping with bunches of ripe purple berries. I think about Elk Lakes a few weeks back, where one of the section hikers who I joined for dinner asked me, upon learning that I was doing 25+mile days, what the last few miles felt like each evening. While (gasp!) I don’t love every mile I do (maybe less than half are smiling in the moment type fun), I responded that the last miles were not necessarily the most tedious or painful, it really depended on the circumstances. Today is an excellent example, where the hardest miles terrain wise were followed by three most pleasant last miles, and the worst of the day was somewhere in the middle, when the trail turned rocky and I realized I was sprouting all kinds of unexpected blisters.IMG_7930Three more miles to a beautiful creek side campsites (there’s one dry camp option a mile or so sooner), and I arrive just before dark. So I make my 30 plus one and change. Despite the 6,000 feet of elevation gain and 11,000 feet of loss. Despite all my waterfall gazing and berry grazing. I collapse in my tent, so happy to claim my first 30, after 10 days off trail. And unbelievably, my knees still appear to be working, without much pain at all.

August 5, 2016
Miles: 31.5 (New Record!)
Trip: 635
PCT: 2030 (ish) hard to say because alternate.