Autumn in the Weminuche

Autumn in the high country is so very brief. The transition from wildflowers to accumulating snowfall takes a few weeks at best, and even that's not a sure thing. So when we got a few days' hiatus from the rain that's been lingering in the area for the past month, it was go-time.

Our destination - an obscure off-trail lake high in the San Juan Mountains. The 'why' behind that choice is best left for my end-of-year wrap-up post, but for now, let's just note that it this trip fit the "it's the journey, not the destination" trope.

While the trip itself was smooth and pleasant, the drive was not. Just as we left Montrose, my check-engine light came on. Annoyed, we headed back home to grab Steph's car instead.  

And, wouldn't you know it, just as we were leaving Montrose for the second time, I stopped to make sure I'd packed my hiking shoes. I confirmed that all was well, but at that exact moment we realized that Steph had forgot her hiking shoes. Sigh. Back home again to retrieve them.

I'm happy to report that our third attempt to escape Montrose ended in success, and after driving three hours under dreary skies, we crashed at the trailhead, exhausted.

Day 1

The remnants of yesterday's rain had settled into a thick fog bank in the bottom of our valley, which made for a wet morning. We packed up and headed down the linear mud-pit that could generously be described as a 'trail'. Plenty of hunters and their packstock had churned up the trail quite significantly.

After following the shore of a dammed-up reservoir for a few minutes, we paralleled a cascading creek as we climbed up toward the Continental Divide. Our trail crossed the Divide at the easiest, most gentle 'pass' imaginable. In fact, were it not for the map, you'd be forgiven for not noticing it at all.

After a few more miles, we departed the main valley and headed up a side canyon. We didn't know what conditions to expect from that trail - many of these lesser-known trails in large wilderness areas are overgrown at best, and nonexistent at worst. But the reasonably well-constructed tread surprised us, and we only stepped over perhaps half a dozen blowdowns. Not bad!

After climbing a thousand feet or so, we veered off the trail, crossed a meadow, and headed toward a steep, timbered slope. Our destination was the mesa above - a large expanse of flat-rolling terrain above 12,000'.

This route was the only way to access the mesa, as impenetrable cliffs ringed the rest of it. That's not to say that it was easy going, however. It was still steep, and frequent downed trees necessitated some slaloming. Thankfully, we found a series of wonderful elk trails that led us around the worst of the chaos. After more than a little huffing and puffing, we found ourselves on the mesa top.

The climb sapped much of our energy, and as we contoured around the edge of the mesa, we took frequent breaks. Neither of us had been at altitude in something like two months, and it certainly showed. 

As soon as we got up high, away from the trails and all the hunters, the elk went crazy. We heard a bugle every few minutes, and they never ceased to generate wonder and amazement. These elk certainly knew where they were safe - atop a remote trail-less mesa whose access is difficult - and where they were not - near the hunting camps in the valleys below. 

Eventually, as the sun dipped below the peaks to our west, we reached our destination - Blue Lake. It wasn't much to speak of - barely more than a tarn. But it did send a cheery cascade through its outlet into a small pond below, and it was nestled in such a beautiful setting. My photographer bride took much pleasure in snapping frames of the Rio Grande Pyramid reflected in the still waters. I, meanwhile, set up camp and crawled in the tent, cold and tired.

A few minutes after dark, we awoke to an elk bugling a little too close for comfort. I let out a holler to scare him away, and the sound of fleeing hooves receded into the darkness. There's a decent chance that this elk had never seen a person before, and simply thought that our tent was a bizarre symmetrical rock. We certainly didn't need him accidentally trampling us in the middle of the night.

Day 2 

Though we camped at 12,200' on a flat mesa well above treeline, not even a hint of a breeze stirred the tent that night. We woke up to a thick coating of frost - sheet ice, really - covering the tent, inside and out. We made 3 or 4 full-size snowballs and had a few minutes of fun chucking them around. But we packed quickly and hit the trail, hoping to eat breakfast some time later once it warmed up.

As we made our way back around the edge of the mesa, we saw all of yesterday's views in a different light. The sun lit up the Needle Range and the famous Chicago Basin area to our west, and some of the snowcapped peaks to our north glowed pink.

After a quick breakfast, we followed those wonderful elk trails down the slope into the valley. Both of us felt a little better as we descended into thicker atmosphere and could, once again, breathe deeply. Before long we crossed the meadow and rejoined the trail for the journey back to the car.

We ate lunch at the junction with the CDT. While we were in the heart of southbounder season, we saw no thru-hikers, and we wondered aloud how many people still SOBO the CDT. Certainly in this historic low snow year, northbound was the way to go. In a 'normal', it's a bit more of a connundrum. And of course, what even is 'normal' anymore? 

Anyhoo, we cruised along the trail back toward the car, and dropped out of the pines into the aspens. And... WOW! Our views on the way in had been obscured by fog, but now we were able to admire the changing fall colors in all their splendor. Yellows predominated, but a few rockstar aspens glowed bright red or orange. We hiked along the reservoir back to the trailhead, reveling in the arrival of fall. After a long, scorching, smoke-choked summer, it was a delight to finally greet autumn.  

Running Ragged

The hardest part of any backpacking trip is just getting out the door. At the end of a long week of work, the inertia of the couch can sometimes overpower even a well-intentioned desire to go outside.

Such was last weekend's dynamic. With thick wildfire smoke and record-breaking heat making life in Montrose unbearable, some sort of outdoor trip was almost mandatory. Our normal backpacking weekend rhythm consists in driving to the trailhead on Friday evening, camping out, and getting an early start on Saturday morning. But in this case, Steph had just gotten home from a four-day work trip, and the idea of spending an entire weekend away from home held very little appeal. So we mixed things up a bit. We enjoyed a slow morning at home on Saturday, not even leaving home until mid-morning. Inefficient perhaps, but just what the doctor ordered.

Day 1 

We moseyed over to a lakeside trailhead at the edge of the Raggeds Wilderness near the town of Crested Butte, arriving around noon. The trailhead was a zoo, with hundreds of people wandering into traffic as they absentmindedly inflated their various watercraft. We jammed the car in a tiny, very unofficial pull-off, and tried to escape the chaos as quickly as possible. 

We wandered our way through a nonsensical network of dirt roads and private cabins and up a steep hillside. Signs of civilization faded away, and soon we leveled out on a old abandoned trail through the woods. After a quick dip in a marshy lake, we resumed our climb through the labyrinth of jeep roads.

We'd planned to follow a jeep road all the way up to a high ridge at 12,000', but that plan quickly unraveled when we turned a corner and found the road completely washed out. But undaunted, we found perfect off-trail hiking conditions up a shoulder of the ridge, and soon found ourselves on top of the world.

From atop our lofty perch, we caught sight of at least a half-dozen fourteeners. July weekend notwithstanding, we had the whole place to ourselves. We wandered along the rolling ridge, gawking at the amazing views for the next couple hours. A few cumulus floated by, just enough to add some interest to the photos. Could life get any better?

 

We walked toward the jawdropping Ruby Range, the mountains growing larger with each step. We glimpsed a dramatic hanging lake, walled in by sheer cliffs high above the valley below. The remainder of our trip would be spent circling the Ruby Range. Such a treat! 

After a several miles of pure bliss, we dropped down off the ridge on a steep trail. Vaguely scratched into the side of a precipitous slope, the trail involved more than a bit of tedium as we chose each footstep with care.

By and by, the steep terrain gave way to a delightful glacially-carved shelf that made for easy passage and limitless wandering. We arrived at a gorgeous lake right at dusk. There were already a couple of tents set up, but there were plenty of opportunities to space out. We ate dinner more as an act of will than anything else and fell asleep quickly.

I took a few photos of the area the next morning, the beauty of the lake fully revealing itself in the bright sunlight. We followed the trail down off our friendly glacial shelf and and up into a neighboring basin. A warm morning soon became a sweltering hot day. By 8am, I'd already doused my shirt with water to stay cool. 

The entire basin resembled a series of giant steps. Glaciers had scoured it into various flat shelves , each more spectacular than the next. A few hardy pines added to the ambience. Despite the forbidding appearance of the pass ahead, it never got too steep, and soon we were at the top.

To the east lay the dramatic peaks of the Elk Mountains - the same spectacular views we'd been staring at for the past day. To the west, we glimpsed the more subdued West Elks. The West Elks are lovely mountains in their own right, but often get overshadowed by their more ostentatious neighbors. 

We descended the past and stopped for a few minutes to make snow angels. Because this past winter was so dry, only a few tiny snow patches remained. Frolicking was therefore mandatory. Plus, a snowball in our hats made for an excellent natural air conditioner.

As we made our way around the back side of the Ruby Range, we dropped down into the trees. We still caught occasional peak-a-views of the mountains, but the beauty was a bit more muted. Thankfully, the wildflowers were in peak bloom, and we often stopped to admire them.

It was hot. We stopped frequently to re-wet our shirts. And the miles started to drag. In truth, 23 miles with almost 7,000' of gain was probably a bit aggressive for a day-and-a-half weekend where neither of us was at full strength. But did I actually check the vertical gain before I suggested this hike? Not a chance. Poor planning strikes again.

The last couple miles of the day had us both griping. We followed a very nice mountain bike trail around the remainder of the Ruby Range and back to the car. Unfortunately, what mountain bikers consider "very nice", hikers loathe. It was excessively circuitous and included nearly as much downhill as uphill - great for managing momentum on a bike, but torturous for weary-legged hikers. Having hiked a couple of 'bonus miles' on the unmapped twists and turns of the mountain bike trail, we finally, at long last, arrived back at the car. 

It wasn't a perfect weekend. We got a late start, my planning left much to be desired, and we both were dragging by time we got back to the car. But it was still a terrific weekend outside. And it sure beats 100-degree smoke!

 

An Introduction to the Flat Tops

Colorado is the quintessential Rocky Mountain State. The Rockies are spread across parts of six states and two Canadian provinces, but let's be honest - Colorado takes the cake. Mountains cover a full two-thirds of the state. It's home to all of the highest peaks in the Rockies. And most notably, Colorado probably contains more distinct sub-ranges than any of its peers.

The CDT visits many of these sub-ranges - the San Juans, the Sawatch, the Front Range, the Mosquito Range, the Rabbit Ears Range, and more. There's no better introduction to Colorado than hiking all the way through it on the CDT.

But there are still plenty of mountain ranges that the CDT misses. Perhaps the most notable exception is the Sangre de Cristo, that Colorado-New Mexico border range that I visited last month. Another such range is perhaps the weirdest subrange in the Rockies - the Flat Tops.

Situated in west-central Colorado, the Flat Tops consist of a high plateau between 11,000' and 12,000' in elevation. Low peaks rise up from above the plateau, and dozens of lakes and tarns dot the landscape. The upper elevations rise just a little bit above treeline, giving rise to photogenic tree-smattered alpine meadows. Of course, the off-trail-hiking potential is off the charts.

Steph and I assembled a thirty-mile weekend loop of the area. While we wouldn't see everything (the Flat Tops Wilderness is the second-largest designated Wilderness in Colorado), the loop offered us an excellent first foray into the area.

Day 0 

We drove about four hours from home, but owing to the long June days, plenty of daylight remained when we arrived at the trailhead on Friday night. We meandered perhaps a mile up the trail and after a little searching, found a truly excellent campsite with a peekaboo view of the nearby peaks. 

Day 1 

We packed up on Saturday morning and continued up the trail, gaining elevation ever-so-gradually. The excellent trail conditions proved a pleasant surprise, and before long we broke out of the trees at about 11,000'. We'd stay above treeline for the vast majority of the next twenty miles as we cruised the ridges that encircle the famous Trappers Lake.

We ran into a group of older backpackers up there searching in vain for a mostly non-existent trail. But in an environment like that, what is the use of trails at all?  

After a few delightful miles, we watered up at a tiny tarn and made our way over to the famous Devil's Causeway. Over the years, a pair of glaciers - one flowing eastward, one westward - carved away the plateau, leaving a three-foot-wide strip with dizzying sheer vertical drops on each side. We carefully crept our way along the causeway to the other side where the plateau broadened back out. While certainly airy, neither of us thought that the causeway was quite as death-defying as the internet would have us believe. Certainly, trekking poles were a great aid.

We glided along the ridge some more, with strong west winds buffeting us. We spied another grove of trees on the map to give us some shelter during lunch, but alas, it was just a practical joke by the USGS geographers. We ended up huddling behind a pathetic patch of willows instead.

The afternoon dragged a bit, probably owing to my subpar conditioning, and the wind continued to howl. We kept meandering along the ridge, finally dropping a few hundred feet into a lake-filled glacial cirque. We finally made camp in a truly sublime meadow beneath a line of cliffs. 

As the sun took its leave, the wind died in short order and the mosquitoes came out. But no matter, we were both pretty beat and were all too happy to crawl into bed.

Day 2

Temperatures dipped to around freezing overnight, and we found a few patches of frost on the ground in the morning. But in the absence of yesterday's blustery winds, the day warmed quickly. The bugs also seemed to appreciate the reprieve from the wind, though DEET did a fine job of keeping them off of me. Bugs typically pay Steph no mind... lucky!

As opposed to yesterday's ridgewalk, today consisted of a meander below various cliffs and buttes. In some ways it actually exceeded yesterday's beauty too - the more lakes and geographic features to hold our interest. 

At long last, it was time to drop off the plateau down into the Trappers Lake basin. We followed another gorgeously-constructed trail down the headwall of a cirque and into a twenty-year-old burn area. The last few miles of the day, down an old crappy road through the burn, were perhaps the only miles of the entire weekend that didn't impress. Not bad, huh?

Overall

I'm still a complete newcomer to Colorado. Prior to moving here, my Colorado experience was largely limited to the CDT's corridor. It's exciting to visit all these lovely places for the first time. And judging from how much there out in this corner of the world, I'll be relishing that newcomer status for quite some time to come!

 

A Visit to the Pecos

New Mexico has so much to offer, yet I've seen almost none of it. 

That's not entirely true - I did walk the entire length of the state on the CDT - but I've always felt like I was missing out. While the CDT's route through most of New Mexico is quite lovely, it also bypasses many of the state's gems. That's no criticism of the CDT, it's simply to remark that as a linear trail, it has to make some 'tough decisions', and its routing largely follows the Continental Divide for obvious reasons.

One such gem that the CDT bypasses is the Pecos Wilderness, which protects part of the southern end of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. IThe Pecos sits east of the Continental Divide - in fact, east of the Rio Grande, which drains to the Atlantic - so I never even glimpsed it from the CDT. I was long overdue for a visit.

This one was a solo trip, as Steph is heading into her busy season at work and was jonesing for some R&R. And for the second straight year, I turned Memorial Day weekend into a bit of a solo sufferfest. I suppose it's becoming a tradition at this point!

The tone for the weekend was set early, when I misread the driving directions and took a route that was an hour longer than intended. I didn't get into the town of Taos until midnight, where I gassed up and finally arrived at the trailhead at 1:00 AM. Exhausted, I collapsed into bed in the back of my car.

Day 1 

I woke up the next morning and packed up my backpack... and discovered, to my horror, that I'd left my tent at home. Groan. Grousing at myself, I drove an hour back to Taos to scrounge up something at Walmart. Longtime readers of this blog (hi Grandma!) will recall this is not the first time I've had to panic-purchase the same crappy "backpacking tent" at Walmart. Of course, that one was the result of a legitimate gear failure. This one was a result of abject negligence. But I picked up a tent and knockoff Groundhog stakes, only costing me forty dollars and the last iota of my pride. The tent deserves its derisive sobriquet "Ozark Fail" and it's atrociously heavy, but all in all, it the whole ordeal could have been a lot more painful.

The same could not be said for the initial climb out of the trailhead. Having lost a couple hours to the Ozark Fail escapade, I didn't hit the trail until after 9am, and the sun beat down on me as I gained 4,000' in the course of six miles. My heavy, lumpy pack didn't help matters. The cherry on top was the sorry state of my lungs; this was my first high-altitude trip for the season, topping out at 12,800'. By time I got to the top, I was absolutely and utterly pooped. 

As I emerged from the trees, I was exposed to the full force of the howling wind. Despite a benign forecast, it was really ripping up there. The next dozen miles were all above 12,000 feet on a windswept ridgeline without a shred a tree cover. And I had a thirty dollar tent from Walmart. This might get interesting.

It was only about 5pm, but given my exhaustion and sketchy tent situation, I prioritized finding a campsite with at least a little wind protection. I dropped a hundred feet off the lee side of the ridge and found a wonderful little spring-fed pool with a campsite just barely big enough for an Ozark Fail. The westerlies battered my tent all night, but it held up alright. Despite camping at 12,300', I slept like the dead.

Day 2 

The next morning dawned bright, with just a couple scraggly clouds dropping a few snowflakes. But the skies soon cleared, and I resumed my long ridgewalk. With renewed energy and less blustery winds, my pack somehow felt considerably lighter than it had the previous day.

As I came over a rise, I glimpsed a couple of marmots chasing each other. Then my gaze shifted, and standing right there was a large herd of bighorn sheep! And of course, a cow elk was doing her thing in the background. It seemed I'd inadvertently stumbled into a safari. I grinned to myself and remarked to the Lord, "now, a bear would be the kicker".

Cairns marked the path along the broad, gentle ridgeline. Actual trail tread came and went, but the way forward always presented itself. Tiny patches of snow dotted the mountains, just enough for decoration. Trails periodically reached up from the valleys below to connect with my ridgetop route, which gradually gained more definition as traffic increased. I soon spied a few backpackers coming up those trails, but only perhaps half a dozen groups in total.

The trail sagged down to the very edge of treeline. The craggy Truchas Peaks began to dominate more and more of the skyline, and soon I turned off onto a side trail. After a roller-coaster mile or two, I arrived at a delightful little lake, where I enjoyed the finer things of life - Spam singles and sour gummy worms.

From the lake, I popped over a pass and said goodbye to the high alpine. I followed a beautifully-constructed trail down a series of marvelous switchbacks into a wooded basin. A few patches of north-facing snow slowed me down, but not enough to necessitate microspikes. I had to slalom around a few blowdowns too; the pine bark beetle has recently claimed more than its fair share of arboreal victims. But the trail was gentle and mostly well-maintained, and the miles passed quickly.

By and by, I reached the bottom of the river valley, which opened up into a gorgeous meadow studded with wildflowers. Even a couple of columbines made an appearance. I found a nice little campsite tucked in the bend of the river. Aside from a minor dinner mishap (yes, it is possible to add too many sundried tomatoes), the evening was pleasant and I once again fell asleep quickly.

Day 3 

Significant weather was forecast to move in at some point in the morning, so I got up promptly with the sun. I headed to the nearby woods, searching for a nice place to go to the bathroom. And then I froze. A large, chocolate-colored bear was happily moseying his way through the trees, just doing his bear thing. While I didn't notice him until he was maybe 30 yards away, he was downwind of me, and I don't think he noticed my presence. I slowly backed away until I was back at camp, where I kept an eye on him as I packed up my gear. Does a bear poop in the woods? Certainly, but I didn't want to join him.

I chuckled to the Lord - what a lovely bear encounter! 

See that lil guy back there?

I meandered down the trail the last few miles to the trailhead. The light on the cliffs to my west was just perfect, and even the Ozark Fail felt a little less burdensome now that I'd eaten all my food. I cruised past a bustling campground and back to my car. As I drove away, the clouds gathered and the deluge began.

Overall

I couldn't have chosen a better introduction to a beautiful part of New Mexico. Despite the tent mishap and considerable exertion, I had a great time. Especially in a scary-low snow year, the high country is quickly opening up. Summer backpacking season is here!