A Walk in the Smokies

The story begins 36 years ago this past May in the Glenbrook North High School library back in Northbrook, Illinois.  I was talking with a friend of mine named James Henmueller who was telling me about one of our friends that was planning to ride his bike from Illinois to Kansas after high school graduation.  The year was 1978 and we were to graduate that June.

James thought the long distance bike ride was cool because it was an epic adventure that marked time.  I said it would be cool to do something epic like that after graduation as well.  How we decided to go backpacking in Great Smoky Mountain National Park is beyond me, but that plan was hatched that day in the library.

I guess I thought the fact that I owned a backpack and hiking boots qualified me for this adventure.  Growing up in the land of the flat, Illinois, I was excited that I would be seeing mountains for the first time as well.  The dream was that we would be hiking along the tops of the Smokies on a flat path on the crest of the ancient hills.  Apparently, research back then was not my strong suit.  We were headed for an adventure all right, but not the kind I was expecting.

James decided to skip going to Prom and spend the money on a set of new tires for his Plymouth Valliant automobile for the drive down to Tennessee.  My preparation for the trip consisted of mink oiling a pair of heavy hiking boots that had seen their better days.  We were clearly heading into unknown territory.

A few days after we graduated from high school, we set off at dawn for the mountains of Tennessee.  Illinois soon was behind us as we made our way southeast through Indiana and then Kentucky.  The excitement built as we crossed into Tennessee.  James drove for about 12 hours straight before handing off to me.  I proceeded to nearly kill us heading 70 mph into a town that came out of nowhere when we got off the interstate. We lived and rolled up into the entrance to Great Smoky Mountain National Park around dusk.  The ranger’s station was already closed, so we decided to sleep in the car in the parking lot and get our park permit first thing in the morning.

Dawn broke as we crawled out from our sleeping bags in the car.  As the saying goes, “There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep and that was nothing like a good night’s sleep.”  We rubbed our eyes and went in to get our permit to backpack the week in the park.  We quickly learned that our preparation was a little sketchy.  The ranger wanted to know our itinerary for the week.  Both of us never even looked at a map of the park before we came.  So, we winged it and plucked out a shelter along the trail about every 10 miles or so.  They should make you take a test before letting people into the park who plan to backpack.  It would have exposed our ignorance.

So we set off to our selected starting point at the south end of the park.  We found the trailhead and parked and locked our car.  How we were going to get back to the car was beyond me because our new itinerary had us backpacking 71 miles to the north.  Then what?  It didn’t matter back then, we were on our way.

We hoisted our packs, adjusted our straps and belts, and immediately noticed that we were both looking straight down as we made our way up the trail.  Breathing became constricted.  It was very warm and humid.  Are we having fun yet?

We ascended and descended the hills into low lying green worlds of moss and ferns.  There were huge dead tree logs everywhere.  We hadn’t covered that much ground when we realized there were bugs in the Smokies too.  Tiny black nat-like flying insects called no-see-ums seem to be in their own atmosphere orbiting our human body planets.

We climbed up out of these ravines onto a now rocky trail leading up and up and up.  Each time we thought we had made it to the top; we realized it was just another false summit.  As we felt the warmth of the day, our packs became more and more cumbersome.  Unfortunately for James, his shoulder strap broke and he was having a tough time rigging up a suitable fix.  For me, something began to feel warm and stingy on the heels of my feet.  At a rest break, I took off my boots to reveal the horrors of silver dollar sized blisters on each heal.  Houston, we have a problem.

When you undertake an activity like backpacking, your feet are everything.  You blow a tire and your trip is in serious trouble.  Walking barefoot was not an option I guess, but looking back on it, if I only had a pair of Tevas, I may have been able to weather the panic and the storm.

Blisters hurt, a lot.  When you are carrying a third of your body weight and are already really uncomfortable, blisters make you do crazy things, like quit.  I was determined to make it to the first nights shelter that we had picked out though.  The thing was, the trail had to be marked wrong or something because 4.2 miles seemed liked a full marathon.  Near dusk, we saw a sign that indicated our shelter was just off the trail a piece.  Maybe after we regrouped a little at the shelter, my spirits would pick up.  They didn’t.

The shelter was open on one side with a chain link fence gate at the opening.  It sat up on a low platform.  Upon entering, we selected a couple of built in bunks made out of wire and laid out our sleeping bags.  I don’t remember a whole lot about the shelter after that except for the mice.  There were mice crawling everywhere.  They were crawling over the rafters and they were crawling over my sleeping bag.  Oh well, just so they don’t get any of my food I thought.

Morning came and my spirits were soon crushed by the realization that I could barely walk with the pain from my blisters.  Panic turned into terror and I announced to James that I was heading home.  I told him he should continue on, and that I would head back to where we started and hitchhike home.  James tried to calm me down, but I had made up my mind.  Then, James decided that he would join me and we would be going home.

In the years since, I have told James that I felt I had held him hostage in a weird way by saying I was going to hitchhike home.  I really felt genuinely bad about it.  What was he to do, let me go off like a crazy person alone in Tennessee to be murdered by some lunatic on the interstate?  James has told me since that his feet were killing him too and it wasn’t completely accurate that he was fresh and ready to continue.  Bless James for helping me to feel a little less of a complete loser and more like a guy that just didn’t know any better.

So we went back down the trail from where we came the day before after a stirring breakfast of Carnation Instant Breakfast and some Pop Tarts.  When we came to a stream, I had the idea of soaking my sore feet.  Unfortunately for me, I had popped my blisters and the wounds filled up with freezing water.  As we were almost back to the car, James informed me in a panic that he had lost the car keys.  This was not good.

For some strange reason, we searched for the keys near the car and for some strange reason, a miracle occurred and we found them nearby.  By this time, we were both on edge, annoyed, disappointed and dreading the 14 hour car ride home.  As we looped around the mountain coming up out of the pit where the trailhead started, James almost drove off the road.  The sound of the car bottoming out was like nails on a chalkboard.  This was going to be a very quiet ride home.

As the states slipped by and as the sun lowered in the sky, we approached the urban metropolitan areas of Gary, Indiana and Chicago.  I remember a very strange sense of relief that we were once again in the land of concrete and buildings and pollution and I was glad.  Nature had completely kicked my butt and I was heading home with my tail between my legs.  Even now it feels weird to say, but that was how I felt at the time.

With dusk and fatigue setting in, James almost killed us on the Edens expressway by almost rear ending someone at 60 mph.  He had had enough and we were fortunate that we did not make any contact.  James was so done with the trip that he literally dropped me off down the block from where I lived and said I could get my things in a couple of days.  Ok.

I cut through familiar backyards in my neighborhood and then appeared like a ghost in my own backyard.  I must have looked like the opposite of the Field of Dreams baseball players going into the cornfield.  There was a summer party going on in my backyard and the guest made a double take as the guy on the backpack trip appeared, a day later, downtrodden and dispirited.

It would be nearly 12 years till I attempted another backpack trip.  A few months later, a new chapter in my life began as I moved with a friend and his family to The Woodlands, Texas.  Funny the moments in your life that have such meaning and impact.  Some of them, that at the time were huge disappointments, laid the foundation for greater triumphs down the road.  And some of them just make interesting stories about life lessons we have learned.

On the trail - April 22, 2012

Opening Day

 

There comes a time each Spring when the decision is made to remove the ski rack from my Jeep.  A ski season of fun is taken off and stored away until next Fall when the first flakes of snow fly again.  Luckily, there is another rack to be put back on in its place, the kayak rack.  This installation signals the start of flat water kayak season on the reservoirs and lakes in the area.  Like Opening Day in Major League Baseball, there is a renewed sense of possibilities as the kayak is loaded for its first voyage of the year.

This Spring in Northern Colorado has been a mild one, and I am a little surprised it has taken me this long to hit the water.  But on a beautiful 75 degree day with light winds, I set sail on Horsetooth Reservoir for my maiden voyage of 2012.

The reservoir lies still and peaceful.  The relatively clear water is high this time of year.  The concrete boat dock ramps are nearly completely under water.  I put in on the rocky shoreline and push off, taking my first paddle strokes.

I hear crickets that seem to be serenading me as my paddles enter and exit the water.  Cold water drips from my paddles and occasionally hits my bare legs inside my kayak.  It is good to be back on the water.  I have not been on it since last October, when a couple of early snowstorms ended the season a little prematurely for me.

I paddle along in the middle of the reservoir that is devoid of motorboat traffic on this quiet weekday afternoon.  I spot mule deer feeding on the hillsides on a banquet of emerging Spring foliage.  Their brownish-red coats match perfectly with the sandstone rocks around the reservoir.

I notice a lone Canadian goose out for an afternoon swim as I approach the docks of Inlet Bay.  They are all but abandoned for now with only the wild plants growing underneath them showing any signs of life.  Soon, they will be full of boats in every shape and size you can imagine.  For now, the skeleton framework stands quietly waiting for the boats annual arrival; like the cliffs for the swallows of Capistrano.

As I paddle on, my strokes become easier and easier.  My shoulder muscles remember this activity and seem to enjoy the repetition of its movement.  My field of vision is out ahead of me now as I scan the horizon of the water.  Occasionally, I look up to the cliffs around the water in search of any signs of animal activity.  I see no mountain lions or bears, just the mule deer feeding in their Shangri-La.

A whiff of the flowering trees and shrubs greets me as I head out of Inlet Bay and back toward South Bay.  The wind on the water greets me as well, but it is manageable and not cold.

I realize why I like flat water kayaking so much.  It is a very relaxing activity that lets your mind wander where it may.  In essence, you are rocked like a baby in the water as you paddle along.

I make it back and exit the kayak from the dock instead of the shoreline.  The journey is over for this day, but I am excited at the paddling yet to come.  For as with other opening days, the drama of the season lies ahead of us, waiting to be played out.

On the trail - April 15, 2012

When I was a kid, our house had plastic runners laid on top of the carpet in heavy use areas to protect it from dirt and moisture.  In the winter, our family would inevitably track snow in from our boots.  If left, undetected, these deposits melted into landmines of cold water waiting to trap unsuspecting passersby.  A “soaker” was that unexpected moment when you stepped on a puddle.  It was always a surprise and a nuisance.  Bare feet had to be dried off and socks had to be changed.

Wet feet were also a condition to be avoided when exploring in our woods across the street in the spring.  We had to cross marshy areas frequently on the trails.  Hopping from one grass clump to another was common practice, but there was always the unexpected, quicksand-like area that swallowed up your shoes with mud and water.

When you are hiking, wet feet are not what you want.  There really is no bombproof footwear solution for this either.  A myth in the world of outdoor gear is the term waterproof.  If what you wear is waterproof, chances are that if the moisture can’t get in, it can’t get out either.  In other words, say you have waterproof boots on and the water can’t penetrate your boots.  Well, when your feet get too warm because the boots are trapping the heat, they perspire and this moisture can’t get out.  You have now manufactured wet feet from the inside out.

The best you can hope for when hiking is to manage your exposure to moisture.  If you are hiking in the summer on a really wet trail, maybe you can wear sandals instead of hiking boots.  If you are hiking in the winter in the snow, maybe you can wear gaiters to keep most of the moisture from traveling into your boots.  And if you are going to be traveling in really wet areas were staying dry is almost impossible, maybe you need to have footwear that you can dry out fast over the fire at the end of the day.

Another way to increase your odds of keeping your feet dry when you hike is by using trekking poles.  They help you keep your balance when you walk on top of logs and rocks when crossing streams.  Just one trekking pole is all you need, but a pair of them works even better.

Keeping your feet clean is also important, especially on multiday hikes.  Wearing low rise gaiters, even in the summer, helps to keep rocks and debris out of your boots.

A good way to keep your feet clean is to hike with an extra pair of socks.  About halfway through your hike for the day, change your socks.  Then, wash out the old pair and hang them from your pack to dry.  This will help you have clean socks to sleep in by the time you go to bed that night.

Your feet are your mode of transportation when you hike, so you’d better take care of them.  Painful blisters can turn a memorable experience into a forgettable one pretty quick.  Taking the right precautions and knowing how to manage your battle with moisture on the trail can make all the difference for an enjoyable hiking experience.

On the trail - April 8, 2012

In the movie “Dead Poets Society”, Robin Williams plays a teacher who inspires his students to “carpe diem”, seize the day.  He encourages them to read poetry and to “suck the marrow out of life” quoting Thoreau.  He also challenges them to think outside the box.  He has them stand on top of their desks and take a look around to see what the view is like from up there.

With that same type of bravado, I recently took my first flying lesson at Leading Edge Flight Training at the Fort Collins/Loveland Municipal Airport.  And let me tell you, the view from on top of my desk that day was incredible.  It was a whole new way to experience the beautiful mountain scenery in Northern Colorado.

My instructor, Patrick Hinton, was gracious enough to grant me my wish of flying to Rocky Mountain National Park and back that day.  I was excited at the opportunity to see what the park would look like from a non-commercial airplane.  I learned there are regulations that a plane needs to fly at least 2,000 feet above the park to not disturb the wildlife.  We also could fly near Longs Peak, but not over it, due to its altitude.

On our early morning flight, Patrick showed me around the twin propeller plane as he went through the required pre-flight checklist.  The Diamond Twin Star DA-42 N16FA plane looked like a big fiberglass kayak with long wings attached to it.  I stepped up on the wing and lowered myself into my seat, careful not to bump the joystick now positioned between my legs. 

Patrick lowered the glass canopy, checked for propeller clearance and then fired up the diesel engines.  He handed me a headset to wear to muffle engine noise and to communicate with him.  We taxied for awhile and he had me steer the plane a little with my foot controls.  Soon, we were poised for takeoff on the runway.

Patrick gave it full power and we lifted off the runway.  The first thing I noticed, as we started our flight, was how quiet the plane was.  The speed at takeoff reminded me of a regular commercial airplane, without the loud jet engine noise.

At 150 mph and a climbing rate of 1,000 feet per minute, the distant mountains came up sooner than I expected.  I took as many pictures as I could as we closed in our destination, Longs Peak.  We were at an altitude of 13,900 feet when suddenly we hit some turbulence.  I was bucked up out of my seat momentarily and wondered where the rough air had come from.

Patrick explained that the mountains act like a rock in a river that creates an eddy behind it.  The winds aloft were hitting the other side of Longs Peak, creating an eddy of bumpy air on this side.  We banked to the right and headed back east.

In the brief turbulence, my photography skills were challenged, as the camera lens repeatedly hit the clear cockpit glass.  I had not expected that.

Nor did I expect that Patrick would now have me fly the plane almost all the way back!  I trusted him though when he told me that there was nothing I could do wrong that he couldn’t fix.  Patrick eventually took the controls and landed the plane.

What a great experience!  Here in Northern Colorado, I highly recommend you give flying a try at Patrick Hinton’s Leading Edge Flight Training.  Elsewhere, check out the Let’s Go Flying website at www.letsgoflying.com.  It is an experience you won’t soon forget.  Carpe Diem!

On the trail - April 1, 2012

April showers bring May flowers.  Let’s hope so.  Our recent relatively warm and dry winter in Colorado has transitioned into a warm and extremely dry spring.  This weather has put us in a very vulnerable position.  With the pine beetle epidemic turning the once green hillsides reddish brown, the stage seems set for a disaster.  Our landscape currently is the perfect storm for wildfire.

Smoky the Bear says that only you can prevent forest fires.  Even if we all never light a single match this upcoming hiking and camping season, we will still be at risk from something out of our control, lightning.

One of my favorite folk songs is “Cold Missouri Waters” by Cry, Cry, Cry.  It is a song about the tragic Mann Gulch Fire in Montana in 1949.  13 smoke jumpers were killed by this forest fire that was started by a lightning strike.

The main character in the song, the crew chief Dodge, survives by setting a small fire in front of the main fire and lying down in the middle of it as the firestorm roars over him.  The panicked crew thought Dodge was crazy when he asked them to step into the fire he’d set.  He told them it was the only chance they’d get.  They cursed him and ran for it instead.

It was a decision that cost 13 of them their lives and haunted Dodge until the day he died.  Like the phoenix, Dodge rose from the ashes of his fire and found only one other survivor.  When more help arrived, the two survivors helped carry the bodies of their fallen comrades to the cold Missouri river.  They placed crosses on the hillside where the men died as well.  It is a really sad story.

How did this happen?  How did these smoke jumpers get caught in a situation that cost them their lives?  When they arrived from the air onto the scene, they were in a good position to fight the fire with the river at their back.  Unfortunately, the fire crowned and jumped the valley, blocking their escape route back to the river.

The conditions were ripe for a disaster that year.  The song says it was the hottest day on record and the forest was tinder dry.  In Colorado, we had a similar tragedy back in 1994.  The South Canyon Fire on Storm King Mountain, near Glenwood Springs, Colorado, killed 14 firefighters.  Once again, the fire was started by lightning.

In nature, fire can renew an area, but it takes time.  I never visited Yellowstone National Park before the horrible fires of 1988.  I wish I had, because when I saw it in 2000, the park was still recovering from the fires.  Even though it was 12 years later, the scars of the fire were still plainly visible.  Decades of a forest management plan that suppressed wildfires had created a fuel supply, that once ignited, burned so intensely that the resulting fire was uncontainable until the first snows of fall arrived.

March statistically is the snowiest month of the year in Colorado.  That did not happen this year.  While I do not want to jinx us and see 3 feet of snow in April, an occasional soaking rain would be nice.  All I am asking for is that it rains say every Tuesday in April; so that we can see those May flowers.

On the trail - March 25, 2012

Back in 1997, I strategically placed my cross country skis and poles inside my Buick Regal Limited and drove out to Colorado from Illinois.  It was the month of March and the temperatures were approaching 70 degrees by the time the Rockies came into view.  I skied that year at the Devil’s Thumb Ranch in Tabernash and at the Nordic Center in Breckenridge.  The fresh mountain air coupled with the beautiful scenery was quite a treat for a flatlander from down below.  I remember navigating the groomed trails over rolling hills in my shirt sleeves without any problems.

This March, my family and I spent most of our spring break in Steamboat Springs.  My wife and I enjoyed a snowshoe adventure up on Rabbit Ears Pass.  With sunny skies and temperatures in the mid-50’s, we took in the scenery and enjoyed a snack in an aspen grove.  We also enjoyed a day on the slopes where we skied through Steamboat slush instead of their infamous Champaign powder.  The cross country skiing portion of the trip was another story.

I decided to head up to Rabbit Ears Pass to cross country ski the West Summit area where I had snowshoed last November.  While the weather was unseasonably warm, I discovered the snow on the trail was hard packed ice.  My body soon became tense due to a general lack of confidence skiing on this slick surface.  I had to visualize my intended path on the downhill sections and make sure there was a bail out area just in case I tried to make friends with a tree.  This was not fun.

As I continued my journey, nervous energy and the heat of the day had me peeling off layers of clothes until all I was wearing was my shell.  I also took off my gloves.  As I made my way through the trees in a downhill section of the trail, I spotted a large tree with a lot of snow at its base.  Maybe this tree was magnetic because I was making a beeline straight for it.  I tried to stop my forward progress by sitting down.  My last resort was my hand brakes and that is when the soft flesh of my hands met the crusty iced over snow.  I believe the scientific name for it is bloody knuckles.

One of my pet peeves is an injury that could have been avoided.  While I did avoid hitting the tree and sustained only minor flesh wounds, I was irritated that these hand issues could have been avoided by just wearing my gloves.

A short while after my spill, I saw a trail map on a signpost at the intersection of two trails.  I looked it over and remembered that close topographical lines on a map mean one of two things; either the land is rising up or it is going down.  I saw the hills in front of me and proceeded to go up knowing that I couldn’t possible ski down.  I struggled up to a high point on the trail and stopped to contemplate my situation.

A young skier, who was carrying his skis and walking down the trail, came by and we got to talking.  He informed me that I was only about a third of the way on this loop trail.  He told me that if he had run in to me on this trail and asked me what I should do, the correct answer would be to turn around.  So feeling a bit defeated, I took off my skies and walked down the steep hills I had just climbed.

In a valley, after sinking in up to my waist with only one of my legs, I reluctantly put my skies back on and managed to ski back to the trailhead in one piece.  I think I’ll stick to snowshoes from now on for my winter adventures in the mountains.

On the trail - March 18, 2012

Lance Armstrong is a person I have always admired.  His focus, determination, and attention to detail helped him win 7 consecutive Tour de France bike races.  If some people are considered “type A” personalities, Lance falls into the “type superman A” category.  His heart is said to be the size of a pronghorn antelope’s.

In the hiking world, there is another “type superman A” personality.  His name is Andrew Skurka.  He was named “Adventurer of the Year” by Outside magazine for his epic long-distance hikes and has covered nearly 30,000 miles since 2002.

Andrew has recently teamed up with National Geographic to write a book called “The Ultimate Hiker’s Gear Guide – Tools & Techniques to Hit the Trail”.  The book can be described in one word – awesome.

In the book, Andrew delineates between what he describes as Ultimate Campers and Ultimate Hikers.  While he points out that one is not better than the other, he says that an Ultimate Camper is one who enjoys Type 1 fun.  Type 1 fun is fun to do and fun to talk about later.  To Ultimate Campers, backpacking should be leisure, not a challenge.

On the other hand, Ultimate Hikers enjoy Type 2 fun.  Type 2 fun is not fun to do but fun to talk about later.  Ultimate Hikers consider the physical and mental challenge of day-long hiking to be a valuable part of their backpacking experience.

There is also a Type 3 fun and I believe Andrew’s book was written in part to help people avoid this type of fun.  Type 3 fun is not fun to do and not fun to talk about later.  For all the bad times encountered on the trail whether you were hiking or backpacking, this book will help you prepare to engage in either Type 1 or Type 2 fun on the trail.

There is more to the book than just fun though.  In a telling quote from his book, after he had crossed a 657- mile stretch in the Canadian Arctic in which he had not crossed a road or seen another human being for 24-days, Andrew states,

“After finding the migration trail of the Porcupine caribou, I began to cry uncontrollably, realizing that in this vast and untamed wilderness, I was like them:  While being tortured by hellacious mosquitoes, soaked by torrential rains, and stalked by grizzlies and wolves, we were all trying to stay moving, and we slept and ate only to continue our constant forward progress.”

A man in motion stays in motion and Andrew has done some mind boggling long-distance hiking.  He once AVERAGED 33 miles a day for 207 consecutive days.  Compare that to the cyclists on the Tour de France who average 30 miles an hour for 2,100 miles in 21 days and you’ll understand why I think Andrew falls into the “type superman A” category.

Andrew also states in his book,

“The skills I have learned out there, like good decision making and resourcefulness, also serve me well in the Land of the Soft.  But perhaps the most important thing I return with is humility – recognition that natural powers are at work that I will never control or fully understand, and that will prevail long after I am gone.”

I highly recommend you pick up a copy of Andrew’s new book “The Ultimate Hiker’s Gear Guide”.  It will help you reframe the way you think about navigating in the great outdoors and help you to expand your horizons further into the backcountry.

On the trail - March 11, 2012

This past winter season, I have been drawn to high mountain lakes in Rocky Mountain National Park.  I have visited Mills, Bierstadt, Gem, Cub, and The Loch.  All of them were in their solid form; enabling me to view the surrounding mountains from unique perspectives.  While spring is on its way down below, winter stays long up there.  It is hard to imagine that all of the ice and snow will melt and there will be new obstacles to navigate on the hikes to these lakes in the summer.

Snowshoeing on frozen streams and above rocks and logs creates new routes to destinations that last only as long as winter stays.  On my journey to The Loch, I found myself on an alternate path that was much more challenging than the normal winter route over the frozen stream bed.  Although it added to the adventure, the side hill snowshoeing was a lot more uncomfortable than the level stream bed that I eventually followed on my way down.  The next time I snowshoe to The Loch, note to self, stick to the stream beds before heading up the final entry chute to the summit of the lake.

Another thing I will remember next time out is my gloves.  In my excitement to get going in the morning, I forgot some things and some were more important than others.  I have hiked many times without food, so all was not lost when I forgot to take along some apples, but while driving to the park, it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to take a pair of gloves.  I could have stopped and bought some cheap ones, but that would have been like a man stopping and asking for directions.  So I decided to wing it.

When I got to the trailhead at Glacier Gorge, it was nice and warm, but windy and I knew it was only going to get windier up top at the lake.  I was contemplating not using my trekking poles and just putting my hands in my pockets when I realized I didn’t have those either, pockets.  I also considered balling my hands up and tucking them in my sleeves.

While pondering my dilemma, 3 girls pulled up and parked behind my Jeep.  While putting my snowshoes on at the trailhead, I saw them again, putting on their snowshoes.  One of the girls was having trouble getting one of her snowshoes on.  It turns out that she was trying to put it on backwards.  I pointed this out and this started a conversation that led to where we were all from.  They were from Illinois originally, but now lived in Denver, Illinois, and Florida.  Yes, the Florida girl was the one trying to put on her snowshoe backwards.

Anyway, after I mentioned that I had forgot my gloves, the girl that lived in Denver said she thought she might have an extra pair somewhere hidden in her car.  She went back to her car and came back with a wonderful, mismatched set of knitted finger gloves.  She said they were only worth like a dollar and that I could have them.  Trail magic strikes again.  I thanked her, snapped a few pictures for them, and headed down the trail with my hands warm and this story to tell.

The last thing to mention from this day was that I carried along a bandana that was just as valuable to me as my new gloves.  Since our noses run like faucets on the trail in winter, having something to wipe them with is important as well.

On the trail - March 4, 2012

At the beginning of my hike, I spotted an older gentleman and his wife coming towards me on the trail.  The man was smiling like he had just figured out the meaning of life.  He looked at me and said, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”  I replied to him that yes it was a beautiful day, perfect for a hike or snowshoe in Rocky Mountain National Park. 

We exchanged pleasantries and I learned that they were visiting from St. Louis.  They had been in the area for a week and this was their last day before getting back on a plane and heading home.  I mentioned that I was indeed fortunate to live here and be able to wake up in the morning, drive to the park for the day, and return home by evening.  We parted ways and I continued my hike to Cub Lake.

In all my trips to the park, this would be my first time on this trail.  The trailhead is located at the west end of Moraine Park and sits at 8,080 feet in elevation.  The trail skirts along river bottoms and weaves its way through aspen and pine forest rising a total of only 540 feet in its 2.3 mile length.  The lake sits at 8,620 feet.

From the moment I spotted the lake until it was only a memory on my way back, the wind sand blasted me with considerable force. On this day, the lake was frozen over and covered with about 6 inches of windblown snow. 

Being unfamiliar with this trail, I had hiked up to the lake, but had also lashed my snowshoes on my pack just in case I needed them.  Taking refuge from the wind behind a 6 foot tall boulder on the lakeshore, I chose to put them on now.

Dressed in L.L. Bean wind pants, gaiters, and an anorak, I was quite comfortable as I clomped in my snowshoes from end to end on the frozen lake.  I took some pictures and later would learn that you better check your camera lens after shooting into blowing snow.  The water spot affect on the photos is not a good look.

With my snowshoes on and the wind at my back, I said goodbye to my new friend Cub Lake.  It had been a spectacular site to see the snow capped mountains rising up from the flat surface of the snow covered lake.  I would definitely have to come back in the other seasons.  I imagine there will be spring peeper frogs singing near the lake, maybe some ducks on the lake in the summer, and colorful aspen displays in the fall.  I was excited about this trail that was so new to me.

The trail was considerably easier on snowshoes on the way down.  At one point, I chose to go off trail and follow a game trail.  The ensuing post holing through deep snow was a bit unexpected and I was relieved when I found my way back to the trail again.  About ¾ of the way back, I stopped and took off my snowshoes to resume hiking.  My arms felt a little heavy from relying on my trekking poles a little more than I realized on the hike up.  I carried them now as my hike was nearing its end.

The couple from St. Louis had been right.  It doesn’t get any better than this.  I was glad that I had tried a new trail on this day and looked forward to hiking it again in the future.

On the trail - February 26, 2012

My day trip plan was to snowshoe up to Gem Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park.  It was a bright and sunny day when I arrived at the Lumpy Ridge parking area.  I spotted a couple of hikers coming off the trail towards their car.  I asked them if the trail was snowshoe-able and they told me no.  They said the trail was just spotty snow and some patches of ice.  I set the snowshoes aside and set off in my North Face boots bringing along my ski poles for balance.

The Lumpy Ridge trailhead is one of two ways to access the trail up to Gem Lake.  The other way is to go through the McGregor Ranch just down the road.  The Lumpy Ridge trailhead trail goes up for .5 of a mile until it connects with the Gem Lake trail.  From the intersection it is 1.2 miles to the lake.  You start at an elevation of 7,870 feet and climb 960 feet up to Gem Lake, which sits at 8,830 feet in elevation.

The trailhead information board had a sign posted on it, “Warning Lion Country”.  It read, “Mountain lions frequent this area.  Mountain lions are powerful predators.  They can hurt or kill you.”  The safety suggestions on the sign included:  “keeping children next to you, jogging is not recommended, if you do, do not jog alone, and travel in groups.”

The sign went on to explain that if you see a lion:  “STOP.  Do not run.  Pick up small children.  Stand tall.  And if attacked, Fight Back!”  If I actually did see a lion, I would stop, because I wanted to get my camera out.  I would not run either; that would make the picture taking difficult.  And if I was attacked, my ski poles would surely protect me from the savage beast.

That was the plan anyway.  In reality, if a mountain lion stalked me from above and jumped on my back and sunk its teeth into my neck…well, I wouldn’t be writing this now would I if that had happened.

With all this lion safety education fresh in my mind, I headed up the trail.  Suddenly, I thought I saw a blur of tan color cross the trail up ahead of me.  It must have been my imagination, but then I looked down and spotted a whole bunch of tracks in the snow.  Whatever had made them was running all over the place.

“Hikers aren’t that hard to catch,” I thought to myself.  There were no signs of fresh blood or torn pieces of clothing lying around either.  I then heard some rocks tumble from above from the cliffs on the sides of the trail.  I rationalized that the noise was just falling icicles and snow as it melted in the sun on the rocks.  I cautiously continued on.

When I reached the lake, it was frozen and covered with snow.  I took pictures of the amphitheater framed lake and discovered a snow angel someone had made on the ice.  With the afternoon shadows lengthening, I descended from the lake.  The hike down was covered in shade and a bit colder than I’d expected, but I had no more faux lion encounters.

When I got home, I looked up images of mountain lion tracks in snow on the internet.  The tracks that I had seen by the trail all had nail impressions, which almost certainly identified them as being made by a dog.  I rested easy now knowing for sure that I had not been stalked by one of the mysterious mountain lions of Gem Lake.