The Piano Man of Vail

Twenty years ago, I was in Vail, Colorado attending a kayaking event called the Teva Games.  It was early June and I had began the day, believe it or not, skiing at Arapahoe Basin.  After the early morning turns, I decided to attend the festivities taking place along Gore Creek in the heart of Vail Village.  As the afternoon wore on, someone mentioned going to the Red Lion Restaurant nearby to go hear a guy named Phil Long play.  At the time, I thought Phil Long was the name of an auto dealership in Denver, but I decided to stick around into the evening and check him out.  I ended up staying late into the evening that night and had a great time at the show Phil put on.

I would learn that Phil Long not only played music at this place, he owned it.  And when I say he owned it, I'm telling you he had to be seen to be believed at how awesome his shows were and still are.  Phil has an uncanny knack at making everyone around him feel welcome and part of the scene.  He is a musician that plays piano and guitar and sings, but he is really an enormously talented entertainer.  Back then at The Red Lion Restaurant, Phil had menus of songs he could play for you to choose from.  He drew you in to his performances by inviting you to participate in them.  You could request a song, try and throw crumpled up dollars in a bucket for big prizes (shots of alcohol), and dance like a crazy person in front of the stage if you liked.

Fast forward to 2020 and Phil has moved on from his 28 years at The Red Lion and now has been at The Chop House in Vail for the past 5 years.  He is still every bit the showman and elite performer, although he has mellowed a little bit.  He no longer does his Bruce Springsteen imitation and play until late into the night until complete exhaustion.  He schedules his performances at reasonable times and has people reserve tables well in advance.  He still makes all who attend feel welcome and invites them to participate in the show.

I highly, highly recommend you make it a point to see one of Phil's performances when you are in Vail and he is in town.  As Phil says in his best Michael McDonald imitation voice, "You don't know me but I'm your brother", that pretty much sums up how you'll feel after the show.  Here's to 33 years of Phil Long in Vail and sorry Billy Joel, but Phil is the real piano man of Vail.

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.

Good Friday Sleep Out

Back in the day, when the neighborhood kids and I were between adolescence and adulthood, there was this really warm Good Friday in Northbrook, Illinois.  It was so mild that we decided to sleep out in one of our backyards to celebrate the event.  We set up a huge canvas tent and laid out all our gear in the musty enclosure.  At dusk, we set out to wander the neighborhood in search of adventure.

At the time, lighting things on fire was big.  We were experimenting with cigarette lighter fluid and its affects while lit on the bottoms of our shoes.  We happened to be doing this on a neighbors patio and did not realize at the time our actions might be misunderstood.  They were.

With the warm spring breezes blowing and the spring peeper frogs singing, we continued to roam the nearby neighborhoods.  Our expedition was soon interrupted by the sound of a bell ringing.  The kid whose house we were sleeping out at recognized this sound immediately.  It was the bell that was rang to call him back home.  This was rather odd as this bell hadn't been sounded in years as we were evolving toward adulthood.

When we arrived back at the tent, we were informed by one of the kids mom's that the police had been there and that the tent had been searched.  They had uncovered flammable substances and taken them as evidence.  She had given the police all of our names and we were to go down to the station the following day to be interrogated.

What the heck?  Well, remember the neighbor's patio?  They thought some kids were trying to burn down their house, so they called the police.

Some of us did go to the police station the next day and had to explain what we were up to.  The police had tried to ignite the substances they found to no avail.  It was gun powder from rocket launching cartridges, but we did not bother to explain that to them.

One of the kids was unable to attend our little gathering at the police station and I thought I was doing them a favor by filling in his record.  I mentioned the kids middle name and they thanked me for my attention to detail.

The police gave us a warning and let us go.  We had avoided doing time that Easter weekend.  We were young and reckless and had no clue as to how other people perceived our actions.  This behavior eventually subsided and we all grew up, sort of.

By the way officer, his middle name is "Gilbert".

Norway's Finest

We met in 2001, my rookie year for the Poudre Wilderness Volunteers in Fort Collins, Colorado.  His name was Ras Erdal.  He was assigned to mentor me on one of my first hikes patrolling the trails of the Canyon Lakes Ranger District for the National Forest Service.

When I saw his name next to mine on the schedule, I figured I would be hiking with a fellow from India.  When I met him, I was surprised to see an energetic 69 year old Norwegian man.  We seemed to hit it off right away, due to his easy going manner and our mutual love for the outdoors.

We hiked a few times the following season together and then I decided to drop out of the organization after the 2002 season.  The years past and I decided to reapply to PWV in 2010.  I was told I missed the deadline.  Little did I know at the time that I did not need to reapply.

In the spring of 2011, I attended a meeting for PWV and recognized an old friend, Ras Erdal.  He looked at me kind of funny and then greeted me warmly, remembering our brief friendship a decade earlier.  It was at that moment I pinpointed what I liked about PWV, Ras Erdal.

I hiked exclusively with Ras in 2011 and looked forward to our time together on the trails.  In 2012, we attended PWV's Spring Training event and shared a tent for the weekend.  We had become great friends.

Ras has encouraged me to write and I have encouraged him to hike higher and farther that an 80 year old man is supposed to.  Ras isn't your typical 80 year old man though.  He skied Arapahoe Basin last season and he leads this 52 year old up the mountain.

So, at the end of this hiking season, I wanted to thank Mr. Erdal for being a little hard of hearing and putting up with me and my sometimes outspoken opinions.  I have enjoyed our adventures and look forward to many more in the years to come.

Keep hiking to the clouds Ras.

Inspiration

Sometimes in life we need to step back and reflect on an accomplishment to fully absorb the magnitude of it and what its significance means to us.  Last year, a friend of mine ran and completed a 100 mile trail race in the mountains of Colorado.  That is the equivalent to just under four consecutive marathons.  If the amount of miles doesn’t blow your mind, the fact that this guy was not a runner should.  He had not run more than a 10K event in his life before he decided to train for and attempt the Leadville 100 Trail Race.

My friend’s exposure to his brother’s attempt of this feat in 2010 prompted his own attempt at competing in the race.  His brother “inspired” him with his effort. 

The following excerpts and observations are from my friend’s blog before the race last year:

“He plopped down on the side of the trail and announced, through gasped breaths, that he was "done." He said he simply could not continue up the mountain. It was too much. He just couldn’t get his legs to work. Everything hurt intensely…

…he must have felt like he had reached the utter bottom of his well.

 …rather than quit there as he had planned, he continued on into the dark night.  And he kept going for about 24 more miles and nine more hours.

Unfortunately, he eventually missed the cutoff time and was dropped from the race. But to me, despite this disappointment, the real message was loud and clear:

 His well was A LOT deeper than he realized.

 In my head, all I could see was the image of him moaning on the side of the trail announcing that he was “done,” but somehow finding it within himself to continue on for almost an entire marathon’s worth of mountain running through the middle of the night.

 That level of mental toughness seemed inconceivable to me; an entirely new concept.

I saw many runners who had the same experience my brother had – the necessarily painful but rewarding experience of finding out that their respective wells were much deeper than they knew.

 At some point during that race, almost every runner doubted whether they could go on, whether they would finish. But they pressed on anyway.

The word I thought of that night, the word that still continues to resonate in my head today is “inspiring.”

 No, I’m not really a runner, but I am curious to find out how deep my own well is.

That night I was inspired to find out how far I can go after I think I can’t go any farther.”

– JP Martin, June 2011

JP Martin trained for an entire year, ran in, and completed his race in less than 28 hours in August of 2011.  His brother completed the race last year as well in less than the allotted time of 30 hours.  This is inspiring to me.

In a world of negativity and sometimes great despair, we all need to be inspired every once in awhile.  We need stories like Lance Armstrong beating cancer and winning seven consecutive Tour de France bike races.  We need stories like Brooke and Gavin walking from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail.  We need stories like JP Martin’s to inspire us to embark on our own epic journeys to see what is possible and maybe just how limitless those possibilities really are.

10 Weeks On the Trail

Brooke Osborne and Gavin Morris began their journey on the Pacific Crest Trail on April 27, 2012.  In 10 weeks on the trail, they have covered over 1,100 miles, averaging nearly 16 miles a day.  They are currently in Lake Tahoe, California.

Their media coverage is increasing with the help of Colorado State University, where Brooke recently received her MBA.  You can follow along and find out more about them on their website "Wild Ones".  Until next time, hike your own hike and enjoy the day.

The Wampus and Zen Show

I just got off the phone with Brooke Osborne, aka "Wampus Cat". She was calling from Mammoth Lakes, California where she and Gavin Morris, aka "Zen" have just completed their 900th mile on the Pacific Crest Trail. They are already 1/3 of the way to Canada.

Wampus was in good spirits as she enthusiastically described her and Zen's recent highlights on the trail. There was the Bishop Bear that staked out a campground and forced our intrepid adventures to cross a high mountain pass, in the dark, by headlamp, after a long day, with lots of food, in search of a bear box. It took them nearly 3 hours to go 4.3 miles and I'll bet that Bear's ears are still burning over the expletives that were probably evoked every step of the way.

There was also a recent stream crossing where some of their camera equipment went unexpectedly white water rafting and had to be quickly recovered. Luckily, no equipment or files were lost or damaged. It sounded to me like when Sacagawea saved some valuable specimens collected by the Lewis & Clark Expedition when they were swept overboard while riding out some rapids.

These experiences are Wampus Cat and Zen's. They have happened to them. As a writer of non-fiction, it has been hard for me to communicate what they were doing. I am not the one doing it, but I have figured out a way to better cover this epic journey.

Through a collaborative effort with Wampus and Zen, together we will be able to shed some light on their thru hiking experience. I had originally thought of comparing and contrasting their journey to my everyday life. This was like trying to play solitaire with a half a deck of cards. How did I know what they were experiencing and dealing with to be able to compare it to what I did know? I couldn't, but through a recent two day one night backpack trip of my own, enlightenment on the subject was achieved.

Their accomplishments are just that, their accomplishments. When I read about a guy like Andrew Skurka, it is incredible what that guy has done, but it may as well be a trip to the moon as far as me being able to relate to it, for it is his journey, not mine.

So, if I write a little and Wampus and Zen chime in as well, maybe the end result will be what I envisioned from the start, the recording of an historical journey that you do not see attempted everyday.

ebook

April 23, 2012

The AT

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” – Confucius

The Appalachian Trail is the Everest of hiking trails. It is a 2,181 mile journey and to hike the entire trail, one must take approximately 5,757,840 footsteps. To try and give a little perspective of this feat, I have done a little figuring using a local landmark, Horsetooth Mountain, as my control for this explanation.

Horsetooth Mountain in Fort Collins sits at 5,400 feet in elevation and rises up to 7,256 feet at its summit. The trail to the top is approximately 2.75 miles long and 5.5 miles roundtrip. When you hike it, you climb 1,856 feet up and descend 1,856 feet down giving you a plus minus of 3,712 feet in elevation. When you hike Horsetooth, you take approximately 14,520 footsteps.

To simulate hiking the Appalachian Trail, you would have to hike Horsetooth Mountain 396.5 times. If you hiked it twice a day, it would take you 198.25 days. That many days equals 28.3 weeks or 6.6 months.
Imagine starting on April 1st and hiking Horsetooth twice a day every day for the months of: April, May, June, July, August, September, and half of October.

Some qualifying differences to mention would include not carrying a backpack of say 30 lbs. You also would be hiking the exact same trail 396.5 times. I think the biggest difference would be the sheer magnitude of the task at hand in hiking the Appalachian Trail. Imagine starting
off hiking 181 miles in say 2.5 weeks and then facing the realization that you still have 2,000 more miles to go.

If that realization doesn’t discourage you, there are other factors that may. There is the weather on the east coast consisting of anything from heat and humidity, to rain and fog, to cold and snow in the higher elevations. There are bugs including mosquitoes, flies, and ticks.
There is Poison Ivy. There are snakes. There are mice and rats in the shelters and there are leeches in the streams.

You will sleep in a tent or in an open shelter every night. You go the bathroom in outhouses, if you are lucky. Your food and drink is what you want to carry, which I guess rules out that 6-pack of beer every night sitting around the campfire.

The scenery is trees and rocks and dirt and more trees and more rocks and more dirt. Since the forest cannot be seen through these trees, you are kind of hiking in a wooded tunnel. Did I mention that you will smell bad and constantly be dirty?

It is said to cost $1.50 - $2.50 a mile to thru hike the trail. Where do unemployed people get $3,271.50 - $5,452.50 for their trip? If they do
work, how do they get 5-6 months off and still have a job to come back to?

It is also said that life is different on the trail. Really? With an itinerary consisting of: wake up, cook breakfast, break camp, walk 15 miles, stop, make camp, eat dinner, sleep, repeat 150 times, this sounds pretty
routine to me.

I am told what makes this hike so special is the things you miss. Things like taking a shower, having ice cream on a hot day, eating a cheese burger and fries, eating pizza, not smelling bad, not being dirty, not being eaten alive by bugs, and missing all that news coverage of the daily lives of the Kardashians.

I do wish people well who both attempt and complete this journey. I am just not sold on the idea, yet.

On Frozen Pond

If the months of December, January, and February make up the season of winter, then we are at the halfway point already. Snowshoes and skis will be put to good use as the days begin to lengthen again, but one winter activity that has gotten less playing time for me since I moved to Colorado is ice skating. When the landscape changed from flat to sloped, I guess it was inevitable that the blades wouldn’t get much use, but back in the day, ice was the vehicle for fun and adventure.

Recently on a trip back to Michigan, I was reminded that I grew up playing hockey. We were sitting in the stands at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit watching The University of Michigan play Boston College in The Great Lakes Invitational annual college hockey tournament and there was an eleven year-old kid watching the game a row in front of us. It was like looking in the mirror 40 years ago.

Playing Pee Wee hockey was an indoor activity played in an indoor ice arena, but we also played ice hockey in the woods across the street whenever Mother Nature cooperated. The ponds would freeze and we would spend hours and hours freezing as well as we scrapped out games against each other. Our hands and feet would get so cold that some of us even got a touch of frost bite every once and awhile.

To prepare for the winter, the entire neighborhood would venture out into the woods in late fall with garden rakes and try and clear the grassy marshes in hopes of creating a super ice rink. The native grasses if left to nature froze in the ice creating an un-skate-able surface. We would also maintain the woods ice by shoveling off new snow and using brooms to clean off the ice shavings from the games.

One year, a neighborhood kid’s dad made an ice rink in their backyard. He formed the edges up with snow and used a garden hose to spray water in the area to create the ice. It worked so well that I tried to create my own version on our patio. My mother actually let me connect a garden hose to the hot water heater and run a hose thru the kitchen and spray water out the window on to the patio. Most of the water ended up evaporating or seeping thru the clay patio bricks, but I did create enough ice one time to briefly skate on.

Our creek, the North Branch of the Chicago River, would freeze some years and you could literally skate out of town on this ice super highway. You had to avoid overhanging tree limbs and low bridges under streets, but when it was cold enough long enough, you could skate for miles and miles.

Here in Colorado, we have ice skated in the past at Beaver Meadows in the Red Feather
Lakes area. They have a nice little pond to skate on there. They rent ice skates
and have a warming hut near the pond when the cold winter wind gets to be too much for you. You can also cross country ski on man-made trails and tube down hills. Finally, there is a rustic restaurant to get a bite to eat or get a cup of hot chocolate at.

My step daughter and her boyfriend recently went ice skating inside at the Northern Colorado Ice Area near our home in Windsor. They had fun and both were quite proud of the fact that they didn’t fall. Maybe it’s time for me to get back in the game again…

Who is #1?

Who is college football's best team?

If you answered LSU or Alabama you would be right for this season, but what about all time? The following teams have the most wins in Division 1 football all time:

1. Michigan - 888 wins
2. Texas - 853 wins
3. Notre Dame - 845 wins
4. Nebraska - 836 wins
5. Ohio State - 825 wins
6. Alabama - 824 wins
7. Penn State - 821 wins
8. Oklahoma - 806 wins
9. Tennessee - 789 wins
10. USC - 784 wins

National Championships and winning percentages and conferences aside, when it comes down to it, the question will always be, did you win or lose the game?