Stevens Gulch: Round Two

Upon our return from the desert, and as the endorphins began returning to normal levels, Gigi and I began to dream of mountain oases high in the alpine tundra. Green grass and high tides precluded the plausibility of going sledding in Boulder. Alas, to sled in the veritable spring-summer hedgerow that has become of our backyard would be impossible! Rather, we forged an alliance to head west, once more, and pay homage to the 14ers that be. It was decided - we must attempt to hike Grays and Torreys! The vertigo and disillusionment that was brought upon our shared house was almost too great of a burden to bear when I returned unsuccessfully from my last summit push on these worthy steeds of granite. With my best girl by my side and a backpack adorned with all the finer things that Clif Bars manufacture for mountainside edible deliciousness, we decided on the morning of May 26.

 Ah.... May 26. It was a tremendous day in the history of our relationship because we were both out of bed before 6:00 AM! At the very least of things, we had this ace up our sleeves should the day turn against us. Gigi's great and noble spirit had been roused prior to the time of the sun's quarter journey across the summer sky by the sweet aroma of coffee, knowing full well that she must wake up in order to imbibe this nectar of the gods. It did my heart good to know that in the event of a weekend zombie apocalypse, I would not have to wait until 9:30AM to rouse her and make way to our secret mountain compound. She's a real keeper.

We arrived at the trailhead around 8:00 AM. There was a line of parked cars extending a quarter mile down the access road from the trailhead. I'll be the first to admit that I tend to "forget" to shower when I'm trying to get in touch with nature, but before we opened the windows there was a veritable musk in the air that could put Ron Swanson ill-at-ease. Not to say any names or anything, but if you're reading this and wondering if it was you in the late-model blue Subaru... check yourself. Even the marmots complained of your odor.

However, we made the best of the situation and made a bee-line for the trail. Our goal for the morning would be the highest point on the continental divide through the contiguous US!

The morning alpenglow pressing over the ridge of McClellan Mountain. The smoke blowing in from the New Mexico fires magnified the effect.

The view from the car. It seemed that the whole county had descended upon the trailhead this morning, yet we managed to squeak out a prime parking space. You can see Grays Peak peering over the foot of Kelso Mountain, just left of center. 

Isn't she cute? What an epic mountain woman!

As we ascended into the bluebird sky, we made a game of trying to find the most varied species of flora and fauna along the trail. Gigi obviously beat me at this game. I had forgotten the golden rule: it is never a good idea to challenge a biologist to counting small life forms in an isolated space. We did manage to find a mountain (or is it alpine?) sunflower along the trail, though.

Unfortunately, we did not make it to the summit, and were thwarted by ice and snow at approximately the same elevation that Nathaniel and I were thwarted on May 5. However, we did enjoy a rather lovely nap on the side of the trail - lulled to sleep by the serene sounds of other hiker's footprints. We had officially gained the talus field right before the apron, and sat to watch a group of hikers wrestle with the wind as they tried desperately to pack away their tents at the bottom of Dead Dog Couloir. Winds on the trail (and on a side note, apparently everywhere in the high country this Memorial Day weekend?) were exceedingly harsh. Although were were well prepared for warm or cold weather, our posse was caught off guard by the severity of the wind elements at hand. This only compounded the issue of balance on the icy talus and so we were content to sit idly at 12,500' in a large pile of rocks.

We talked and listened as young lovers do best. I acknowledge the severity of poor form we exhibited, but we threw small rocks at different targets in the talus. It was great fun - some smashed, some jumped, some made it waayy down to the snow field, etc. Last week, when I wanted so badly to throw stuff off the cliff, I held back. I am happy to say that my partner is a far worse influence on me than Nathaniel and Mark were, and it was terrific fun. I am always put at ease to see Gigi smiling while on the side of a mountain with me.

The reader may note a lack of photos from this trip. This is because our camera spontaneously ran out of batteries on the trail. The reader may also note the lack of references to Yeti and pro wrestlers we had to fight off along the way. Although these mountains thwarted my approach a second time, they did so valiantly and well-within the rules of chivalry. I have tried in earnest to report the particulars of this adventure in their clearest and most specific form. We made it back to the car a little after noon and headed down to Silverthorne for some Memorial Day sales, and then up to Breck for a nice end-of-student-teaching vacation in the mountains.

Escalante Excursion: Day 4

In spite of the warnings, health training, mountaineering experience and ample reserves of water, we did have a small incident in the group of dehydration then eating snickers and chugging powerade - subsequently inducing a foul smelling, off-putting-colored vomitus (right next to, but in very gentlemanly fashion, not on the car) as we pulled into camp Saturday night. Sunday morning, as the birds sang their sweet songs of good tidings to the well-traveled adventurers, I drank a cup of tea and read poetry from the latest edition of the Mountain Gazette. Nathaniel rose next, and we discussed the day's plans. It went something like this:

Nathaniel: "Do we want to hike through the monument?"

Hunter: "Yes and no. What do you think?"

Nathaniel: "Yes and no. I see value in both."

And through this persuasive and heated exchange, a knowing sense of agreement bestirred the surrounding area. "Hike no more shall we," the birds seemed to say, "drive the road using Mark's parks pass we shall." There's so much to see and explore in the monument that you could make an entire trip out of it (really, this is true of all the places we went), I want to come back and spend a dedicated trip here. For the time being, however, the 23 mile scenic loop along Rim Rock Drive sufficed beautifully. 

We pulled off and explored one of the many rest points. It took all my will power not to find a pile of rocks and see how long they would take to hit the ground if I threw them with varying initial velocities and trajectories. This caused me no small emotional distress, and I elected to pretend like I knew stuff about the local geology to distract myself. My two companions generously huffawed and gaffawed with my rambling, and graciously did not themselves throw any rocks off the side either. It was a great success.

If I were to camp here, I would absolutely make up scenarios in my head about being an outlaw on the run in the wild west, hiding from the powers that be while waiting for the fallout of my latest shenanigans to blow over. And then I would never leave.

Once back in the car, we filled up on gas and aimed the car east on the great road towards Rivendell, or at the very least, Boulder.

Escalante Excursion: Part 3

Day 3:

During the previous evening's heated cribbage match - featuring Nathaniel's throttling of Mark and myself - the group decided that it behooved us to move eastward in hopes of cutting down on Sunday's drive time. This worked out in our favor since both of the potential slot canyon hikes were on the other side of Capitol Reef from us. We packed up camp and made the scenic drive through Hell's Backbone, hell's kitchen and the rest of hell's own homely comforts. We stopped by the national park's visitor center and got a stern you-city-boys-look-like-noobs look from a patronizing park ranger who told us that we might want to stay away from any technical hiking in the canyons. As if to say we couldn't handle it - as if (!) to insinuate that our frail Coloradan constitutions couldn't handle the wild, unmatriculated wilderness that predominates the eastern washes of the national park. However, in the name of safety, we did consider her advice seriously. Then, we decided that with a forecast of clear skies and bromance, fortune favored the bold. We took on the technical route of Cottonwood Wash. It was the right decision.

The path follows a dry creek bed over decaying flagstone for about a mile, narrows some, continues for about a half mile, and then the real fun begins.

The aesthetically pleasing gateway to the slot canyon. We didn't see a single  other vertebrate organism on the whole hike. Solitude prevailed in the best possible way.

The view from the entryway.

For the first bit, the canyon meanders gently in between 20' cliffs.

The first few obstacles we came across were fairly tame. We wondered if we were in the correct wash for a brief moment or two.

"Technical obstacles? That park ranger must have never seen a 14er before!"

And then things started to narrow a bit...

Nathaniel looking cozy.

The canyon began to get deeper and our walkway varied between two and five feet across.
The next three photos were taken from vantage points all within about twenty feet of each other.

Mark and I chimneying to gain passage over a blockade, while passing underneath a giant boulder.

We didn't always go over obstacles. Sometimes we had to go through them.

Mark - looking comfortable.

Mark - looking less comfortable.

Good times.

My critics may scoff at my form, but this was way easier than the way the rest of the team tried to get across.

The farther into the wash we went, the more varied the terrain became. Sometimes the walls of the canyon would be smooth, and sometimes they'd be pocky like a pubescent cheek. In a bizarre twist of irony, one slab actually had little zit-looking lichens growing on it.

This trip made me want to join the Sierra Club, move into a desert cave, hike all day and never  shower again.

The hike came to an abrupt stop after about 3 miles by an "unpassable thirty-foot cliff," according to our online research. We found a wall that was about twelve feet high, scaled it while laughing jovially at the preposterous locals who don't know adventure from summer camp, mountains from molehills, on and on and so forth. "What ludicrous information - this is totally doable!" we told each other. It seemed fine and dandy, and then we looked up... and up... and up - approximately thirty feet of sheer cliff wall to a tiny notch in what for all reasonable estimates was the sky. I immediately ate my words and made a mental note to have my personal assistant send a formal apology to the good people who provide dedicated, reliable information about hikes in the area. The canyon had spoken - the hike in was over.

End of the road. They were right.

There was a lone tree enjoying a monopoly of sunlight and soil in the basin beneath the notch. It was surrounded by a rocky outcropping, destined to be pummeled into sandy oblivion by the desert's forces of erosion. In the mean time, however, Nathaniel "jumped on" the opportunity to take some suggestive photos. 

Nathaniel... expressing himself on a rock.

This was a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. We packed up our bags and broke land-speed records back towards the state line. That evening, we would dine in the greatest state in the union - sweet home, Colorado!

Rabbit Valley is an extension of my very being. We were on the opposite side of the recreation area from the river overlooks but the clear skies and birds chirping was like a call back to reality. I didn't really begin to feel less sick until we set up camp here Saturday night. What a relief to be home and feeling better.

Escalante Excursion: Part 2

Day 2:

Imagine a music dear reader: a lone, serene bassoon perambulating down the sidewalk of a sweet melody. Nathaniel and Hunter slowly rise to greet the soft morning light - the palpitation of Mark's snoring rises and falls in a well-practiced staccato. The mystical desert beckons us to leave the abode of our synthetic shelter with seductive promises of adventure. She's a cruel mistress, she is - so alluring and yet so elusive. Our protagonists must rise and heed her call, lest her promises fall on deaf ears.

Thus, the day began. A weather system was supposed to move through the area during the afternoon, so our efforts must be coordinated accordingly. We enjoyed a delicious breakfast of sauteed onions, mushrooms and scrambled eggs before weighing down the tent with all our worldly possessions to keep it from flying unencumbered into the abyssal canyon below. We expected a small bit of wind and wanted to play it safe; little did we know of the gale that was to come. More on this later.

Packing into the car, we made the quick drive down to the Calf Creek trailhead:

Its hard to see, but the road you drive on to get into the area is along this ridge, and comes from  the Hell's Backbone junction. A 200m elevation change and a little bit of water makes all the difference between paradise and purgatory out here.

The trail wanders up the western side of the canyon, skirting an ancient livestock grazing area that was paramount to the survival of the various native and invasive settlers to the region through the years. One thing that I unfortunately didn't make a visual record of was the brochure that we picked up at the trail register. There were approximately 14 stops along the 2 mile trail that recounted the history, flora and fauna of the area while amicably reminding visitors to drink loads of water. Granaries and cattle fences still stand that were erected long ago, and in the case of the granaries, we were often left with the question of "how did they get to their granary that was 150m off the ground on the side of a sheer sandstone cliff?" Let alone how they did it when they were hungry with low blood sugar. Folks must have been seriously hardcore to make an existence out here, even in the creek drainage.

What's more is, if you forgot where you put your granary, you would never be able to find it again because it is so well hidden! You'd have to build a whole new one way up on the cliff face. It is at this point that I would like to offer my highly uneducated opinion about the origins of the Fremont hieroglyphs from Capitol Reef: those are pictures of the aliens that helped the natives build their ridiculously-well hidden structures. I am prepared to defend my hypothesis by directing any dissenters' attention to the figures' antennae. It seems to me the most logical explanation.

Mark and I pondering questions of life and existence in the desolate, historical badlands of North America.

This is not a granary for two reasons: a) it is not impossibly high up on a cliff, and b) it does not look enough like a rock.

 As we approached the crossing that would lead us to the falls, a cloak of green dominated the landscape. Much like our youthful spirits, life abounded all around us.

We came around the final curve and heard the rushing of a falls. We had our first glimpse through the trees at what appeared a thin falls coming off the side of a cliff.

I grew up in Colorado Springs - the very heart and soul of evangelical capitalism of the universe. It is home to the for-profit mega-churches that will save your soul and condemn everyone you disagree with for a very reasonable price - comparable to buying a swanky toaster oven on a late-night infomercial. Needless to say, it is not the most "reasonable" or "rational" place in the world, but I digress.  On the city's west side, they have something called Seven Falls - it is marketed as something comparable to Niagra west of the Mississippi. They are very proud of their "seven" falls, and in 2005 (last and only time I will ever visit) it cost me over fifty United States dollars to gain admission. I expected a life-changing, spiritual experience - complete with music and dancing bears and fondue.

Here are some fun plugs for what you get in the Springs (credit to their website for photos):

They extort the local native culture for the
benefit of petty profits!

They posit that the falls spontaneously combust
into a raging tapestry of liquid-hot magma!

There were no dancing bears. There was no life-changing experience. There was no cascade of Tom Cruise's witch-magical fire to engulf the land in a spectre of awe. Instead, I no longer had lunch money for the rest of the week and here's what we saw:

If it was free, I might enjoy it. I payed $50-plus, got attacked by mosquitoes and the girl I went with turned out to be institutionally and incurably nuts - so this sucked.

I digress again, because this is a story of the Calf Creek and not of the controversial marketing techniques employed by local Springsians. 

This story has a happy ending, and it is going to end good!

The Calf Creek Recreation area is apparently world-renown. We heard at least three differently recognized foreign languages spoken by camera-wielding tourists, all of whom were just as wowed by the culmination of the hike as we were. It was as though we had stepped into the very metonymy of paradise. Nathaniel did a tremendous job photographing the scenery, but our cameras simply can't justify how awesome this place really is. 

The dark line you see extending from the falls is actually a  natural, hanging garden shaded from the morning sun. The sandy beach gave way into a shallow lagoon; the green Plantae danced a sweet three-way tango with the crisp, blue water and the deep red of the sandstone cliffs.

Mark and I considering how we could ever follow up this hike with something even remotely as cool. (Note: observe how the pristine shade along the beach provides for excellent meditative potential)

Artistic shot of the spray from the falls.

Yours truly. Definitely one of the high points of the trip.

 A group of tourists (spoke German and no English... possibly from Germany?) were resting nearby. One of them was kind enough to snap a group photo of us with the falls. We bid them a fond "Danke schoen," and turned to head back to the car.

Mark, myself and Nathaniel, dwarfed by the falls behind.

Here are some parting shots of the falls for use as your computer desktop background. They speak for themselves.

 

Upon our return to the car, we found that the weather had indeed rolled in, and that we probably wouldn't want to be out and exposed to the elements all afternoon. We drove a mile west of our campsite along Utah's Highway 12 and backed up the Jeep to the side of a ~10m rock face. I learned a valuable lesson about how awesome it is to own a Jeep here, and I will share it with you now: in the event that there are no rocks or trees to set an anchor to, you can four-wheel your Jeep to the top of the cliff and anchor directly to your vehicle instead. The manifold has a convenient row of carabiner-sized holes, etched into battleship-grade steel, located right behind the bumper! So, with the addition of two quickdraws and a rope, we were in business.

It is my life's great regret that I did not document the level of badness that ensued during the ensuing climb, both from my Jeep as well as from the three of us climbing. We quickly learned that the reason for all of the surrounding sand dunes in the area is because the rock is literally falling apart. Any lateral pressure on any given handhold while climbing meant a 70% chance of the hold disintegrating in your hand. It was a real challenge, and made doubly-so by the fact that everything was covered in a fine layer of dust that mostly eliminated any friction that the climber may normally rely on to, say, stay on the wall. After about four or five routes each (around 3PM), the weather was coming in fully, and the wind was not messing around. During certain memorable gusts on the side of the slab it was difficult to stand and put away gear at the same time. It got cold fast, and we collectively made the executive decision to just throw everything in the car and deal with organization later. The rest of the afternoon was spent beer-drinking (Colorado Native, appropriately enough) in the tent and playing cribbage.

By the time the tsunami of sand and wind had passed through camp, it was nearing dinner time. All of our worldly possessions had been in the tent in order to keep it from blowing away, and yet before we returned to the tent it had migrated five feet over the sand towards the canyon (the bad direction) from the winds. Also, there was the fun fact that, since everything we brought was in the tent to hold it down, everything we brought now had about five pounds of sand in it, regardless of size. In spite of my  sardonic feelings at the time, a quick glance north towards Boulder Peak reported snow in the highlands. We had driven through that area just yesterday and had considered camping in the aspen forests when Calf Creek campground was full. The juxtaposition of 85-90 degree weather in the morning with snowfall and heavy winds in the afternoon would have been unpleasant in a manner reminiscent of the unpleasantries endured by the Duke of Wellington and the Prince of Orange at the hands of Napoleon's armies during the battle of Waterloo. It was clear that providence had cast us a desirable lot in our decision making on this trip, and by golly day two ended good!

We enjoyed more of Josie's campsite fodder, climbed on a sand tower near the campsite that was in a worse state of decay than our climb from earlier that afternoon, and slept the sleep of the avid adventurer encapsulated in the imagination of young children.