The Colorado Trail Part 2 1/2: Caught out in the high mountains
Day 7 gets it’s own post because it will stay with me like no other.
Hunkered down in scrub brush was the best I could do for “getting low”
The 57 mile La Garita Wilderness bypass was stunningly beautiful but still difficult, ascending over 5,000 feet. At Spring Creek Pass, there was an incredible angel station packed with hikers. I had a Vegan BLT with vegan bacon, vegan cheese, fresh fruit, and a soda. I was flying high with aspirations of getting up and over the High Point before dark, and so with thanks and farewells, I pressed on.
Bolstered by weather reports from hikers and joined briefly by Randy, the retired police officer from the Bay area, I pushed into the mid-afternoon’s climb feeling secure that I could muscle my way through some bad weather and be paid off with evening summits and a huge day. The payment for my mis-judgement would be swift and severe.
As a backcountry skier, I move in the mountains paying attention to signs. It’s this practice of constant observation and basing your decisions on the culmination of the signs you read that keeps you safe. No decision should be made in the vacuum of the current moment. That’s when errors are made.
So why is it that this day would end with me soaked to the bone, shivering, and fearing for my life at 12,900 feet? Because I stopped listening to the signs and relied on my physical strength to push me through unfamiliar terrain.
1st sign: Storms in the area.
The 3,000 foot climb to Coney Point (Colorado Trail High Point at 13,238) sets off from and elevation of 11,000 feet. I’d seen storms across the valley as I descended off Slumgullion Pass, but heard no thunder. Localized storms are a thing, I thought perhaps I dodged it.
2nd sign: Hikers camping early.
Speaking with the hikers at the angel station, we were all of a similar mind, or so I thought. I’d simply be in for a wet climb.
Wet I can deal with. Electrocuted…not so much.
Eight hikers, hanging out at the tent in the afternoon with no plans of pushing on. A bike can get you out of trouble more quickly than by foot. Or in this case, get into it.
3rd sign: No exit, distant thunder.
The climb pushed me steadily up above timberline in the first few miles. Soon I was riding Southwest with the ridge above me on my right. I couldn’t see the weather on that side, but before long, the dark skies had circled behind me. There was no real exit aside from turning back, heading down and into the rain. The storm pushed me on, up, and with no exit. I thought I could get up, over and down before things got spicy. I was very wrong.
4th sign: Hikers in a bad spot.
The High Point of the CT is the third of three bumps over 13,000 feet. As I approached the first, the thunder had grown intense, the rain turning to hail, and the lightening was within a couple miles. At one point I saw two tents near a saddle and arrogantly thought “that seems like a bad idea.” Moments later I’d ditched my bike and run downhill to hunker in some bushes, trying to get some amount of cover as things intensified. As I sat there, hoping that the nearby clap of thunder was moving away, I saw the most incredible contrast of weather I’d ever experienced.
Pinned down near High Point
Things seemed to settle down, and I hurried back to my bike and pushed on over the first bump, but the lull did not last.
5th sign: it’s all unwinding
Bike shouldered, I scrambled up chossy switchbacks and fear began to set in. Maybe those tents weren’t in such a bad spot after all. This is the final turnback moment, and yet, I pressed on.
The rain continued, I kept my head on a swivel trying to see the flashes and count the time until thunder, estimating the distance of the storm and its direction. Impossible to do while riding technical single track.
I ditched the bike once more, only to return and push up and over the second bump.
Thin, electrified air.
I was below High Point now. One more climb. Dusk was upon me and the skies continued to close in with blackness. One long arching ridgeline before the climb began in earnest. Maybe 400 feet above me.
I was tracing this bowl when a sudden crack of thunder nearly scared me out of the saddle. It felt far too loud, far too near. In a nearly comically evasive maneuver, and potentially the most dangerous thing I did all trip, I literally turned left off the trail and rode straight down into the bowl trying to get lower. The decision was so immediate, so final. There was no cover to be had, but at least I wouldn’t be on some high ridge. Get low, set up shelter.
I put up a hasty rainfly to get some coverage, then the tent went up from beneath it. Soaked, cold, frightened. I could see the line I’d crossed.
Relief from clear skies wouldn’t arrive until late in the night.
I sought that real mountain experience, and now I was smack dab in the middle of it.
There wasn’t much to do at this point. With lightening on all adjacent ridgelines and the sun setting, I simply gave myself over to the moment. It was significantly colder up here at 12,900 feet, and with much of my gear wet, I broke out the emergency bivy and stuffed my sleeping bag in it.
Sometime in the night, the storm passed.
I woke to find my sleeping bag soaked from trapped condensation and wet base layers. I stripped the bivvy off.
I stepped out into the night to relieve myself (both physically and mentally)
If the night before was the most dramatic display of stars I’d ever seen, this night felt like I could touch the Milky Way with my hands. I had no idea a sky could hold so many stars.
I was wet, cold but not hypothermic, and I so full of gratitude for this moment of beauty and the knowing that despite my mistakes, I’d make it through.
I shivered my way through the remainder of the night, pushing the limits of my sleeping bag’s zipper strength as I tried to hug my knees to my chest and eventually got some rest. When dawn arrived, I peered out upon true grandeur…
In the previous post, I wrote about letting go of your mistakes in order to move on. With three days remaining and the San Juan mountains yet to come, I couldn’t afford to be hard on myself. It would just be energy wasted. I allowed myself the 400 foot climb to High Point to digest it, beat myself up, learn the lesson, and move on. I feel like you can see all these things in my face in this photo. High Point is often a celebration for hikers and riders. For me it will always represent that night, the palpable fear, the unimaginable beauty, and the permission to move on with gratitude.
I’d come to the CT for the big mountain experience. I was getting full value.