Alone in the Mountains 3.0

Really, I do have friends that exist outside of my own, overactive imagination, but this weekend, I went for another solo, free-form day hike into Pikes National Forest.  These sorts of hikes have been covered previously in such posts as Alone in the Mountains, and Alone in the Mountains, Again.  In fact, the first of these adventures was one year previous: Veteran’s Day Weekend 2017.  There was some snow and ice discovered on that hike, but for this third installment, the snow and ice was the main feature.  See, around 0400 Sunday morning, it started snowing, and it kept snowing, and in fact is still snowing as am I writing this post.

For all of these hikes, the first step is to summit the ridge, so just before dawn, I began my ascent.  Within about a hundred feet of elevation gain, I realized that I had over-layered, so I divested myself of my long underwear shirt.  This was surprising: the temperature was around twenty degrees Fahrenheit, and I was wearing long underwear beneath my usual hiking clothing, as well as mittens, but no additional cold weather gear.  However, as important as it is to stay warm when outdoors in the winter, it is just as important, if not more so, to stay cool, so when I found myself getting close to sweating, I de-layered.  Why is it so important to stay cool?  If you start sweating, that means you’ll be wet, and then you’ll be cold.

Continuing on, the going was more challenging than usual, since everything was covered in about an inch of snow at this point, but it wasn’t exceptionally so, and I was careful to create my own switchbacks and avoid attempting anything too steep, where hidden ice or slippery rocks and branches could get me in trouble.  As I drew closer and closer to the top, however, the going became more challenging, and the wintry weather became more intense.  I crested a smaller ridge before the main one, and it was like stepping into a new, more intense snow storm.  The wind surged, and visibility plummeted to a few feet in any direction by dint of the sheer amount of snow suffusing the air.

I made it to the top of the ridge, but it was challenging, and I grew concerned about the potential hazards of the descent.  Since the snow was not projected to abate until the following evening, there seemed a high possibility the descent would only become increasingly treacherous as the day wore on.  My sense of adventure told me to press on, but prudence told me that, since I was solo hiking and sans trail, I probably ought to turn around and descend, although it was still fairly early in the morning.

Prudence, unfortunately, won out, and I reluctantly began my descent.  At first, I thought I had made the right choice, as the going was definitely more treacherous on the way down than it had been going up, but about a quarter of the way down, I realized that I was overthinking the matter.  If I bent down, so that one foot was directly beneath me, and placed my other foot out in front of me, with my hands to either side, I could slide down the mountain in an exceptionally controlled and safe fashion.  The rear foot acts as a sort of skid, and the front foot and hand provide speed and directional control.  In this fashion, I easily traversed slopes which I would have struggled to descend in a more traditional, upright fashion.

Such a method of descent would probably have been even easier and safer with more snow, not less, on the ground, so I regretted that I had turned around prematurely.  However, I was committed to the course, mostly because I was not interested in backtracking only to backtrack again, so I continued all the way down the mountain and returned home.  Although it was a short hike, shorter than I would have liked, it was a beautiful one, and the snow was just as magical as I have previously described as we’ve discussed winter camping on the blog.  What pictures I took help convey this in part, but they don’t fully communicate the wonder that is a snowy hike in the mountains.  I apologize that there are fewer pictures than usual: it was too windy and snowy at the top to fumble around with my camera.

If you were having doubts about winter hiking, I hope this will help alleviate them.  I took very little specialized gear with me – really only my long underwear and a pair of mittens – but I was quite comfortable.  Now, if I’d been camping, more gear would have been required, but there is little to prevent you from embarking on a day hike in a snowstorm.  I hope that you’ll consider giving winter hiking a try.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

Introduction to Winter Camping

I know, I know.  Many of you are cringing at this premature appearance of the dreaded “W” word.  For many people, winter, with the possible exception of the holidays, is a time of longer commutes, not enough sunshine, bulky, annoying jackets, and dirty, dingy snow.  That, dear readers, is a genuine tragedy.  Winter has the ability to transform the environment as surely as does any other season, but there seems to me to be something especially magical about what the season of death’s cold and snow can do to a landscape.  If you don’t believe me, try going to sleep in your tent one night, and awakening to find the entire world blanketed with a fresh, undisturbed layer of crystalline snow.  It is truly like emerging onto another world.

Already, I can hear your protests.  It’s too cold in the winter.  The snow gets everywhere and makes everything wet and uncomfortable.  Winter gear is so heavy and cumbersome.  Hiking through snow is way too much work, not to mention dangerous.  It’s not that I don’t like the winter, I just don’t want to camp in it – I’d much rather spend it curled up in a sweater by a gas fireplace with a good book.  Or the classic “I like winter, as long as it’s below the thirtieth parallel.”

If you are truly dead set against winter camping, then I’m afraid that you’re a lost cause.  However, if you’re someone who thinks that the image I described above sounds like something you’d like to experience, but you’re not sure where to begin, then you’ve come to the right place.  As the season progresses, I’ll be posting gear recommendations, techniques, and tricks that will help ensure you can continue to enjoy the outdoors in this under-utilized part of the year, without sacrificing fingers, toes, ears, noses, comfort, or any other extremities.  You can also ask any questions you might have using the contact form.

There is an enormous amount of detail about winter camping, and we’ll go into all of the similarities and differences between winter camping and regular camping, as well as the specialized gear you might want to obtain (camping gear is an excellent thing to put on a holiday gift list).  For now, here are my top five rules for comfortable winter camping:

1. Layer
2. Stay dry
3. Layer
4. Eat extra food
5. Layer

 

A Walk in the Park

Experiencing the outdoors is about a lot of things, many of which motivations we’ve discussed on the blog.  One we haven’t mentioned for some time now is companionship, or, as I learned to refer to it as a Scout, fellowship.  After all, as wonderful as it can be to spend time with the people about whom you care most, why wouldn’t it be even more wonderful if that time can be spent with a backdrop of amazing scenery, and the tang of fresh air?

My mother was in town recently, and we often will spend a great deal of our time finding places where we can walk around and talk.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call them hikes, but there is more to them than simply strolling about the neighborhood.

The first place at which we chose to amble was Painted Mines.  The iron compounds in the clay and sedimentary rocks make the exposed formations, which seem like areas where the surrounding prairie simply blew away, make for some vibrant colors.  Apparently, local tribes used to mine the area in order to create paints and dyes.  There were about six total miles of trails, none of them especially strenuous.  If you like the Badlands in South Dakota, this is a little bit like that: a strange formation emerging from the endless, open expanse of the Great Plains.

The following day, we decided to perambulate at Cheyenne Mountain State Park.  This was a lovely place for some quiet hiking, with significantly more shade than is available at Painted Mines.  Based on the size of the parking lot, I suspect it gets quite crowded there, on occasion, but even by the time we departed, there weren’t very many people.  There is a $7.00 parking fee.  At first glance, the park seems quite large, but we found that we were able to hike much of it in a leisurely morning.

Where I am, the weather is about to take a drastic turn from the high seventies to the mid thirties, with a side of snow, so stay tuned for a probable winter camping post on Friday.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Mount Herman – Short and Sweet

After work on Saturday, a couple of friends and I decided to set off on a small-scale adventure.  At this time of year, reaching the Mount Herman trailhead around 1900 meant that the sun was going down.  There was a crisp breeze blowing, and the sun, now in its dusk, had only then managed to burn through the thick cloud layer as we began our ascent.

Fortunately, the Mount Herman trail is neither excessively long (at only a little over two miles, round trip), nor excessively challenging (although it is steep in places), and as we established, night hiking is a perfectly feasible activity.  Ascending the last push to the peak was somewhat challenging in the dark, but we forwent lights in favor of the illumination from billions of stars scattered across the night sky, and were rewarded with a view of the band of the Milky Way on one side, and the Great Plains spread out on the other.

Setting up camp in the dark is practically a tradition for me from my days in scouting, when we would almost never reach the campsite until long after the sun had set, but this was a new experience to my companions.  They set up camp while I gathered firewood, kindled the fire, and began cooking dinner.  Since this was such a short trail, I had indulged in packing in some real (not dehydrated) food, and we ate dinner around 2100.  Late, but definitely worth the wait, and all food tastes better when camping.  Yes, I will be posting the recipe for our dinner in this Friday’s post, so you can look forward to that.

We stayed up fairly late talking before going to bed, and by the time that we did, the entire mountaintop had been engulfed in a cloud so thick that the minute water droplets gave substance to the ominous red beam of my headlamp: I couldn’t see more than a few yards (roughly a meter, for metric types) ahead of me.  It made for very peaceful sleeping.

Around 0600, I roused my friends, so that we could watch the sunrise, which was then beginning to paint the eastern sky with just the faintest traces of yellow.  Our mountaintop had been transformed in the night to an island in a sea of clouds, and as the yellow gave way to the deeper, more dramatic shades of golds, oranges, reds, and ambers, those clouds were warmed by the rising sun and washed over us in waves, obscuring out view for a moment before clearing again.

Such was the majesty of that sunrise that we stood, gazing upon its glorious polychromatic panorama, for over an hour, before finally breaking away to rekindle the fire, and make our breakfast.  Since the hike back was so short, we took our time with breakfast and breaking camp, but eventually it was time to leave our secluded sanctuary and descend back to the realms of mortals.

As we made our way down the trail, we quickly found ourselves descending into the clouds themselves, which swirled like misty spirits around us.  We were treated to glorious displays of fall colors, which had gone unremarked in the darkness the previous night, and as we drove away from the trail, we emerged from the bottom of the clouds, transitioning in the space of a few hundred vertical feet from a day of beautiful sunshine to one of low-hanging, grey clouds that threatened snow.

Sure, it was only a two mile hike, and Mount Herman barely breaks 9,000 feet, and the trailhead is only a ten minute drive from civilization, and we were only out for a little more than twelve hours.  None of that really mattered, and certainly none of it detracted in any way from the experience.  This overnight trip to the top of Mount Herman was a truly special campout, and a poignant reminder of what it is that I really love about camping.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Same Old, Same New

I admit, I look for an element of challenge when I’m planning my outdoor experiences, or at least something which I haven’t before experienced.  That’s led me to some very enjoyable hikes and trips, and I don’t regret that tendency in the slightest.  Part of what I enjoy doing in the outdoors is seeking adventure and new experiences.

However, in seeking such opportunities, it can become easy to forget that new experiences can be had on familiar trails.  Something new can happen on the trail you run every day by your house, or at the campsite where you’ve stayed with your family every year for the past decade.  And even if something new doesn’t happen, that needn’t detract from your enjoyment of the experience.

It’s also important to remember that just because something doesn’t seem particularly special or challenging doesn’t mean it won’t be a fantastic experience.  This is especially true when you’re going not so much for your personal outdoor experience, but for the fellowship that so often accompanies camping.  There are times when a short, easy hike, with a couple of friends or family, can be more satisfying than conquering the next fourteener.

Human-Powered

Someone born in the dusk of the nineteenth century who lived to be, say, one hundred years old, would have been witness to some of the most drastic transformations in history, dramatically encapsulated in the evolution of transportation.  This hypothetical person would have grown up in a world where the primary mode of transportation was by foot or by horse, with trains allowing for faster transportation between certain destinations.  Then came the model T, and the affordable automobile soon suffused the roads.  Air travel barely existed as the twentieth century marched on, but by the end of the Second World War, jet engines were a reality.  Soon, the sound barrier was a thing of the past, and in 1969, we put men on the moon.  Imagine, going from getting about on foot or by horse, to having commonplace air travel, automobiles, and watching people walk on the moon.

These advances in transportation technology are just one facet of the progress that has continued into the twenty first century, and enable so many aspects of our modern lives that we rarely stop to think about how incredible it is that we can climb into our cars, get on the road, and drive at seventy miles an hour across the country.  Seventy miles an hour.  It doesn’t seem remarkable, but think about the last time you went backpacking, or hiking.  What was your average pace?  Unless you were really pressing your pace, I’m guessing it was between two and three miles an hour.  If you could maintain that pace, without rest, for a full day, you would be able to cover about the distance that a car can cover in an hour.

The Roman legions could do forced marches of about thirty miles per day, consistently, with all of their gear.  Thirty miles a day is a pretty aggressive pace for a backpacker or hiker today.  I did almost twenty miles in a day on my McCurdy trip, and that was decidedly wearing.  I could have gone further, maybe even to that thirty mile mark, but I certainly wouldn’t have been keen on getting up to do it again the next day.  Sometimes, it can be a little disheartening to consider that the best sprinters in the world can only do about thirty two miles per hour.

Other times, though, it can be incredibly satisfying to go somewhere under your own power, and not that of an internal combustion engine (or an electro-mechanical motor, for those electric car people).  Running, walking, biking: our mitochondria can provide all the energy we need, no alternate fuel source required, to get from point A to point B.  Nor am I only referring to camping situations: I’m rather proud that I can ride my bike to accomplish many of my local errands.

Don’t get me wrong: I fully support the use of technology to improve our lives and make our tasks easier.  I mean, I work in the space industry, in a job that would have been scarcely imaginable just a few decades ago – in the early twentieth century, there was still debate about whether space travel was even possible.  However, I find I appreciate all of these advances and advantages much more when I’ve lived without them.  Just because it might be easier to drive, doesn’t mean it might not be worth taking that little extra time to power yourself to your destination.

Alone in the Mountains, Again

If you’ve been reading for awhile, you might remember Alone in the Mountains, in which I described a free-form, solo day hike into Pikes National Forest.  Since Pikes National Forest is so local for me, it’s hardly surprising that I might venture forth in such a fashion for a second time.  I saw some things that were new, some things that I’d seen before, and solved a mystery, but mostly, I was able to take a few hours to escape the ceaseless cacophony of human voices and modern concerns, and immerse myself with my own thoughts for company (and the occasional wild turkey) in the backcountry.

I headed out just as sun was beginning to stain the eastern horizon; although I can hike at night, since the first part of this free-form hike would involve ascending a 2,000′ ridge without a trail, I wasn’t particularly keen on doing that part in the dark.  As a result, I was treated to some gorgeous sunrise views as I made my way up the ridge, including one particularly vivid moment where the sun’s coloring made it look like the ridge was on fire (which came out surprisingly well in the picture).  I was aiming for a saddle between two peaks, which was set farther back, so although the ascent was slightly shorter and easier than other routes I’ve taken, the extra distance ended up making the time of ascent similar.

Once at the top of the ridge, I ate a granola bar (I’d brought three for the day’s hiking), and surveyed my surroundings, trying to decide to where I wanted to go next.  Ultimately, I allowed the terrain to guide me.  The ridge on which I was perched curved west and south, so I followed it as far as I could, until it deposited me in a valley of aspens, alongside a little creek.  There was a trail, and as I began following it, I thought hm, this looks familiar.  Very much like the trail I explored, but on which I was stymied by ice, last year.  I continued for a ways, and discovered that, in fact, it was the trail I had found last year.

Since there was no such icy impediment to my progress this time, I took the trail further, and as I went, I realized that even the parts that I hadn’t seen last time were familiar.  Since I didn’t want to descend too far only to have to ascend again, I turned around, and followed the trail in the other direction.  Reaching its terminus, I discovered that my suspicion had been correct: it was the Stanley Canyon Trail, all along.

From the reservoir (which was empty), I abandoned established trails again, and followed a ridge north for a long ways, before continuing even further west.  I wasn’t in any particular hurry, so when I saw pleasant places to spend some time sitting on a rock in the sun, and generally enjoying the day, I did so.  In this fashion, I wiled away six hours.  Around noon, I decided that it would probably be prudent to start my journey back.

Instead of shuffle-sliding, pell-mell, in a cascade of crumbly granite gravel, down the ridge, I headed southeast and eventually intersected what I now knew was the Stanley Canyon Trail, and followed it back down.  As is the nature of such things, the descent took me considerably less time than the ascent had, so instead of being back around 6:00 PM, I had finished my hike by around 2:30 PM.

I suppose that I probably should write a separate post about the Stanley Canyon Trail at some point, since that’s a lovely hike, but I might wait until I attempt it later this season, hopefully with snow on the ground.  Mostly, this post will serve as a reminder that solo hiking can be a very restful and meditative experience (as long as you’re prepared), and that going sans trail, and simply exploring, can make for a very different kind of outdoor experience.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

A Little Escapism

My original thought for this blog was to share my knowledge and experiences in the outdoors with a wider audience, which (I think) it continues to do effectively.  In addition to that intention, it has taken on an unexpected dimension; through many of my posts, I’ve noticed that there has been a theme of trying to explain why the outdoors holds such a draw, and how to convey that to others so that you can share that passion with them.

I am frequently asked why, when I get to the end of a long week of non-stop, twenty hour days, I would want to do something as physically demanding and apparently un-relaxing as hiking.  After all, even once you’ve reached your campsite, there’s still setting up, gathering firewood, tending the fire, preparing meals, cleaning up from meals, filtering water, and myriad other camp chores.  Then, at the end of the day, you get to lie down on a bed that probably has less than an inch of padding between yourself and the ground.  To a lot of people, this doesn’t sound like a fantastic way to spend a much-needed weekend.

To answer these questions, for one thing, I don’t consider any of these to be hardships.  I enjoy the work involved in camping, and hiking itself to me is not so much about a physical challenge as it is about simply going somewhere.  There’s also a definite element of escapism involved.  Like why I enjoy distance running, backpacking, hiking, camping, and otherwise immersing myself in the outdoors allows me to, at least temporarily, leave the cares of my normal life behind, and focus on something more primal, and much simpler.

Of course, the reasons for doing anything are almost always multitudinous, complex, and multi-faceted – to reduce them to a single motivation would lose a high degree of richness and dimensionality.  This idea of escapism is just one of many reasons why I seek out time to spend in the wilderness.  Speaking of, expect to see some pictures on Monday from a mountain hike I’ll be taking this weekend.

***

Since this was a shorter post, I’ll also take the opportunity to remind you that you’re welcome to contact me using the contact form for specific advice, or with any questions you might have about hiking, camping, backpacking, and other outdoors topics.

Patience is a Virtue

I started this blog as a way to share my experiences with, and knowledge of, the outdoors with a wider audience.  Whether through lengthy backpacking trips, or simple day hikes, I think that what these undeveloped parts of the world have to offer is something of which more people should take advantage.  To further that, the intent of many of my posts is to help those who might have little or no experience with hiking and camping to be able to enjoy what the outdoors have to offer.  For those of us who have made the wilderness a part of our lives, it seems, well, natural, but to those who don’t have that kind of training and experience, the prospect of camping or hiking can seem decidedly daunting.

That mission isn’t something I do solely through this blog.  Among my friends and family, I have developed a bit of a reputation as the one to go with for a first, or early, hiking or camping experience.  There is something very satisfying for me about initiating someone into the wonders of the backcountry, and seeing them go from uncertain to enthusiastic.  Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that many experienced outdoorsmen are reluctant to undertake such opportunities.

The reasons that I’ve heard from these types are many: it’s too much work, they don’t want the responsibility, they don’t want to have to deal with it, the inexperienced ones will slow them down or prevent them from reaching their goals, more people just means more chance of something going wrong…the list goes on.  While I understand their arguments, I think that it’s quite sad that they’re not willing to try.  All that is really required is a little patience.

Okay, so maybe there’s more to being an effective ambassador to the backcountry than patience.  You need to have a decent amount of experience, enough that you can pass as having “expert level” knowledge.  You need to be competent and comfortable enough with the skills involved that you can execute them without doubt, and explain them to your inductee.  You need to have a good idea of what your inductee is capable of, mentally and physically, so that you can suggest adventures that will provide an exciting challenge while giving them a good first experience.  Mostly, though, it does come down to being patient.  Maybe you won’t be able to summit the mountain in the two hours it would normally take you.  So?  Hiking shouldn’t be a race, anyway.

Perhaps it comes from my days of herding young scouts, who can sometimes be more challenging to herd than the proverbial cats, but I don’t really even think about these things when I’m doing them, anymore, not consciously.  I’m proud to say that the people I have introduced to the backcountry have all been excited to do it again when they returned.  If you’re new to the great outdoors, I encourage you to find someone with these traits.  If you do have these characteristics, then I encourage you to be patient, and introduce your skeptical friends and family to the wonders of the backcountry.

A Day in Denali

Denali, which translates roughly to “Great One,” is the name of both the tallest mountain in North America, and one of the most well-known Alaskan national parks, although Denali National Park is not the largest national park.  Following our time in Sutton, we ventured north, deeper into the state, to Denali National Park, which would serve as the location for our next series of adventures in America’s last frontier.  To start off our time in Denali, we set out on what I consider to take the number three spot on our Alaska trip: a full day hike off trail in Denali.

Somewhat unique among national parks, there are very few trails at Denali, mostly concentrated around the few visitor centers, and none of them are extensive.  There is also only one road, and private vehicles aren’t allowed.  To really see Denali, you’ll need to purchase bus tickets to get out along the park road.  From there, you have two options: sit on the bus for up to eleven hours, following the park road and seeing what there is to see that way, or getting off to hike.  You can ask these buses to stop at any time so that you can get off and hike, and then you just have to pick up any bus when you get back to the park road.

We did the whole sit on the bus for hours thing, but that was our second day in Denali.  For our first day, we did what I had been looking forward to since I started planning our Denali hike: a full day of hiking, off trail, in Denali.  We boarded the earliest bus into the park, at 0500, and ventured forth.  Our bus driver had a dry sense of humor and a monotonous voice, leading my family to christen him “Batman.”  When we stopped the bus around 0645 to get off to hike, his announcement to the other passengers was “they are going to join the food chain.”  There were a lot of strange looks as we stepped off the bus and into the waiting forest.

I was aiming us for a low pass between two peaks: the idea was to go over the pass, and wind back around to the river, where we could re-join the park road after about ten miles of hiking.  As with most plans, this one didn’t quite work out, but we had quite the adventure, nonetheless.  To reach the pass, we first had to pass through a pine forest.  There was a layer of loam covering the forest floor nearly a foot thick in most places: I compare it to a sort of terrestrial coral, with a layer of living moss and plant material growing atop a thick base of skeletal plant material.  There was ample evidence of moose and caribou, and even some of bears, in the area, but we saw no such impressive wildlife on our hike.

After passing by a few mountain lakes, we began to make our way up the first part of the pass.  Reaching the top, with its prevailing winds, was a relief, as the breeze helped dispel the swarming mosquitoes.  Denali mosquitoes are large and numerous, but they seemed to not know quite what to do with us: for the number of mosquitoes we saw, we received very few bites.  Although it was only 1000, we decided to have the first of our two sandwiches at that point: after all, we had been up since 0400.

As we were eating our second breakfast, in the manner of good hobbits everywhere, the wind started to pick up, and we noticed rain blowing into our area.  It is commonly acknowledged that it’s always raining somewhere in Denali, and it seemed that it would soon be our turn.  We decided that rather than continue up the pass, we would descend along the other side of the hill on which we stood, and make our way through a valley we saw until we reached the river.  It was a fateful decision.

What the topographical map we purchased before setting out failed to convey was that the valley, which depicted a stream, was in reality an extensive marsh.  I have to say, my Zamberlan boots proved to be worth the money I spent on them, allowing me to traverse the marsh without getting my feet wet, but my companions were not so fortunate.  Between the rain that started to dampen us from above, and the marsh dampening us from below, there was a considerable dampening of spirits as we tromped our way through the valley.  It didn’t help that my family was admittedly not quite so enthusiastic about the whole off-trail hiking experience as I was.

With the weather seeming likely to remain less than ideal, and the marsh having bogged down what enthusiasm there had been, the decision was made to arrow through another pass that would take us more quickly back to the road.  Traversing the marsh had reduced out speed to a crawl, so although it had been two hours since we had our second breakfast, we had covered a distressingly minute distance.  At our pace, it would have taken into the dinner hour to reach the road, if we tried to attain our originally intended access point.

Leaving the marsh behind was a relief all around, although the pass we chose was steep and dense with brush in places.  After achieving the top of the pass, we caught a glimpse of the park road, given away by a bus winding along it in the distance, which helped to rejuvenate the flagging spirits of my family members.  We made much better time in our descent, following natural trails we found winding through the forest, and around 1415, we successfully returned to the park road.  Before long, we had caught a ride on a bus, and were on our way back to civilization.

The rest of my family would probably disagree about this hike taking the number three spot, and it probably doesn’t do wonders for my credibility on this blog that I can’t convince my own family of the magic inherent to off-trail hikes like this.  To me, there is something uniquely exciting about hiking like that, and I have every intention of one day returning to Denali to backpack into the more remote areas of the park.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.