Approx. 9:00 AM:
After rolling out of my sweaty sleeping bag into the crisp mountain air, I pulled the maps out of my backpack and realized that Copper Mountain was only two days away. I need a city. I need a conversation. I could care less about a bed and a warm shower, give me human interaction.
If I can cruise through Georgia Pass today (God willing there be no snow) then I will do about 19.5 miles, which will put me in Frisco by Friday night where I plan on staying the night and picking up my re-supply package at my Grandma's condo.
That Afternoon:
I just got over Georgia Pass. Had it been any worse, I would have had to hike back to I-285 and catch a ride back to Denver. I did not expect having to trudge through waist-deep snow. At one point, I was crossing a drift near the climax of the pass that must have been no less than 10 feet deep. I changed into my waterproof gear and carefully traversed the solid crust that had formed on top. Had it given way, I could easily have been buried. It looks like this western side of the pass is slightly less chaotic, but I spoke with some hikers coming from Breckenridge earlier today who said that the western side is much worse. I'm already well past the point of no return. Copper Mountain or bust.
That Night:
It is by no force of my own that I am alive to write this right now. I have made decisions today that no hiker should ever make. I thought I whisked away all of my stupidity after the dehydration incident--nope.
The snow drifts grew deeper the further down I hiked from Georgia Pass. Sections of the drifts were solid enough to walk on, but more often than not, I would post-hole and sink past my waist line.
The snow had masked the trail, and what used to be a worn path of rock and dirt in the middle of a burnt desert became a snowed-out, wooded wasteland. I began to follow a set of footprints that seemed to know the direction of the trail, but before long, the footprints began to lead strait down the side of the mountain, and the owner of the prints obviously had lost the trail as well. This is when I realized that I was following not one set of prints, but two. I knew that if I continued to follow the tracks, I would be fine. The worst, most exaggerated and unlikely case scenerio would be that I would find two frozen bodies. I was hoping that the tracks would lead me to the more probable outcomes: to the owners, or to another trail or road. After another two miles of following the footprints down the mountain, the snow began to thin out and finding the tracks grew more and more difficult. There would be wide gaps of bare land where I would be stuck for 20 minutes at a time, circling the perimeter for any sign of the direction of the dual hikers.
I followed the tracks into a small stream, and on the other side was an ATV road. I tromped onto the road and pulled off my wet shoes and soaked socks so I could get them to dry while the sun was still shining. The ATV road was as silent as the Colorado Trail, and just as scarce. I took out my maps and a cheap key-chain compass so I could try to triangulate my position. The points of tall pines and the spines of hills and ridgelines blocked my view of any recognizable landmarks, so the maps and compass didn't do me a damn bit of good. But I knew that Breckenridge was directly west, and that was all I needed to know. After a pemmican bar, I put on a dry pair of socks, tied my bandana back across my forehead, and began walking west down the ATV road.
It wasn't long before I heard the faint sound of a gasoline engine growing louder. Like a savior, the beast itself came ripping around the corner. I flagged down the driver, a local named Scott who looked no older than 50, and asked if he knew how I could get back onto the Colorado Trail. He dug into the canvas sack he'd strapped onto the back of the ATV and handed me a detailed map of Summit County, and the CT was marked in bright red ink. I discovered that I was only three miles away from my original destination--the North Fork of the Swan River. I thanked Scott, and power-hiked my way down the ATV road, and was able to get back on the trail at the Swan River by nightfall.
After rolling out of my sweaty sleeping bag into the crisp mountain air, I pulled the maps out of my backpack and realized that Copper Mountain was only two days away. I need a city. I need a conversation. I could care less about a bed and a warm shower, give me human interaction.
If I can cruise through Georgia Pass today (God willing there be no snow) then I will do about 19.5 miles, which will put me in Frisco by Friday night where I plan on staying the night and picking up my re-supply package at my Grandma's condo.
That Afternoon:
I just got over Georgia Pass. Had it been any worse, I would have had to hike back to I-285 and catch a ride back to Denver. I did not expect having to trudge through waist-deep snow. At one point, I was crossing a drift near the climax of the pass that must have been no less than 10 feet deep. I changed into my waterproof gear and carefully traversed the solid crust that had formed on top. Had it given way, I could easily have been buried. It looks like this western side of the pass is slightly less chaotic, but I spoke with some hikers coming from Breckenridge earlier today who said that the western side is much worse. I'm already well past the point of no return. Copper Mountain or bust.
That Night:
It is by no force of my own that I am alive to write this right now. I have made decisions today that no hiker should ever make. I thought I whisked away all of my stupidity after the dehydration incident--nope.
The snow drifts grew deeper the further down I hiked from Georgia Pass. Sections of the drifts were solid enough to walk on, but more often than not, I would post-hole and sink past my waist line.
The snow had masked the trail, and what used to be a worn path of rock and dirt in the middle of a burnt desert became a snowed-out, wooded wasteland. I began to follow a set of footprints that seemed to know the direction of the trail, but before long, the footprints began to lead strait down the side of the mountain, and the owner of the prints obviously had lost the trail as well. This is when I realized that I was following not one set of prints, but two. I knew that if I continued to follow the tracks, I would be fine. The worst, most exaggerated and unlikely case scenerio would be that I would find two frozen bodies. I was hoping that the tracks would lead me to the more probable outcomes: to the owners, or to another trail or road. After another two miles of following the footprints down the mountain, the snow began to thin out and finding the tracks grew more and more difficult. There would be wide gaps of bare land where I would be stuck for 20 minutes at a time, circling the perimeter for any sign of the direction of the dual hikers.
I followed the tracks into a small stream, and on the other side was an ATV road. I tromped onto the road and pulled off my wet shoes and soaked socks so I could get them to dry while the sun was still shining. The ATV road was as silent as the Colorado Trail, and just as scarce. I took out my maps and a cheap key-chain compass so I could try to triangulate my position. The points of tall pines and the spines of hills and ridgelines blocked my view of any recognizable landmarks, so the maps and compass didn't do me a damn bit of good. But I knew that Breckenridge was directly west, and that was all I needed to know. After a pemmican bar, I put on a dry pair of socks, tied my bandana back across my forehead, and began walking west down the ATV road.
It wasn't long before I heard the faint sound of a gasoline engine growing louder. Like a savior, the beast itself came ripping around the corner. I flagged down the driver, a local named Scott who looked no older than 50, and asked if he knew how I could get back onto the Colorado Trail. He dug into the canvas sack he'd strapped onto the back of the ATV and handed me a detailed map of Summit County, and the CT was marked in bright red ink. I discovered that I was only three miles away from my original destination--the North Fork of the Swan River. I thanked Scott, and power-hiked my way down the ATV road, and was able to get back on the trail at the Swan River by nightfall.
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