Cowboys and Idiots

Picture the scene: it’s the year 1493. Christopher and his good friend Amerigo have returned, bringing the first cows to the New World. Here’s part of their conversation after a busy day of discovering stuff.

AV: Well Chris, it’s good to be back!

CC: Sure is. And this time, we’re going to eat like kings.

AV: No doubt. But what are we going to name these four-legged beefcakes? The term “livestock” seems a bit cumbersome.

CC: True. I mulled it over during the voyage, and here’s what I’m thinking. Have you noticed that all they seem to do is eat?

AV: Sure.

CC: And that their long faces are completely deadpan the entire time?

AV: Yup.

CC: Well, it’s their vacant expression that prompted my eureka moment.

AV: Really? So, what have you decided to call them?

CC: Vaca.

527 years later

The year 2020 was like a field full of cattle. Crappy. By the time August arrived, I’d been sitting at home for most of the previous five months, having indefinitely postponed my PCT hike due to the pandemic. I really needed to get out of the house, so I consulted my hiking to-do list and put together an itinerary.

A few days later, I drove to the western end of the Uinta Highline Trail in Utah. I planned to hike halfway along the trail before turning around. Then I’d drive to the eastern end of the trail, hike to the same turn-around point, and return to my car. No hitching necessary. I could cover the entire length of the trail in a socially-distanced fashion, even if it meant seeing everything twice.

A few days after that

I camped several miles from the trail’s mid-point. It was late afternoon, at the western end of Painter Basin, and the scenery reminded me of the Scottish highlands. I lay in my tent, relaxing, quietly watching clouds appear and change shape a few thousand feet above me. Suddenly, nearby, I heard a low growl followed by a loud bark. Obviously a large dog rather than a wild animal. I was in no position for a confrontation, so I hastily exited my tent.

I recognized the breed, a Great Pyrenees, from an encounter I’d had with some sheep in the Boise foothills. That time, three livestock guard dogs, alert but not aggressive, positioned themselves between me and the flock. This time, the dog clearly saw me as a threat, and behaved accordingly. It wasn’t the scariest dog I’ve ever met, but the intensity of its barking and growling increased as it continued to approach. It seemed to expect me to retreat.

The sheep were still a long way off, being driven in my direction by several people on horseback. All I needed to do was keep the dog at bay until the shepherds arrived. At first, I tried to de-escalate things. I stood quietly and avoided direct eye-contact with the dog as it inched towards me. When that didn’t work, I decided to fight fire with fire. I stared directly at the approaching animal, and made a loud, angry announcement.

“F*ck you. I was here first.”

It worked – the dog stopped and checked over its shoulder. It continued barking and growling but didn’t advance, even as the bleating horde came within earshot.

Clouds cast shadows on a rocky slope leading to a basin.

Painter Basin, from Gunsight Pass.

A messy situation

The approaching horse-riders would not be any help. At least one of them saw the stand-off between me and the dog, but his priority was to keep approximately 800 sheep under control. He nudged his side of the herd away from me and rode onwards, perhaps unaware that some shepherds whistle at their dogs to issue commands.

For the next five minutes or so, the dog stood its ground and was menacing. The sheep hurried past, and were complaining. At the back of the pack, another shepherd was busy corralling. As the sound of the herd faded into the distance, the guard dog issued a final, half-hearted huff, and departed. (And proceeded to bark at every passing hiker for the rest of the evening.)

When I went to the nearby stream to collect water, I was shocked that such a mess had been created in such a short space of time. So much crap everywhere, and so many hoofprints in the soft earth.

Eureka!

Wilderness: “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” (Wilderness Act, 1964)

That afternoon in Painter Basin, I had a eureka moment. Beforehand, it hadn’t occurred to me that grazing is permitted in wilderness areas. With rules strict enough to prohibit bicycles, allowing untrammeled trampling by sheep and cattle makes no sense. But setting that aside, when I returned home, I simply wanted to register a complaint. (I don’t think livestock guard dogs should be aggressive towards people.) I also figured there’d be a process for reporting what the US Forest Service refers to as a “user conflict.”

The USFS may have a simple term for it, but they don’t have a simple way of recording it. I eventually found a contact form on their “Rangeland Management” webpage, but trying to submit my question resulted in an error message, and the webmaster’s email address didn’t work either. There was no answer when I called the telephone number.

Eventually, I gave up. But not before I found out how the process currently works.

  1. Identify the agency in charge of the land where the conflict occurred. In my case, it was the USFS (Dept. of Agriculture) rather than the Bureau of Land Management (Dept. of the Interior).
  2. Track down the head ranger or land manager for the area where the conflict occurred. Provide feedback as necessary.
  3. It shouldn’t be this difficult. It’s likely that user conflicts on federal land are significantly under-reported.

Trail maintenance: some thoughts

While hiking the CDT in 2023, I realized it needs help. Lots of help. So, in the spring of 2024, I went to the Continental Divide Trail Coalition website and signed up for two multi-day trail maintenance projects. Having now taken part in those projects, I can give a quick summary.

It was my first time doing any sort of trail work, but I’d say both events were well organized. There were volunteers of various ages, from a range of backgrounds, with varying amounts of experience. Everyone was enthusiastic, took pride in their work, and I was surprised at how much we accomplished in just a few days. Here are some more details of each project.

  • San Pedro Parks Wilderness, northern New Mexico, Continental Divide Trail, early June. Organized by the CDTC and New Mexico Volunteers for the Outdoors. Mostly tread work, just outside the wilderness boundary.
  • Weminuche Wilderness, southern Colorado, South Fork Trail, late July. Organized by Volunteers for Outdoor Colorado and the CDTC. Mostly using crosscut saws to clear fallen trees from the trail.

The San Pedro Parks event finished at lunchtime on its final day, and I hiked several miles into the wilderness on the CDT before returning to the trailhead. (It’s a section of trail I missed in 2023 because I took the old-CDT alternate to Cuba.) On my way back, I encountered a herd of 50+ cattle being driven northbound along the trail by 12 horseback riders. It was a relatively small herd, but the damage it did to the recently repaired section of trail was significant. I was disappointed to see just how much of the group’s hard work was undone in a matter of minutes.

By the numbers

Screen capture from the 14ers.com website.

I used 14ers.com to plan and track my ascents.

On the CDT in 2023, Colorado was the most rewarding of the five states I passed through. So, to fill the time between my two trail-maintenance projects, I decided to summit as many of the state’s 14ers (peaks higher than 14,000 feet) as possible. Here’s a quick summary.

  • Successful summits: 44. As my trip progressed, it was interesting to watch the snow gradually disappear.
  • Failed attempts: 7. Early June in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, there was still enough snow to make things difficult.
  • Privately owned summits: 2. Also in the Sangre de Cristo’s; I didn’t do either of these.
  • Non-attempts: 5. Due to permit issues and/or difficulty-rating.
  • Number of heart-stopping moments: 1. On Mount Harvard, I watched a black Labrador Retriever make a valiant attempt at crossing a high-angle snowfield. The dog started slipping, and its feet splayed out from underneath it as it gathered speed. Its expression mirrored my own look of horror as it realized what was happening. Fortunately, it clattered into a small patch of rocks before it had gained too much momentum. The owner rescued it, attached its leash, and took off its booties. Dogs have built-in microspikes, it turns out.
  • Hitches given to Colorado Trail hikers: 2.
  • Miles driven: 3979.
  • Miles hiked: 474.
  • Days away from home: 70.
  • Days spent in my car at a trailhead, waiting for bad weather to clear: 3.
  • Books read: 9.
  • Nights in a tent: 37.
  • Nights in a hotel: 9.
Trailhead tribulations
  • Nights in my car at a trailhead: 24. The car’s actually more comfortable than I remembered. A camp pillow makes all the difference.
  • Nights in my car, disturbed by early-morning arrivals: 24(ish). I always parked away from the trail, and far from the pit toilet if there was one. It made little difference. Hikers typically started to arrive about 4 AM, and most of them talked at the same volume they’d use in a crowded bar.
  • Busiest trailhead: Mount Bierstadt. That Saturday, I’m guessing 150 cars had spilled out from the trailhead, parked on both sides of the road, in both directions.
  • The “alien abduction” trailhead: La Plata Peak. A guy (I assume) in a lifted Toyota pickup arrived some time after midnight. Evidently, the lightbar on the front of his truck had four settings: Low, Medium, High, and Supernova. He drove into the space behind my car, but wasn’t satisfied with the slope of his chosen sleeping spot. He spent the next 20 minutes test-fitting a sequence of rocks under the driver-side tires until his truck was level. Meanwhile, the interior of my car was brighter than the surface of the sun.

A few 13ers

By my count, there are ten 13ers on, or very close to, the CDT. I skipped four of them during my 2023 thru-hike.

  • Mount Edwards. I bailed during the traverse from Grays Peak because of a thunderstorm.
  • Landslide Peak, Whale Peak. I skipped these, then made a beeline for Breckenridge due to foot problems.
  • Coney Benchmark. Zero visibility made it pointless to detour from the Colorado Trail highpoint.

Of these, my only regret was Mount Edwards. On this trip, I summitted Grays again and traversed to Edwards just to scratch that itch. If you’re thinking of hiking the CDT, I’d advise you to become familiar with the Grays Peak South Ridge route. It’s not shown in FarOut, but according to the comments, it is a Ley alternate. If I’d researched the south ridge before doing the CDT, I could have descended Grays that way and avoided the thunderstorm.

Patchy snow on mountain slopes under a partially cloudy sky.

The south ridge of Grays Peak (center) and the traverse to Mount Edwards (right) during the descent from Argentine Pass.

And some 14ers

Every 14er was a unique experience, but some were more fun than others.

I enjoyed catching an hour of the first practice session for the Pikes Peak International Hill Climb. Cars from several classes were repeatedly attempting the section between Devils Playground and the summit.

I found much less joy on the north slope of El Diente Peak, but to be fair, I had been warned. The lower slope is a loose boulder field, and the upper slope is scree and unstable rock. That “there is a high risk of rockfall in the couloir” is something of an understatement. I triggered several rockslides, and witnessed two that started spontaneously.

A few other climbs also stood out from the crowd.

Favorite view: Wetterhorn Peak

I reached the final pitch shortly after a group of ten women. They were climbing the Class 3 section to the summit in pairs, and the first two were almost at the top. I clambered up next. A few minutes later, I poked my head above summit level, and into a scene I wasn’t expecting.

From my vantage point at ground level, I had an eye-popping view of a semi-naked woman getting her picture taken. She stood with her back to the camera and the early morning sun, arms extended skyward, holding the corners of a flag. I almost blurted out an apology, but stifled it.

So, if you happen to see a photobombed Instagram post of a topless climber atop Wetterhorn Peak, the flummoxed face at her feet is probably mine.

Creepiest basecamp: Chicago Basin

There were about 40 hikers on the Durango-Silverton train that morning, so I didn’t hang around. I raced to get a prime camping spot, when I should have spent a few minutes reading the trailhead information.

There were several granite slabs near my chosen campsite, and when urinating, I initially used one that was about ten yards from my tent. Big mistake. A mountain goat soon appeared, and started licking the salty rock. Another goat showed up and did the same. Three’s a crowd, which is when they started getting aggressive with each other. Number four arrived, larger than the others, and muscled all of them out of the way. The first three then paced around me and my tent like sharks circling a swimmer. Any time I moved, they stopped, stared at me, and licked their lips.

Highest double-standard: Uncompahgre Peak

It’s the tallest peak in the most picturesque (in my opinion) mountain range in Colorado, and I planned to spend two nights in its vicinity. My plan was simple.

  1. Hike five miles from my car and camp for the night.
  2. Continue climbing, and at the next trail junction, drop my pack.
  3. Summit, return to the junction, then take the suspiciously-named “Ridge Stock Driveway” to Wetterhorn Peak.
  4. Make camp, summit the next morning, return to my car.

Four miles into the hike, I stopped at the trailhead noticeboard to read the motivational definitions of wilderness, some instructions, and a warning. Here’s a condensed version of the sign.

Wilderness is: “affected primarily by the forces of nature, with the imprint of man’s work substantially unnoticeable.” (Wilderness Act, 1964)

In wilderness, native plants are allowed to flourish, providing beauty in a rugged landscape and a foundation for the complex food web of life. The value of wilderness depends on the degree to which it remains unimpaired. Do not camp above treeline.

The Uncompahgre Wilderness is home to the rare and endangered Uncompahgre Fritillary Butterfly (Boloria acrocnema). As you climb the highest peaks, you will encounter areas where research is being conducted on this butterfly. Travelling off-trail can result in damage that requires decades to heal. Stay on designated trails. Avoid research areas.

You may encounter sheep. Watch for livestock protection dogs and remain calm if one approaches you. Keep your dog leashed.

Ultimately, the summit views were extraordinary and the scenery was everything I’ve come to expect from the San Juans. I hardly even noticed the sheep. There can’t have been more than 400 of them.

A panorama of mountains, and a herd of sheep with an "Endangered Species" sign in the foreground.

The view from Uncompahgre (top) and its eastern slope (bottom).

Disclaimer: I might be an idiot.

So feel free to take the next few paragraphs with a grain of salt.

Some time ago, I typed the search term “wilderness grazing study” into Google. I figured that the money made from grazing must be too good for USFS/BLM to pass up. Quite the opposite: they charge a fraction of what it costs to graze on private property. The fair market value of a grazing permit should include cleanup expenses for when livestock inevitably cause damage. The price of trail repairs is easy to calculate, the price of polluted streams and loss of endangered butterfly habitat isn’t.

Part of the “resource extraction vs. environmental protection” debate, grazed wilderness accounts for a relatively small area of public land. The 1964 Wilderness Act included exceptions for existing grazing rights, but kept quiet about how wilderness grazing might be reduced over time. In the intervening 60 years, other legislation has made any phase-out more difficult. I’m guessing this has something to do with corporate land ownership, ranchers, generational wealth, and political influence. It’s a genie that won’t go back in the bottle quietly. In the meantime, areas that are supposed to be preserved for the future are burdened by their past.

I might also be jaded

During several thousand miles of hiking, I’ve passed trailhead noticeboards displaying the same inspirational definition of wilderness. Once or twice on the PCT, and plenty of times on the CDT, the associated wilderness area either contained livestock, or showed signs of having been grazed. I’m not sure when, exactly, but at some point, each trailhead wilderness definition began to seem more hypocritical than aspirational.

I now wonder if I’m less diligent about leaving no trace than I once was. I sometimes ignore trailhead noticeboards, or urinate near my tent, or camp a little too close to the patchy treeline on a heavily-used 14er. Maybe I’m not the first backcountry user who’s let their standards slip in the presence of livestock. Maybe I am the first to propose a five-step solution.

Make wilderness areas more accessible, part one

Actually, this applies to all public land. I have noticed efforts in recent years to make the outdoors more inclusive. More people getting out there means more environmental advocates who are more likely to vote for pro-environment politicians. It also means a larger pool of potential volunteers for trail maintenance.

Charge fair market value for grazing permits

Less is spent on trail maintenance these days because more is spent fighting wildfires, and it’s still not enough. The same drought contributing to bigger fires has killed large numbers of trees due to bark beetle infestation. In burned and unburned areas, fallen trees block trails more frequently, and at the same time, less money is available for clearing them. The cost of maintaining public land is going up. Meanwhile, grazing on that land is, in effect, heavily subsidized by the public, and permits should be more expensive.

Add some context to grazed-wilderness noticeboards and websites

The USFS and BLM should acknowledge that wilderness grazing was a necessary compromise in order to pass the 1964 Wilderness Act. They should also emphasize that continued grazing, while inconsistent with the law’s ideals, doesn’t negate the value of leave-no-trace. Using the legal definition of wilderness is fine, but preaching about an ethical definition of wilderness isn’t helpful. The ethics are debatable, and in my opinion, wilderness should be utilitarian.

Implement a website for reporting complaints/conflicts

Ideally it would be a combined USFS/BLM website, ridiculously quick and easy to use, with a QR code and URL displayed at every trailhead. Without accurate, descriptive, easily-processed feedback from land users, land managers aren’t fully informed. A few conflict examples: hiker vs. biker; biker vs. downed tree; hiker vs. livestock guard dog; grazing vs. research area; domestic sheep vs. bighorn sheep.

Make wilderness areas more accessible, part two

Armed with their new datasets, the USFS and BLM can make better policy decisions. For example, justifying the “exceptional” use of chainsaws in wilderness is easier if there’s a mountain of complaints about blowdown. There are bound to be legal challenges, of course, and if they’re consistently successful, it’s probably time to update the Wilderness Act. Allow chainsaws. Allow mountain bikes. More people will end up enjoying the wilderness. The complaint/conflict database can be used to fine-tune how the updated law is implemented. There might even be enough public support to overwhelm monied interests, and wilderness grazing can finally be phased out.

Trail maintenance: final thoughts

The first four steps can happen simultaneously, number five will have to wait. Hopefully it doesn’t take 60 years, but if it does, it’s still better than doing nothing. Until then, I have one more recommendation: the CDTC should steer* clear of trail maintenance projects that might get trampled less than 24 hours later.

*Pun intended.

A noticeboard with information about mountain goats, bighorn sheep, and grazing of domestic sheep.

I did stop at the Chicago Basin trailhead on my way back.

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