CT Days 11-12

Day 11 – 24.4mi

I get a ride with Katy Kat’s Kash Kab from Leadville to just outside of Twin Lakes, where the trail crosses the highway. Where I hitched out the day before last. It’s sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and I’m hopeful about Hope Pass, somewhere hidden between those great pyramids of rock. But it’s more than 12 miles to the top, and will the weather hold until then?

The trail winds through the sagebrush, making a large loop around the lake (or lakes). Some hikers choose to shortcut across a river to avoid the detour, and get started up Hope Pass faster. For some reason I decide it might be nice to walk around the lake, even though it makes my day longer.

And it is nice, to circumscribe the water. I’ve been craving water, in this dry, dry land. I honestly had no idea Colorado would be so much of a sandy desert.

The blue mirror reflects the deep blue sky, and I feel refreshed.

I pass the sign dividing East from West, and keep following the water, west, west.

On the far side of the lake stand the restored remnants of an old, old resort hotel. The rest of the ruins lie under the lakes, submerged with the creation of the reservoir. Katy Kat tells me that people used to think high altitudes had health benefits. Rich people would flock here for their R&R. I mean, it’s not a bad corner of the world to take refuge in.

Finally, the turnoff for Hope Pass. A gruelling climb, but I have energy, renewed by my zero, at least for the morning. I attack it with energy, but it doesn’t feel uncertain or anxious. It feels like I’m excited to see what the west has in store for me.

I follow a gushing creek most of the way up, little pole-holes in the moistened red-black dirt, working hard under the canopy of green needles. Two hours later, somehow, I’m at the top.

It’s so astoundingly beautiful, with the Lakes below on one side and the magnificent collegiate peaks wilderness on the other. My eyes tear up with pride – I did it, I got here. Even though I almost didn’t take this alternate, out of fear. I don’t feel any fear today, only awe.

Coming down the other side, lush aspens line the way. It’s the first time I’ve felt my knees ache on a descent – it’s definitely a steep and long one. There is a bushy plant with red berries that one FarOut commenter warns is poison sumac. I think about that as I scratch at a mild rash on my thigh.

Once at the bottom, it’s a long plod through the valley to the next pass. All the while I stop frequently, whether to admire the towering peaks above, or to stretch out my hip cramps. Definitely as the day goes on, I stop to catch my breath more and more frequently on the climbs. But it’s so worth it to be out here, I can almost ignore the pains.

As I approach the end of the valley, I turn left at Granite Peak and climb up, up. At least it’s much more gradual than Hope Pass, but I’m spent, so it takes me longer.

Finally I emerge from the treeline, sore and smiling. Little puffy clouds adorn the sky. I make a detour to the crystalline Lake Ann, nestled against an impressive wall of rock. What a magical place in the evening light.

I have to. I take off my clothes and swim, and it’s the Best Thing Ever. My lake craving satisfied. (There have not been many swimming opportunities so far). I don’t think anything is better than cold clear water to finish off a day like this.

I dry myself off with my fleece and go find a sheltered place to camp.

Looking at the map, I’m confused as to what to do tomorrow. I don’t want to do another big mile day, but I do want a sheltered camp. There are a few options, one too short, one too long. I hope I can recover enough with a good sleep tonight, I’m seriously sore. But full of love, too, somehow.

Day 12 – 22.6mi (+2mi = 24.6)

A dark morning. I’m glad the resident porcupine did not decide to eat my tent for a midnight snack.

It’s going to be a long, long day of ups and downs. Which is how I find myself getting lost in the talus in the dark, trying to pick my way up Lake Ann Pass. It takes a lot longer than I anticipate, because of this added difficulty. But soon, I’m at the top. Cold hints of light lick the horizon. I take my favourite photo of all time so far on this trip.

I start down the other side, focusing on the dirt ribbon, on my footing. When I look back, I’m amazed at the steepness. I’m kind of glad I did it in the dark so I wouldn’t be distracted by the heights.

It’s a really slow morning. I’m so, so tired, and it takes forever to reach the bottom of the valley. I try to savour the downhill/flatness as much as I can, though, because I know what’s coming up in the afternoon.

Suddenly the bottom comes, and I’m unprepared for the hot climb up to Cottonwood pass. It’s beautiful, of course; the leaves of the little shrubs turning red with the weight of late summer. I consider making it a short day and stopping just over the pass, but I’m also very nervous about the upcoming exposed section and making the most of the good weather.

I’m at the parking lot at the saddle of the pass, looking up at the savage switchbacks sliced into the waving grass above. 7 miles of exposed ridge walking ahead; the wind whisks the puffer clouds along. I decide to go for it.

Amazingly, the adrenaline rises, and a second wind animates my limbs. I storm up to the sky.

I pass two day hikers, and one exclaims, ‘thank you, you brought the calm!’. Indeed, the gusts die down, for a second. I think about that, in my anxiety-fueled dash across this landscape that ought to be savoured more than I’m savouring it.

There’s nothing really to say about the next few hours. Except to leave a few photos and hope you get the gist.

Overstimulated, and the last climb is so steep and windy, I start to lose my nerve at the heights. I try to keep it together for the last few moments.

As soon as I begin to descend from the top, the wind dies and all is calm. I can see the trees, shelter. Now I can really feel the sun piercing my skin with a million hot needles, bouncing off the rocky slopes. The wind out of my sails; I feel my exhaustion.

I notice the flowers, the small beauty. A family of ptarmigans nervously coos, and I can’t see them til I’m almost on top of them.

I fill my water at the bottom of the valley, and now it’s time to find a place to camp. It’s getting late, almost pushing 12 hours on my feet.

I note some FarOut comments of some sheltered camp spots in the trees at mile 42, and decide to make it there. I heave my pack back on, and start up the valley.

I round the corner to a great bowl of rock, and I can’t figure out where the trail goes. Where is this campsite?

I climb higher and higher, rounding the bowl. The trees become sparse, and then I’m on talus. I look ahead, it’s barren and windswept. But where is this sheltered campsite? This feels wrong, I’m leaving the trees behind.

It starts to get very steep, and the gusts threaten to throw me off balance. That’s it, this can’t be right. With a few tears of defeat, I turn around, to undo all that uphill, back to where I know there are trees.

Upon my descent of shame, a marmot wanders onto the trail to look at me, paws clasped. The words ‘thank you’ escape my mouth before I realize I’m talking to a marmot. It has a look of wisdom in its eyes. It slowly waddles away, leaving me to wonder.

That’s how I end up doing two extra unnecessary miles, almost climbing to the top of the pass, and back down again.

And so I retreat back to the green. Near a stream at the base of the talus, I do find a spot in the trees. I wonder if the mile marker was wrong in the comments. Oh well.

13 hours later, I’m finally in my tent. I utterly pass out, to the squeaks of the pikas, calling out from their rocky dens.