Not wanting to waste most of another day in town, I hitched a ride back to Cumbres Pass as the sun slowly slid its way below the horizon. I started up the trail with my headlamp and within five minutes, lost the trail in the dense pine trees. I set up camp, and turned in for the night.

Up until now, I've been a little lazy in the morning. I generally get up around 8am or so, once the sun has had a chance to bring a little warmth to my cold sleeping bag. Today was different. Despite the chill this morning, I was on the trail a little after 6am. For the next week or so, I'll need to be on the snow early, before the sun transforms the firm surface to a gigantic slushie. Post holing through knee deep snow in shorts and tennis shoes is not the most pleasant way to enjoy the trail. The first couple miles today were through dense forest and open meadows, and as I reached higher into the hills and crossed Wolf Creek, there was an abrupt change. Whale shaped snowdrifts were everywhere. Some were easy to stay on top of, others sucked me in, covering my bare legs with snow and funneling it into my shoes. As I climbed higher, another trail first happened today—I climbed above timberline on my first full day in Colorado, and a pika announced its presence with its distinct chirp. (Inset: Elk fawn waiting for mom to bring food.) The climb up to here was a bit of a challenge, as trail disappeared many times under the snow. In some places I was able to follow the edge of the ridge, usually free of snow, but blasting me with 20-25mph winds. The sound was like a freight train barreling down on me, and I wish I had ear plugs to silence the wicked sounds that pulverized my ears.

As I slowly worked my way through knee deep snow, ankle deep water, and strong winds, the view of the surrounding valleys within the South San Juan Wilderness was stunning. (Right Inset: Headwaters of the East Fork of the Chama River.) Snow was everywhere. When I was protected from the wind, I was surrounded by the roar of waterfalls tumbling down the vertical walls of rock all around me. The going was slow and wet all afternoon, traveling from waterlogged tundra that constantly filled my shoes with ice cold water, to deep, wet snow that instantly soaked everything it touched. I stopped for a break behind a small spruce tree near the top of a vertical cliff, which plunged over a thousand feet down to the East Fork of the Chama River. The twenty mile an hour winds that blew across my face made sucking in air almost as difficult as traveling across the challenging terrain. When I sat down below the howling winds, I could feel some of the sun's warmth shining through the milky white sky hanging above me. As the afternoon sun started its slow dive towards the horizon, I descended to Dipping Lakes. The snow clung to the ground several feet thick in the trees.  (Inset: Now where do I go?) Finding the trail wasn't on my to do list today—it was either buried, or covered in several inches of water. I just spent most of the day following a compass bearing, which was easy above treeline, and a bit more of a challenge below. There was an old footprint or two in some places, even a snowshoe track from previous thru-hikers hell bent on following the trail, and not roads. The terrain I follow for the next week or so is some of the most spectacular on the entire trail. I'll be damned if I'm going to roadwalk around it.

Today was physically exhausting. I traverse though terrain and spring conditions like this every year, heading out with some friends for a day or two to ski the perfect springtime corn snow. However, I'm not wearing skis, or gaiters to keep the snow out of my boots, not even water resistant ski pants. I'm wearing shorts and tennis shoes! It's amazing what one will endure on a thru-hike.

As darkness came upon me, I went from one small island of dry land to another, looking for a flat place to camp sheltered from the strong winds. I eventually found one a little below treeline. The sky still has its dim grey hue, and I've set up my tent stakes in case the weather takes a turn for the worse tonight. I typed up journals for the last couple days, with the lights of Alamosa casting a dim glow off to my east.

Around dawn, I noticed the spruce tree next to me, with its branches dancing all around in the wind, whistling louder, with the increasing winds howling through the branches. I was up at six and hiking on top of frozen snow in open areas, and sinking through rotten snow in others.  (Right Inset: Life above 12,000 feet.)  The winds continued to blast me in the face, occasionally throwing shards of snow at me. As I hiked above Green Lake, the winds started to blow me around like a cork in open water. I came close to being knocked down a couple times, and knew things weren't going to get any better. The trail is above timberline for the next twenty-five miles or so, and I headed down to Green Lake to seek shelter. Snow clung to the cirque walls in most places, and I did some standing glissades on the moderate slopes to the lake below. The stunningly powerful winds continued to grow in intensity, churning up the waters and blowing them all over me. (Inset: The icy, wind whipped waters of Green Lake.) As I traveled around the lake to the dense tree cover that lie beyond, I had to get on my hands and knees several times as the winds tried to knock me over. I'd use my trekking poles to brace myself, and eventually lose my fight and duck for cover. Hundred pound chunks of ice were tossed into the creek that emptied the lake as the wind blew waves of water over its banks. I took a break behind a tree, and watched pine cones and broken tree branches blow over the several foot high snowdrifts that covered most of the ground. Occasionally, a gust was strong enough to scour concrete like snow away from the drifts and sandblast it onto the tree trunks that lie beyond. It's 10am, and it doesn't look like I'm going anywhere anytime soon, so I spent some time looking for a sheltered place to wait out the winds. Despite the dense tree cover, finding a place to escape the thirty mile an hour winds was a challenge. Most places are covered with snow, others are wet, and the higher areas of dry ground are pummeled with wind. I eventually found a good spot and set up my tent as I saw snow falling on some nearby peaks. The winds that surround me are deafening. I can hear the frequent gust start out in the distance, and hear it howl through the nearby trees before it violently shook my tent.

This morning the winds were still strong, blowing my tent around often, showering it with pine cones. As the sun struck my camp a little after 6am, I slowly worked my way out of my bag and was on my way soon after. As I passed Green Lake I noticed something strange. All the ice is gone, and the grassy areas that were wet yesterday are now frozen solid. The several inch thick sheet of ice that was covering half the lake is gone. (Inset: Ice before the storm, and no ice after the storm.) Apparently it was blown downwind to the creek that drains the lake, tossed over its banks, and melted from the running water. Wow, I've never seen ice disappear from a lake so quickly, and the temperatures last night were in the 20s. I continued my way up to the twelve thousand foot ridge above, and while breezy, it was certainly manageable. Snow was everywhere, but the dull, overcast skies and 40 degree weather kept the snow firm. Routefinding below treeline with no visible trail has been straightforward. Any time the terrain takes a twist, turn, or climb I need to pull out the map and make sure I'm where I should be. The sun finally poked its way through the clouds at 6pm, and I felt warm enough to unzip my jacket and toss my neck gaiter into my pocket. The winds finally subsided to almost nothing, and the sky turned crystal blue. (Right Inset: Heading up towards Gunsight Pass.) What a change from the last few days. As I write my journal tonight camped just below twelve thousand feet a little after 11pm, I can feel cold air seeping into my bag. I grabbed my watch resting on my pack strap; 18 degrees. At least I should have the sun striking me first thing tomorrow.

Last night was a little chilly to say the least. The sun stared brightly onto my camp and I was soon on the trail again. It snaked its way along the 30-40° slopes, many still covered with snow. Sometimes the snow was soft enough to cross, other times I had an arduous climb or descent to get around it. I climbed to a high saddle surrounded by nothing but towering peaks, snow, and tundra, with views a hundred miles into the distance. (Inset: This is going to take a while.) Mt. Blanca is visible every now and then, thrusting above the San Louis Valley. One of the long glacial valleys had the trail buried many feet below, so I climbed two thousand feet straight down to the valley floor, and three thousand feet straight back up the other side to begin my crooked path around some thirteen thousand foot peaks. It's amazing to look back at the trail I traversed a couple hours ago and ask myself "Wow, did I really do that?"

The trail eventually dropped below timberline for the first time in three days. At Elwood Pass, snow was everywhere, but melting quickly in the large meadows that surround the area. As I passed through in the late afternoon, with the bright sun flashing its 380 septillion watts into my face, my feet were turning into prunes. I was postholing through everything today, as the all day sun warmed the snows into slush. As I plunged to my waist with almost every step I took, my feet sunk into the ice cold ankle deep water that lay underneath. From here to Wolf Creek Pass, the tread stays mostly below timberline. Sheltered from the wind, it is a welcome relief from the terrain and weather that has tested my nerves at times, and the endless snow and sun that has stained my face mahogany.

Unfortunately, the worst trail conditions lie ahead. The trail is under the snow most of the time, hidden from view from the sun by the dense tree cover and undulating terrain. (Inset: Will the snow ever melt?) As I worked my way towards Bonito Pass, from a fenced spring, something didn't look right. The traverse through the snow had taken me to near the top of the ridge. I took a bearing off an adjacent ridgeline and realized I was headed up the wrong side of the pass. I bushwhacked my way down through some interesting rock formations, and up the other side of the valley as darkness fell upon the white landscape. I proceeded to a small valley, with the only bare ground in sight and used some old logs to create a flat campsite under the night sky so luminous, it splashed starlight into my eyes like a fine rain.

Although cold this morning, I was on the trail before 6am to win the war with the afternoon sun softened snows that are waiting to eat me alive. The trail was more south facing today, leaving the snow for the areas that snaked around creek drainages or over saddles. One such saddle—Silver Pass—had steep hillsides that were cloaked in snow. I traveled straight down the steep, talus filled slope to the saddle below and worked my way through the dense trees and snow to the top of the ridge. The trail this time was free from snows, but buried with another problem—downed trees. I felt like the trail was a military grade obstacle course, complete with every size tree trunk, some without branches, and most with. (Right Inset: If it's not the snow to contend with, then it's the downed trees from the 80mph winds three days ago.) The downed trees varied from ground level, to six feet high—and everything in between. Some trees were simply blown down, and others were snapped in half, blown many feet away from their dismembered trunks. There were large piles of sow displaced as the downed trees exposed their roots—making it obvious these were killed from the wind event three days ago.

My shoes haven't been dry for four days. The constant step-step-posthole-up-to-my-waist-dig myself-out-repeat-the-process-sometimes-land-in-ankle-deep-water has started to wear on me. The first few days it was tolerable, sometimes even fun, but now it's really starting to wear me out.

I looked towards Alberta Peak above Wolf Creek Ski Area with storm clouds building above, and the strong winds pummeling the peak. No thanks, I won't climb that if my life depended on it. I dropped down to Alberta Park Reservoir, and don't even want to know how many times I postholed through the snow. I made it down, waded across the outlet creek, and changed from my newly soaked socks, to my very damp socks attached to the outside of my pack. As I passed through the base of the ski area (along the open meadows which could soon become a small city known as Wolf Creek Village) I saw a bear waddling its way through the edge of the trees. (Inset: Black bear near Alberta Reservoir.) I made my way up the dirt road to Wolf Creek Pass and hitched into town. I got a ride into town from a local who returning from a trail run up to Lobo Peak. He told me if I enjoyed the wet snow and soaked shoes, I was going to have the time of my life on the trail to the north; maybe it's time to take a few days off. He also told me about the wind. It made headlines on all the Denver news stations, with reports of 60-100mph winds on many of the mountain passes.(Right Inset: The remnants of my Gatorade bottle pole baskets.)

Pagosa Springs
I gave Nean (a triple Triple Crowner: he's hiked the AT, PCT, CDT each three times, for a total of at about 22,500 miles) a call, who works at the Pagosa Springs Resort. I soaked in several of their terraced hot spring pools that lie beside the snowmelt swollen San Juan River, and shared my trail stories with several interested families in town for a few days. Nean and I headed over to the Squirrels Pub across the street for their happy hour, and met up with Sly, Apteryx, and Jim and Mark (his wife and sister are the ones that gave me the sunglasses on the approach to the southern terminus of the trail). A few of us stayed at his "hostel", a cozy bunkhouse adjacent to their home several miles out of town. Most hikers are taking some time off to wait for the snow to melt, or bypassing the Weminuche and roadwalking to Spring Creek Pass.

After receiving reports from locals who have ski toured or hiked over the last few days (the Snotel site on the Pass is reading 22 inches of snow), I've come to a decision. I want to wait several days before heading into the Weminuche Wilderness, and I hitched a ride to Avon. During the seven hours it took to traverse the 250 miles or so, it took four rides, and they all had a keen interest in my hike. It feels good not having to worry about 115 miles or so of wet feet or postholing—at least not yet. My parents are arriving into Avon today after a family birthday party in Denver. Perfect. One of the first things I did was to hop on the scale; I lost two pounds. Early one morning, I looked through an old book at my parent's place; Guide to the Colorado Mountains published in 1955. Interestingly, I did find one reference to the CDT; a fourteen mile trail that just happens to start at Wolf Creek Pass, twenty-three years before it was designated by Congress. Not wanting to carry my digital camera and my PDA phone that has a camera,  I left my digital camera behind. I originally planned on taking many high quality images, but with the daily mileage requirements and limited free time, that won't happen. I hopped on the scale again; I've gained ten pounds in the last five days.

It feels good to be back on the trail again after five days of waiting. It was nice being able to meet up with friends, get water by simply turning on a faucet, or heating food by pushing a button. The hitch back to the trail was effortless. My first ride was from a retired military chopper pilot and father of seven. The kids are all grown up, living all over the country. Now he's battling cancer, and he's on his way back from the Shaw Regional Cancer Center (about ten minutes from my place). He showed me areas along the way he guides hunters every season, and the stories that go with them; the report of cattle killed by UFOs near Greene Peak, the french gold hunters and their hardships after the Louisiana Purchase. If Ron ever ever met my uncle—who knows the San Louis Valley like the back of his hand—they would probably share stories for days, if not longer. He dropped me off in Del Norte a few miles from his hundred or so acre horse ranch, and I was ready for the final stretch up to the top of Wolf Creek Pass.

About five minutes later, a minivan pulled over. Mom, grandma, and the two kids waved me over. What if I still had my beard (yes, I finally got rid of that thing this morning). Would they have driven straight by me? Originally from Alaska, they were excited to hear about my adventures on Denali several years ago. They were also surprised to hear I haven't been back to the Last Frontier State since. As we left town, their car thermometer was reading seventy-one. It climbed a couple degrees, and as we got closer, following the winding road through a new tunnel and under a snow shed, it started its dramatic drop. At the top of the pass, it was fifty-two. The sun slowly slipped its way below the horizon, and I was dropped off at the pass as the family headed to their destination of Pagosa Springs, eager to share their story from the warmth and comfort of a hot spring pool of some guy dumb enough to hike here from the Mexican border and posthole through snow in shorts, t-shirt, and tennis shoes. I followed the trail for a mile or so, and ditched it as it wound through the trees with several feet of snow still piled on the ground. I followed a south facing snowless slope, and reached a radio tower facility as darkness approached. Finding a place to camp that was free of snow and dry was a little challenging. I looked around a little with my only source of light being the faint glow coming from the sun behind the horizon now shining brightly over China.

For the first time in six days, I'm camping again. I heard absolutely nothing last night, except for the beat of my heart as I settled into my bag, or the errant chirp of a bird nearby. Despite the snow, it's nice to be out here again.

The first day back on the trail was brutal. Absolutely freakin' brutal. Within twenty feet of my camp, I was back in the snow. The clouds were in early, the distant echo of thunder rang in my ears before noon like the dreadful sound of a freight train twenty feet from me, and everything out here is a dull grey, black, or white. There is no color anywhere to dazzle the eyes. The tundra is brown, the lakes are covered with grey ice, and the wildflowers are still asleep for the next two weeks.(Inset: Taking pictures with my PDA phone from now on - Spotted Lake, with a thunderstorm brewing overhead.) The only thing the five days I took off accomplished was turn the deep, strong snows into thin mush. I postholed through everything. Finding the trail below treeline where it traversed around peaks on steep slopes was not an easy task. There are no cut logs visible to give a hint, not even a trail corridor whispering its hidden location to me. The snow was maybe firm enough for the first hour or so on the open Divide, but when I dipped into the trees, the thin snow and rocks poking through the surface made the snow rotten. For most of the day, I was postholing up to my knees, sometimes up to my waist, every now and then a large rock or downed log sucked me in up to my chest.

I finally reached Spotted Lake, only to have thunderstorms billowing above me. With the trail heading above treeline in less than a mile, I set up my tent and waited. My feet have been wet for eleven hours today, and I'm wondering if I will ever make it above treeline. Up there, at least I can see where I'm going, and plan a route around the snow. Down here, it's been the usual step, sink into the snow, pull my leg out, step again, pull my other leg out, step, sink up to my knees routine.(Right Inset: Other than the snow, did I mention I finally shaved?.) A couple hours later, I was on my way. I approached the icy waters of Archuleta Lake, and saw the trail snake its way up the ridge ahead of me. As a headed around the ice covered lake, I saw a haze ahead of me. Is it from the sunscreen and sweat coated on my sunglasses? Is it a campfire? A campfire? Who else in their right mind would be up here? As I got closer, I saw two tents, but too big to belong to a thru-hiker. I said "hello" to the three huddled next to the fire. They jumped back, surprised to see anyone coming from the my direction. We introduced ourselves, and they talked about their adventure through the snow for the last mile or so up the creek. I decided to stay put. The sky was still cloudy, and the climb above treeline was just ahead. I averaged about a mile an hour today, and was glad to know I was leaving the trees behind.(Inset: Enjoying a glass of wine at camp.) It was only seven o'clock or so, but it felt good to have my wet feet dried by the warmth of the fire while I watched the three pull their burning socks off the flames (I've never seen anyone successfully dry socks next to a fire—they always end up cooked well done, Cajun blackened style, or grilled).

I was off a little after seven this morning, and snaked my way up the switchbacks to the Divide. There was a steady breeze, and snow is clung to the high cliffs and all the north facing slopes. I postholed through the thin snow in many places, and reached the flank of Sawtooth Mountain. I haven't considered anything but the Weminuche route, but I'm starting to wonder. Over the last ten years, I've wanted to hike the entire Weminuche. The Colorado Trail follows a small portion, which I did in 2002. I have a pullout from Backpacker Magazine on the area from many years ago, a recently rerouted trail section; I was prepared—I guess I won't need that. I even took the five days off last week to let some more snow melt. Well, it looks like that will be another two or three weeks before that happens. The Wolf Creek Pass area is the wettest in the state, averaging between 400-500 inches of snowfall each year. Maybe this isn't the right time to be up here. In the afternoon, cornice collapses can occur, wet avalanches, a lot can happen with all the snow up here this time of year. I came to the decision to take the Creede Route. I'm disappointed, but I only live three hours from here. If I can find a way to take off six months from the daily hassle of life, I can find a week or so next summer to do the Weminuche Wilderness / San Juan Route. I'll probably even write about it and add it to this journal (see below). I hadn't done any planning for the Creede Route, but the route seems straightforward. Going downhill will get me somewhere, and I have over fifteen pounds of food left if I make a wrong turn. San Louis Pass will probably have some snow, but then it's all downhill to the Cochetopas.

Creede
I was up until midnight typing journals last night, and feel a little groggy this morning. (Right Inset: The town of Creede.) First thing on my list: food. I headed to the grocery, charged my PDA battery, and bought a bag of Chex Mix and half gallon of juice which I immediately pounded down. With over fifteen pounds of food in my pack, I have plenty for the next 95 miles to Monarch Pass. While I was in there, I even met two Colorado Trail (CT) thru-hikers traveling from Denver to Durango, and they're trying to decide whether to head into the Weminuche or not. On the way out of town, I decided at the last minute to do lunch, and stopped at the Firehouse Restaurant. From the corner table I heard someone blurt out "CDT hiker?" I looked over and saw their two backpacks behind their chairs; it was Nemo and Pouch. They started with several other hikers, loosely known as team "F-Yeah". They were in contact with Nean yesterday at Pagosa Springs, and found out there are thru-hikers everywhere. Some have jumped to the Great Divide Basin, central Wyoming, Northern Colorado to hike south, or just taking some time off. I guess my plan of hiking up to the Pass at 6am before the midday heat turns on won't happen. It's 3pm, and I'm sitting here at the Wi-Fi lounge above the restaurant typing my journals.

In the last twenty-four hours, I've been offered quite a bit already—food at camps, a five or so mile horseback ride to the trailhead, and a ride to Creede, a few rides eight miles to near the top of San Louis Pass, a beer (and more food), even an overnight stay when I reach Steamboat Springs. I said no to all the offers—except for maybe the stay in Steamboat, that might come in handy. Why am I trying to finish this hike in one summer? Maybe I should have done it state by state, giving me the time to take a couple months for each. Then I could take advantage of all these kind offers of trail magic. Then again, I don't need them to enjoy the trail. I'm out here to hike my own hike. If I'm going to finish at the Canadian border, I need to push on.

The climb up to San Louis Pass was well over three thousand feet up, and a long ten miles to the top. I passed mines, out buildings perched precariously on the side of cliffs, and the underground Creede fire department. (Inset: The mines above Creede.) After three or four hours of climbing, I finally reached the Skyline trail. At the top of a rise, I can see a tent set up. Nemo and Pouch are wondering what took me so long, and we watched the sunset bathe the Fourteener San Louis Peak in a golden orange.(Right Inset: It's not San Louis Peak, but a great sunset.)

The sun was beating down on our camp at 12,300 feet early this morning and we postholed for the last time (I hope so) before following down Cochetopa Creek, full of beaver ponds and willows, but no moose sightings. It was pleasant hiking; no snow to bust through, no routefinding, and the road hiking in the area is seldom used jeep roads. The only downside was the bugs, prevalent for the first time on the trail today, but I'll take mosquitoes any day over several miles of postholing. A few ranchers were herding their couple hundred head of cattle through the area, using motorbikes to move them along. How the times have changed.

We stopped for a couple breaks this morning to get water, eat, and rinse out dirty socks. Nemo's in the outdoor retail industry (her sister is in a bike race in Gunnison this weekend they'll attend), and Pouch is a computer programmer for IBM in Cheshire, England. They did the PCT last year, and are now finishing their last long distance trail for their Triple Crown. After another break, I cut it short and headed on. I crossed the highway that heads over North Pass and climbed my way through the heavy timber back up to the Divide. The bugs were out in droves, and I stopped at a high point with a small breeze and had some food. I figured this would be a good place to see if I can get a cell signal from Gunnison. It did, and I gave Brooke a call to see about spending a half day kayaking in Salida. A student of my winter roommate John (a ski race coach), I took her snowcave camping last winter to help her get ready for five day winter outdoor skills class. I reached her, and she was excited about me arriving in town, and Thursday evening was perfect. Okay, that means I'll need to hike over sixty miles in two days. Let me see how this goes. I reached Upper Razor Creek Park and noticed a small brown cloud of mosquitoes quickly surrounding me as I stopped for water. It was getting really bad really fast. They were flying into my eyes and ears, I inhaled several into my nose, and swallowed who knows how many. Every time I swatted my leg, at least a dozen would fall to the ground. This is my last water source for some time, and I need to fill up with a half gallon of water. I had to make sure I was constantly moving, dancing around the open meadow as I downed a bag of cereal, and ran over to my pack to grab my water bottles. As I continued swatting the bugs all over me, I felt like something out of a Friday the 13th movie. I had blood all over me and my hands were stained red as I ran frantically from my assailants. I darted back from the creek with my half gallon of water, threw on my pack, and continued on. A dark brown cloud of mosquitoes were swarming all around me. I tried to move a little faster and reach the higher meadow where a breeze might blow the bugs away from me. Nope, I continued on for about a mile crazily swatting at them every few seconds. A good half hour later, I finally killed the entire pack of bugs that followed me from the creek. As I passed near Middle Baldy Peak, I saw the sunset striking the mountains to the west, and headed on before the bugs had a chance to devour me. (Inset: San Louis Peak is back there somewhere.) At 9:30pm, I put on my headlamp and continued on. What a great place for a night hike! The trail is obvious, the temperature is comfortable, and I feel great. The trail snakes its way along the Divide, going up and down like a roller coaster. I worked my way to Sargents Mesa at 11:30pm and called it a night after dumping out dozens of dead mosquitoes from my pack. Lightning flashed in the sky to the north as the crescent moon slipped below the trees behind my camp.

Wow, I did over thirty-six miles yesterday, my biggest day ever. No blisters, I don't feel sore, and I'm ready for the next twenty-five miles to Monarch Pass. (Right Inset: The summer solstice celebration.) On another note, today is June 21, the longest day of the year. This morning, I got up, took off my extra sleeping layers, and keep going. I kept taking stuff off until there was nothing left. The first day of summer is officially thru-hiker hike naked day. Yep, it was great—going to the bathroom was a snap, and drying wet clothes wasn't an issue. I was in dense tree cover, so most of my critical parts were safe from the intense sun that's shining brightly today. I could see Blanca Peak towering over the San Louis Valley to the south shrouded in haze and clouds. As I reached Windy Peak, some light rain and snow started to fall, and the fun was over. As I neared Monarch Pass, I met a couple CT trail maintainers out on their spring visit, excited to see a thru-hiker on their journey. As I wound my way around to the Pass in the evening hours, the bugs were out again as I waited for almost an hour for a ride into Salida.

Salida
(Inset: Getting ready to paddle the Arkansas.) Brooke and I headed out around noon to the river after running several errands and going to lunch while the skies unleashed their fury, blowing over sidewalk vendor signs and dropping branches all over the street at Riverside Park. We ran The Narrows as the weather cleared, a nice class II/III stretch of river near Buena Vista, and finished it off by jumping off a cliff into the river. Instead of heading back to the trail this afternoon, I was sucked into town for another day, and we enjoyed some live music and a late dinner to end the day.

Brooke insisted she take me to the Pass, and my vacation was over. I started my full time unpaid job around 10am and started the climb away from the highway and towards the Monarch Pass ski area. Past the ski area, there's the Monarch Pass Game Drive area, with two interpretive signs explaining how the ancient peoples hunted in the area using rock walls and pits. I descended towards Waterdog Lakes and heard the echoing rumble of a rockslide barreling off of Bald Mountain to the abyss below. I saw close to a dozen people today, up here for some fishing or a little hiking. The summer solstice has passed, and I'm a little disappointed at the thought of the days getting shorter. What a cruel joke played on us by Mother Nature. I traveled along the old Alpine Tunnel railroad bed with some rumbles of thunder off in the distance. I climbed back up to timberline as the weather started to clear and stopped for the day after the sun had disappeared and the quarter moon was overhead.

The warm, soft morning sun lit up the Continental divide with a splash of bright colors. (Inset: Sunrise above Wildcat Gulch.) Elk were lazily grazing in the wet meadows flowing with calm snowmelt waters. A deer is nearby, looking at me every now and then with a cautious eye as it grazes in the willows. I hiked over Tincup Pass this morning and descended down to Mirror Lake, busy with weekend adventurers fishing, jeeping, ATVing and motor biking all over the place. I climbed back up to timberline to the multi-use trail deeply rutted in places with standing water. I crossed Cottonwood Pass Road and snaked my way down to Texas Creek, full of rushing waters—and mosquitoes—coming from the 14ers in the Collegiate Peaks. (Right Inset: Looking up Texas Creek.) I continued on until dusk, and found a small patch of ground flat enough surrounded by steep terrain. I could see the headlights of cars heading over the top of Cottonwood Pass returning to the Front Range from their weekend getaways.

I started the steep climb up towards the saddle west of The Three Apostles, spotting a porcupine before the climb out of the trees. I started to see some really familiar terrain as I reached the top, with Lake Ann below, and the 14er Mt. Huron towering ahead. I adopted this section of trail for the CDTA several years ago, and come out twice a year to do some minor trail work—clearing clogged waterbars, removing small downfall, reporting major issues, etc. It feels good to give back this way, and every time I'm up here, I read the trailhead register with envy seeing the names of the current year of thru hikers working their way north or south to the border. I crested Hope Pass (better known by locals as hope-I-don't-ever-have-to-climb-this-again-pass), descended down to Twin Lakes, forded thigh deep Lake Creek, and hitched a ride to the Leadville Hostel. My ride was from a mountain guide on his way back from leading some clients to the summit of Mt. Wilson. They saw the remnants of an avalanche, with a 7 to 8 foot deep fracture line, taking it all the way down to the ground and running thousands of feet to the bottom of the valley . I'm glad I'm not near Wolf Creek Pass anymore!

Leadville
Last time I was at the hostel was back in February for the Rockies Ruck. A thru-hiker reunion of sorts, we shared stories of thru-hikes on different long distance trails, saw home videos of hikes and epic trips to Nepal, and took a half day to do some ski touring. Today there is a Colorado Trail Foundation crew staying here, rerouting trail for several miles, and installing a $60,000 bridge next week.

I stuck around a little the next day to let the torn up red skin on my heels heal up a little. Trail running shoes are very breathable, but there's a downside. The dirt gets in from everywhere. When I remove my shoes at the end of the day, my toes are covered in dirt, and the rest of my feet are stained brown or red. My homemade sock gaiters keep out the big stuff, like pine needles and pebbles, but the fine dirt is another story. I've thought about cutting up one of those neoprene beercan coolers and wrapping it around the back of my socks. I'll see if that works. It's 1pm, and I'm still here (actually I'm writing this from near Fall Creek Pass). I think it's time to go.

Scott is one of the CTF trail crew, and offered to give me a ride to the trailhead. As we neared Twin Lakes, bolts of lightning zipped across the landscape ahead of us, and large hail slammed against the windshield with a great thud. Great, my timing back to the trail is just perfect. (Inset: Rain over the valley, and sun on Leadville.) As I got back on the trail, the dull roar of thunder echoed throughout the Arkansas Valley. Across the valley, the Mosquito Range was shrouded in a white blanket of clouds, but I had nothing more than a sprinkle every now and then. The trail that winds through here is as smooth as a baby's butt and wide enough for a car in some places—thanks to the fact there is new tread in places, and bombproof construction from the heavy use the fourteeners receive in the area. There is flagging everywhere, marking potential reroutes and new trail. I ran into another trail crew—Colorado Fourteeners Initiative, doing some training over the next few days. I passed in the shadows of Mt. Elbert (the highest peak in Colorado) and Mt. Massive as I worked my way to the southern flank of Galena Peak.  I set up camp at 10pm after a late start from Twin Lakes with heavy cloud cover still filling the sky.

Today I'm leaving the "official" route and hiking right into Avon. North of here, there's a route that goes over Uneva Pass, another one that heads over Grays and Torreys peaks, Independence Pass, the Tenmile Range. I told myself from the start I'm hiking home—straight to Avon. That's the neat thing about this trail. There is no one route, and in many places, no route! It requires a little planning, flexibility, and a little routefinding. At 6:30 this morning, I started my slow slog up to the top of Galena Peak. The views were amazing; I could see everything—the Buffalo Peaks, Sangre de Cristos, Mts. Elbert and Massive, Greys and Torreys, Pyramid Peak, the Maroon Bells, Snowmass Peak, Mt Sopris, Mt. Holy Cross, and Mt. Powell to name a few. I descended down to the East Fork of Homestake Creek to the large water project known as Homestake I that feeds the thirsty Colorado Front Range. After a good hour or so traveling down the dusty dirt road, I turned off and headed towards the ghost town of Holy Cross City. (Inset: Waiting for the weather to clear with Mt Whitney looming in the background.) As I headed up towards Fall Creek Pass, the clouds were billowing above me, and Mt. Massive was shrouded in black rain clouds.  Venturing above treeline and becoming a lightning rod or a human wind sock is not usually a good idea. The storm clouds continued to get closer, and the winds started to roar against the thirteen thousand foot ridges looming above me. I set up my tent and had the occasional pitter patter of rain noisily splashing onto the nylon surface. As I wait for the clouds to slowly melt away, I'm enjoying a 2000 calorie bag of chips for a snack, and a marmot checking me out nearby  (Right Inset: A braver than usual marmot.).

Around 9pm, the sky transitioned from a dark, black frightful mass to wispy gray clouds. I packed up my camp and started the climb up to Holy Cross Ridge at dusk. The skies continued to darken, and eventually the near full moon popped out of the clouds and lit up my route. I reached the 13,000ft ridge, and continued on slowly to the high point above Seven Sisters Lakes. I found a small patch of tundra and built camp at this lofty location overlooking the entire Holy Cross Wilderness.

I woke up a little before 6am to no wind, clear skies, and a beautiful sunrise. I packed up camp and started the hike along the rocky spine towards Mt. Holy Cross. There's no trail, and the going is slow over the endless rocks that range in size from my fist to SUV size beasts that can swallow a person in the large caverns that lie between some of them. (Inset: Camping at 13,450ft on Holy Cross Ridge.) Off to my right thousands of feet below lie Tuhare Lake, still frozen over with the 4th of July less than a week away. (Right Inset: The still frozen Tuhare Lake.) As I look ahead, I can see the summit of Holy Cross looming above. I reach the top, and find a family of four that were up at 5am to make the early morning summit. We snap a few photos of each other, and they start their long descent to East Cross Creek. I stayed on the summit for another fifteen minutes, staring down the Cross Couloir (I'm going to ski that one of these days) and taking in the views from near Crested Butte to Steamboat Springs. The last time I was up here was ten years ago. (Right Inset: On the summit of Mt. of the Holy Cross.) After the long steep and rocky descent to treeline, I soon headed down to Cross Creek to the bottom of the valley. I bushwhacked across the wide, heavily treed expanse and started the long climb up to the north flank of Grouse Mountain. There was still a bit of snow on the north facing slopes, and keeping the feet dry was a challenge, which took a little longer, but worked. I headed up the back side of the Bald Spot, found my ski pole I lent a friend that was buried while snowcave camping back in March, and headed down Beaver Creek Ski Area. My feet are not in the best of shape right now. The 4,000ft drop to Cross Creek from the summit was steep and tiring with a full backpack on, and there was water everywhere from the spring snowmelt. They feel like they've been a vice for the last ten hours. As I reached Spruce Saddle after 5pm, I noticed the place was still busy, with workers setting up tents and seating for a private party tonight. I also noticed something else. (Inset: Taking the easy route off the mountain.) The chairlift was running, which usually closes an hour earlier. I asked the lift operator if I could download this late, and got the ok. Wow, what an unbelievable feeling to lose 2,000 feet of vertical so effortlessly. Then there's the "connect your steps" strongly ringing in the back of my mind. You know what, I've hiked, biked, and skied up and down this mountain a thousand times. If I want to skip hiking down this road for the next two hours, I'm gonna do it! I'm downloading!! You know what else I'm going to do? I'm not taking the stairs when I reach the Village either. Nope. I'm taking the escalator down. (Right Inset: escalators to and from the slopes.) Then there's the 700 foot descent from Beaver Creek Village to Avon. Screw that too! I'm taking the bus. After a long, arduous day of ups and downs, I feel great! Now all I'm left with is a one mile walk around Nottingham Lake to my parent's place.

Avon
I'm done with the Sawatch Range I've been following since Monarch Pass, and when I continue on, I'll be heading into the Gore Range for my route to Silverthorne. I did some number crunching today; I have traveled 1,002.4 miles to Avon, with about 1,604 to 2,000 to go, depending on the routes I take. If I average 20 miles a day, I should reach the Canadian border in mid to late September, depending on how many zero days I take. I can handle that; it's been a question that's been in the back of my mind for a while now.

It felt good to take a few days off. (Right Inset: At Eagles Nest, with Mt. Holy Cross looming in the background.) On Friday, I finished the day with the FAC (Friday Afternoon Club) atop Vail Mountain, pointing out the route I took through the Holy Cross Wilderness. Over the weekend, the days were spent looking at maps of Montana, choosing routes, getting estimates of mileage, clothing, what supplies I can expect to find in some of the small towns I pass through, and a hundred other little things that I need to plan for on the 1,800 miles I have left.