I feel like watching the Sound of Music. Backpacked in the Uncompahgre National Forest, Mt. Sneffels Wilderness (got it wrong on the postcards I sent), and it was stunning. Like scenery everywhere, photos galore, you have to see it to believe it kind of thing. There's a reason they're called the ROCKY mountains, but I felt like I was in the Alps. Lots of crags and snow (though not on the trail). The hike in was hellish (3 1/2 miles uphill with a full pack), but frequent scenery saved it. I was surrounded by mountains, and every time I came to another break in the trees, I was getting a different and very intimate view of them. The wildflowers are in abundance, too. I never knew there were so many different kinds. I could do an entire calendar, probably for a couple years, with pictures of wildflowers. Giant queen annes' lace, pencil-eraser size buttercups, purple daisies...and columbines. Those are really exquisite. I don't know if photos can do justice to the sun shining over a flowery meadow sloping toward a cerulean lake with a jagged peak rising behind. The scenery I saw today would make you get religion.
I also saw a bear. He was colored just like an elk, but when he walked, there was nothing else he could be. He was way up on the mountain, but I was jumpy the whole time. Nobody came for my bear bag, though. I don't think I hung it in an exemplary fashion, but it was effective enough. Saw a couple of boy deer when I was way up high. They were sleeping all splayed like a chalk outline, but got alert when they noticed me. I moved along to leave them in peace. There were also a ton of chipmunks. Alpine chipmunks are tiny, like mice.
So yeah, hiking in was a trial, but the rewards were immediate. Blue Lake (the lower) is a rich, baby blue, and nestled at the bottom of a mountain basin, fed by a waterfall that winds down the mountain like hair. It has a rocky beach, which made an excellent spot for cooking (and I worked my JetBoil all by myself, and am so enamored of it I would gladly do testimonials if they wanted me to). Half of the lake is surrounded by forest, perfect for camping. I got a nice spot under a pine tree, where I could look out of the tent at the lake or the stars. There were enough other people there to make me feel secure, but not enough that I noticed them.
Today, I climbed to the upper lakes. It was another significant elevation change (I did about 3000' altogether), but a shorter hike, and I left the tent and half the contents of my pack behind, so was only slightly miserable. The piney part reminded me of the Adirondacks, the scree part of Gros Morne. There was a musky, poopy smell that at first I feared was bears, but if it was, they stayed hidden. Walking across the waterfall would have been a highlight of any other hike, but this wasn't like any other hike. The upper lakes are above tree line, right at the base of the mountains (in fact, if you want to scale the ridge, you can get to a pass, but I didn't see the need for that much masochism). These lakes are also an improbable blue, still and serene amidst the wildflowers and patches of snow. My guidebook page tipped me off to another, still higher, lake, and though the trail was busy, nobody at all was up there. Except the deer. I wrote some postcards, ate lunch, filtered water from the lake to refill my Nalgene. I had gray mountains on the left, red ones on the right, and stripey ones straight ahead. I also could see to another range, probably near Montrose. It was so wonderful. "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" kept running through my head (that and "Cinnamon Girl" because a lady who also saw the bear kept calling him a cinnamon bear). All the places I had felt like I would never reach were now a long way down. Even the upper lakes trail was tiny in the distance. The long, long waterfall that filled the lower lake was completely below me. I took pictures of the speck that was my camp.
I wanted to stay for a week. I had to pry myself away, but I did at exactly the right time, because it started raining as soon as I got back to the tent. (I borrowed this tent from a colleague, as mine is too full to take up and down, and the Deer Hill one I've appropriated is too big to sensibly backpack with) My first thought was to hang out and wait for the rain to stop (it almost always does here). I lay back on my Thermarest and read the '93 National Geographic I'd brought--an article about life at the Tower of London (the beefeaters actually live there). It was an agreeable way to pass the time, until I noticed that my elbow seemed damp. Rain was now seeping through the bottom of the tent--a look outside revealed my very own lake forming where the rain fly and tree above simultaneously ran off. Change of plans--pack everything up while it's still dry and hike out in rain gear.
That mostly worked. The tent is a muddy mess, though. I decided not to put it in with the dry stuff, but to carry it between the main & top parts of my pack. Inexplicably, though, the poles are too long for the stuff sack. They stretched and chafed at my brand new pack cover and made it gap around other things. Then I noticed the hole in their bag, so the stakes would drop out as I walked. I could just pack them the way I'd originally intended, but that would require opening everything up in the increasingly heavy rain, and they were now wet & muddy enough to soil the other contents. So, as hail pelted my exposed hands, I decided to carry them, clutching the bag upside down by the holey part. Mentally singing the "Hole in the Bucket" song, I picked my way through the mud and forded the river that the trail had become. The hail filled the puddles like so much styrofoam and made them look solid.
This was all the perfect cure for not wanting to leave. Since it's Colorado, the sun was out by the time I was halfway down, but I was still damp around the edges, and taking off my rain pants was a bigger production than I was willing to invest in. My hands were too full to reach for my water bottle, so I was thirsty all the way, the wet hiking poles rubbed at the wet blister that's healing on my left hand, and 3 miles of passing the tent poles back and forth got old fast, especially since they interfered with my already precarious balance.
I'm glad I took a ton of pictures on the way up, because I took exactly zero coming down. I was so done by the time I got to the car...and found that the tire I had patched a couple weeks ago was very soft again. Portable compressor to the rescue!
The day was put back on the right track by a visit to Ouray on the way "home". Ouray, the "Switzerland of America", is like Venice--totally touristy, but charming enough that you don't care. Like Venice, you can stand on the main drag and take pictures without looking like a prat. The buildings are historic (and the ones that aren't have dates on them anyway), the mountains are very close at hand, and the atmosphere is congenial. There's even a grocery store right on Main Street. I ate at Thai night at the deli. Usually on these trips, I look at the restaurants trying to find a reason not to buy anything, but I'd been thinking I haven't had tofu in a long time, so when the woman said I could have tofu pad thai, I was sold. I even got to sit on the front porch and eat. It was like being normal.
The Million Dollar Highway was quite wonderful, too, both going and returning. I love the swirly "Red Mountain" that's had all its minerals exposed by miners so they've oxidized and made quite a palatte of it. There are old mining buildings all around, too, and vistas galore. Ouray and Durango are about as far apart as Buffalo and Rochester, but it takes 3 hours to make the trip. It's one pass after another--gorgeous but not very expedient. The mountains at dusk have their own magic.
I'm hungry again. It's a hazard of backpacking. My hips are tender from the pack strap, my knee is grumpy, and the dirt under my fingernails threatens permanence. It was a phenomenal experience.
It's also very late, and I have to work tomorrow, so check back for photos. I have tons!
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