7/26/16 – Section 8
~14 miles
My alarm goes off by 5:45, and I wasn’t dreaming about work so
that seems like an improvement. I drink instant chai and spend over an hour
prepping my pack.
My pack seems so heavy, much heavier than it should. I’ve added
more food—including tortillas, which weigh almost a pound. Who knew tortillas
were so heavy?—and the emergency shelter, 2 reusable menstrual pads (my period
probably won’t start till after Twin Lakes, but I wasn’t certain of that when
we packed the resupply boxes), a new journal, a stick of deodorant, and another
bandana. Somehow the result is a painfully heavy pack. When I left home, it was
25 pounds with 5 days of food but no water. This is 4.5 days of food and water,
and it feels over 30. How is this possible? I wish I had a scale.
Then again, I guess I’m glad I don’t have a scale. No scale, no
mirrors, no worries about how I look or whether I’m gaining weight. On the
trail, I never see myself. And I only look for two things in food: 1. Is it at
least 120 calories/ounce? 2. Do I want to eat it? I try to pack whatever I can
that fits both those criteria.
Now that I’m a week in, I can see my appetite doesn’t match my
planning. I don’t want peanut butter, pro bars, chocolate covered almonds. Instead, I want cheese and pretzels and
anything salty and crunchy, like chips and salted almonds. I left a small
mountain of pro bars at the Fireside, in the hiker box where folks put free
food and supplies they don’t want. I loaded up on Doritos and cheese sticks
instead.
We go back to Daylight Donuts and have another excellent
breakfast, and then I haul my terrible pack on 2 buses to reach Copper Mountain
Ski Resort again. Once there, I take my pack and open it up on a plastic bench
outside the restroom. I fish out the tortillas and throw half away, along with
the bag of goldfish. Now I’m carrying 4 tortillas and Granite promises to eat 1
tomorrow and 1 the day after. I’ll do the same.
My pack seems lighter and I know that’s probably mostly in my
head. After some scouting around, we find the trail.
The Colorado Trail ascends gradually out of the ski resort. We
pass under chair lifts, which I photograph with wonder. I’ve never been skiing.
Granite describes the art of getting in and out of the chair lift in skis, and
I can’t say I’m keen to try it.
There are tons of sparkly streams and carpets of yellow, white,
and purple flowers in this section. I find a flower that’s yellow and shaped
like a daisy except it’s got one petal sticking out of the exact middle.
Granite says it’s not a petal but a leaf. There are actually tons of tiny
flowers inside the daisy-like plant, and the outer ‘petals’ are called ‘bracts.’
We climb into a big elongated meadow and the trail parallels a
stream for a few miles. The hiking is uphill but it’s so much easier than
yesterday. We eventually climb up into the alpine open space, the last ascent
to Searle Pass.
In this wide alpine meadow, there’s a path leading to a cabin
built by the 10th Mountain Division, which was a military unit that
fought in the Alps in WWII. They must have loved the hut system in the Alp
because they returned and helped builds cabins like this one in Colorado. We’ll
pass through Camp Hale, their training ground, tomorrow or the next day.
The weather is grey and overcast, very unlike Colorado, which
is normally storms or blue skies. Granite catches enough signal to find a
weather report. There’s a 40% chance of rain but no thunderstorms. Plus we don’t hear any thunder. So he thinks
we can keep going, and I agree.
In Colorado, you never want to be caught above the treeline in
a thunderstorm. You can get hit by lightening and die. And that means getting over
passes in the morning, or at least by 2 PM, to avoid afternoon thunderstorms.
But we had a late start and a long climb, so we don’t get to Searle Pass until
2:30 PM.
When we’re up there, beautiful white-tipped craggy mountains as
far as the eye can see, Granite gets reception and pulls the weather report
again. Now we have a 40% chance of thunderstorms.
We have at least 3 exposed miles above treeline to go—getting
up over the next ridge, over Kokomo Pass, and then down below treeline. There’s
still no thunder and the misty veil of rain seems distant, on peaks miles away.
There’s little wind, even up on Searle Pass. So we decide to try for it, but we
need to move quickly.
The next 1.5 miles are anxiety-riddled, awe-inspiring, and
really tiring. We pass through a city of marmots (which look like overgrown,
fat prairie dogs) and pika (which are a tiny creature that is part of the
rabbit family and makes a cute chirp when we approach).
We pass only one other crew of hikers, a group of 3 without packs who are likely staying at the cabin. We make it to Kokomo Pass and I stretch out on my sleeping pad for 5 minutes, exhausted. Altitude still gets to me.
But we made it and the storms never caught us, and now our
likelihood of survival looks good. So we are in good spirits as we snake our
way down the steep trail to tree cover and find a flat place to camp.
It takes longer than we expect to find a campsite, and we
descend about 1,000 feet. My newest blister is twinging with every step. But we
finally find a somewhat sloping but rather smooth campsite by a rushing creek.
I get water while Granite sets up the tent.
We eat quickly and I rinse my body in the bracing stream. Then
we crawl into the tent; it’s too cold to stay out.
I settle in to write (I have 2 days worth of journaling).
Suddenly the sun is out, for the first time all day, and it lights up the walls
of the tent. It’s still very cold, and I curl against Granite to stay warm. His
body is like a huge heating pad.
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