Day 20: The weather teaches us flexibility

CW-2 and part of CW-3

~3 miles

We set the alarm and wake at 5. It's gloomy in the tent, dark enough that I think I'll need a headlamp to find my way around outside. So I curl up. Granite gets up at 5:15, and I follow him at 5:30.

The morning is calm and grey. All the rain from last night saturated the ground so things are soaked. My shoes are soaked, and even though I put on dry socks this morning, they are wet in minutes.

I choke down muesli, hating every bite, and I'm walking by 7:15. Granite will follow a few minutes behind when he finishes with the tent.

Today we have 16 miles, almost all above treeeline, and the guidebook recommends doing it all quickly before afternoon thunder showers. Lightening above treeline is no joke, when we are the tallest thing within a mile.

I'm not moving quickly this morning, but it's fine; Granite will catch me when he catches me. I work through the third chapter of my fairtytale and climb. Parts are steep but mostly it's manageable.

Granite catches me when I'm stopped on a damp bit of trail, struggling to get my pack cover in place and rain jacket on. It's raining lightly and it's too cold for me to afford getting wet, especially since my feet are already soaked through.

The day is still grey, a no-time without sun or sky, just foggy, rainy mountains. Behind us, a white, thick fog is curling up from the northern valleys. Every few minutes, I glance back and see it has grown, a wild, white mass rotating and solidifying and gently creepy up out of the pines.

There's a steady rain when we climb the last 100 feet to the ridge above Cottonwood Pass. We take a few photos and Granite tries to get signal on his phone to check the weather, but there's no service. Below, we see the road, the last we'll pass for the next 2-3 days.

"I feel obligated to tell you that that road is our last chance to bail," Granite says, "And this rain might continue for the next 2 days."

"Let's go down and ask one of those folks for a weather report," I suggest.

We walk down the ridge to the road, the rain pounding down and cold. We arrive to a rain-slicked parking lot and meet 2 skinny trail runners coming from their car. They are staying in Salida, planning on running for an hour then heading back to town. They also haven't see a weather report but had hoped to avoid the rain by coming up to the pass. Which didn't work. They offer us a lift to town.

Granite and I confer. We're both on the fence. It's cold but not freezing, and there's a small campsite in 7 miles. If we can make it there, we can camp early with a tiny amount of cover and try to make it off the ridge tomorrow. A truck with 4 guys rolls up and I ask one for a weather report. He says the rain will continue all day just like this, and tomorrow it's a 50% chance of the same.

I'm cold but we have a hill ahead of us so I think I'll warm up, and I don't want to move my pack cover and dig through my backpack to find warm layers. So we head up to the next ridge. It's a steep incline but it's beautiful. The little cloud formation behind us has solidified and grown. It's a huge white cloud, and as we climb it gently flows over the hill behind us and begins to surround us. Now we can't see the distant hillsides at all, only the mist in all directions.

It's cold but bearable, and then we turn and we're nearing the top of the ridge. Now a wind kicks up, ferocious, stealing every ounce of warmth from my body. My cold hands and feet turn numb and my arms are freezing, and the climb does nothing to combat the cold.

I tell Granite I'm freezing and we stop, consider options, hesitate, shivering in the strong wet wind, and then head down the hill.We make it back to the road and crouch behind a boulder while I dig through my pack, bring out my puffy jacket, struggle into it with numb fingers and manage the zippers. Then I fight to get the rain jacket back on, add the wool hat, replace the rain cover. I'm still freezing but it's better with the layers, hiding behind this boulder.

The trail runners aren't back yet so I approach others. I flag a few cars and finally a hulking RV pulls over, two smiling older guys from Tennessee inside.

We climb inside and it's like entering another world. A faded couch and armchair, a tiny kitchen table, and beyond a rumpled bed. I sit down, water sluicing off my pack cover. We roll off down the road, talking to these two trail angels, who tell us about all the other hikers they've rescued over the years.

I'm still cold, my feet alternating between achy and numb, but all of a sudden it's clear that everything will be OK. As we pull away, I see two other thru hikers headed down the hill toward the road, staring at us intently with expressions I can't read.

The RV takes us to the town of Buena Vista. When we're close, we manage to get reception and find a hotel—the Lakeside. Granite calls and they have a room for tonight. I talk to them and give them a credit card, confirm they have a hair dryer. The RV drops us a block away and I feel tongue tied, incapable of expressing my gratitude. The driver smiles and I think he understand what I'm struggling to say.

Buena Vista is sunny. Birds are singing. There's a tiny breeze, but kids are playing in the park without jackets. I'm numb and confused. What just happened?

We walk to the Lakeside and a brown-haired woman is in the parking lot yelling at someone. We ring the bell and she comes in. She's curt and annoyed and I see a collection jar for an emergency pregnancy center on the desk. There are signs about Jesus and I sign a paper promising I have no marijuana on me. The woman explains how a local music festival is destroying her business this week, because her regular clientele cancelled when they heard there was going to be a big festival.

But I can forgive this grumpy woman almost anything because she lets us check into out hotel room at 10 AM. We walk to the room and my hands and feet are still cold. I strip off wet sneakers and wet socks, clothes, and step into a fickle shower. It's among the longest showers of my life. We only get one bar of hotel soap with the room, no shampoo or anything, but it's perfect. The tub stopper doesn't fit but after I shower I manager to half-fill the tub and I'm finally warm again.

After Granite showers, I wash my one pair of underwear, two pairs of socks, bandanas, and both reusable menstrual pads. I wash everything in the sink and then hang them to dry in the bathroom. Granite spreads out the wet tent and loops the rain fly over the shower rod.

It's still sunny in Buena Vista when we go to find lunch. It's disorienting. Neither of us can quite wrap our heads around the change in events, but it feels like this was the right call. Weather reports look grim, with one person on the Colorado Trail Thru Hiker Facebook group reporting snow today over 12,000 feet on the Collegiate, and multiple weather reports calling for all day storms with thunder and lightening. Not the day to try for 16 miles over treeline.

I pay too much for cotton tampons from the organic, natural store in town, take a few and leave the rest in the bathroom of the outfitter. We eat a lunch and try to imagine how this impacts our itinerary.

We have 32 miles from Cottonwood Pass to our next resupply at Monarch. If we are back on the trail at 6 AM tomorrow, we can do two 16 mile days and make it. If we are caught in more storms, we can survive a night at the emergency campsite at mile 7 and arrive a day late. That basically keeps us on schedule.

But as the day progresses, that seems less likely. New weather reports show more violent thunderstorms all day tomorrow. The rains roll into Buena Vista and pummel the streets all afternoon.

I sit in the hotel bathroom and dry socks with the hairdryer.

It's hard to have plans disrupted. Section 3 of the Collegiate West is supposed to be the best section—most remote, most dangerous, best views. But we can't see those views in driving rain. Are we being too careful avoiding lightening on the ridge? Or are we making the right decision? I change my mind half a dozen times over the course of the day, but in the end we decide not to risk Section 3 in heavy storms.

So. Our new plan is to get a lift to Princeton Hot Springs and then we'll figure out what to do after a day soaking in the springs.

We brave cold, heavy rains to find a brewery for dinner. The food is fantastic and all the kids from the rained out music festival are in good spirits. We're back in bed, warm against each other, listening to the rain, by 9 PM.