CW-5 and CW-4
~14 miles
Morning arrives and it's warm enough that I poke my head out of the tent just a few minutes after being awake. I scarf a breakfast bar and sort my pack and I'm walking around 8. It's a gentle forested walk, downhill and under cover for a few miles. I keep my puffy jacket on for warmth and make good time.
By 8:30, it's raining. I keep walking and it rains steadily. A cold wind picks up. My legs get wet and I'm cold even in my raingear. I walk till 9:30, then find an old cabin that's locked up. I throw my pack down against it and lean against it, and I'm shielded from wind and rain.
Granite arrives in a few minutes. I suggest finding a dry spot to wait out the storm but he's uninterested, says he'll meet me in 11 miles, offers to leave me the tent. I tell him I doubt the storm will last long but he doesn't want to wait. He heads off and I follow, looking for a big tree to slip under and contemplating how hard it is for couples to follow the backpacking adage, "Hike your own hike." I can only hike so much of my own hike. The rest is tied to Granite, with all the good and bad that entails.
The rain slackens and then stops completely before I find a good tree. I let Granite get far ahead and I walk through glistening forest. My dark mood from yesterday is a bit lifted, and I can appreciate the rhythm of walking and the beauty of mountain forests.
I catch Granite on a bridge—well, a log and railing that were once part of a bridge. I climb across it gingerly and then he heads off. I take off my raingear and wait till he's out of sight before following.
I climb and climb, but at least the trail is soft and the switchbacks make the time sail by. Then at the top, I turn and start descending—and it feels for all the world like I've turned around and am somehow headed back down the same trail in the opposite direction. This is the problem with hills that have no view from the top: it's disorienting and I don't feel like I ever got to the other side.
At the bottom, the hill turns and climbs again a bit, and there I break into a wide open space caused by an avalanche. I pick my way through the rockfall, catching sight of Granite in the distant treeline.
Granite is waiting for me at a stream around noon. It's two streams, a mucky small one and a stream so clear I can barely believe it. I fill a bottle of this pure perfect water and sip happily while eating lunch.
We walk together for a mile or so, chatting about books we're reading. I just started "Lilly and the Octopus," and the premise is questionable but the writing is candid and eloquent so I love it. We separate for the climb, agreeing to meet at the top. I like climbing solo, setting my own pace, pretending I'm alone in the middle of the wilderness, unwatched.
We crest a pass, I think it's Chalk Creek Pass, and then we're looking down on a greenish alpine lake. We scurry down the pass and the path widens. I slow so Granite can walk beside me but he suggests separating again, so I dally and wait till he's out of view before continuing.
This next section of trail is difficult. It's a road—as in, driven on by cars—but it's rutted and full of rocks of every size. I pass a family trundling up, the men carrying huge backpacks and wearing camo and the women leading young children. One man has a huge revolver strapped to his belly.
Rain starts soon after I start down this rough, rock strewn road. I pause to add raingear and a layer of warm clothes. We're still a few miles from out intended campsite and I'm worried this rain might continue.
Granite is waiting for me under a tree a mile later, snacking. We consult the databook and look at potential campsites we might resort to if the cold rain continues. There are some dry campsites along the old railroad line, and if the rain is bad we can stop there.
We walk on another mile or two, the rain ebbing occasionally and then returning with force. I don't mind the rain, but I do worry if I start to freeze. Cold and numb body parts, especially coupled with dropping temperatures and a stiff wind, are what would compel me to stop. But the wind is gentle and I've got warm layers on, so we keep on, looking at potential campsites and carrying extra water just in case.
We reach the Alpine Tunnel, which looks like nothing but a rock wall but has dire historical plaques about the problems that beset the section of the railway.
The rain stops—really stops this time—and we dump our extra water and agree to climb to the next lake. We separate and I zone our with an audiobook, watching the chipmunks and looking at the cliff sides spotting with sunlight.
The climb is bracing but short, and then we walk over alpine tundra with stunted bushes to a greenish lake.
Finding a campsite takes longer than it ever has, with both of us roaming the lake and battering our way between bushes, looking for any flat spot we can throw a tent. I finally find one. It's a bit exposed, but there's a bent-over pine tree and a rock. If we squeeze our tent right against them, I think we'll be blocked from the wind.
Which is vital because temperatures have dropped and it's getting dark, and there's a sharp wind coming down from the ridge. We make dinner quickly and I duck into the tent with a gatorade bottle of hot water to warm my feet.
The rock and pine tree help with blocking the wind, but it's still cold. I lie in my sleeping bag with all my clothes on, rain jacket wrapped around my feet for extra warmth, and I'm still cold. My feet are cold and my chest is cold where it presses down toward the sleeping pad. We're on rocks, big slabs of rock with only a thin covering of dirt, and I can feel the coldness emanating from the earth.
Granite reads some John Muir and I fall asleep, despite the cold.
~14 miles
Morning arrives and it's warm enough that I poke my head out of the tent just a few minutes after being awake. I scarf a breakfast bar and sort my pack and I'm walking around 8. It's a gentle forested walk, downhill and under cover for a few miles. I keep my puffy jacket on for warmth and make good time.
By 8:30, it's raining. I keep walking and it rains steadily. A cold wind picks up. My legs get wet and I'm cold even in my raingear. I walk till 9:30, then find an old cabin that's locked up. I throw my pack down against it and lean against it, and I'm shielded from wind and rain.
Granite arrives in a few minutes. I suggest finding a dry spot to wait out the storm but he's uninterested, says he'll meet me in 11 miles, offers to leave me the tent. I tell him I doubt the storm will last long but he doesn't want to wait. He heads off and I follow, looking for a big tree to slip under and contemplating how hard it is for couples to follow the backpacking adage, "Hike your own hike." I can only hike so much of my own hike. The rest is tied to Granite, with all the good and bad that entails.
The rain slackens and then stops completely before I find a good tree. I let Granite get far ahead and I walk through glistening forest. My dark mood from yesterday is a bit lifted, and I can appreciate the rhythm of walking and the beauty of mountain forests.
I catch Granite on a bridge—well, a log and railing that were once part of a bridge. I climb across it gingerly and then he heads off. I take off my raingear and wait till he's out of sight before following.
I climb and climb, but at least the trail is soft and the switchbacks make the time sail by. Then at the top, I turn and start descending—and it feels for all the world like I've turned around and am somehow headed back down the same trail in the opposite direction. This is the problem with hills that have no view from the top: it's disorienting and I don't feel like I ever got to the other side.
At the bottom, the hill turns and climbs again a bit, and there I break into a wide open space caused by an avalanche. I pick my way through the rockfall, catching sight of Granite in the distant treeline.
Granite is waiting for me at a stream around noon. It's two streams, a mucky small one and a stream so clear I can barely believe it. I fill a bottle of this pure perfect water and sip happily while eating lunch.
We walk together for a mile or so, chatting about books we're reading. I just started "Lilly and the Octopus," and the premise is questionable but the writing is candid and eloquent so I love it. We separate for the climb, agreeing to meet at the top. I like climbing solo, setting my own pace, pretending I'm alone in the middle of the wilderness, unwatched.
We crest a pass, I think it's Chalk Creek Pass, and then we're looking down on a greenish alpine lake. We scurry down the pass and the path widens. I slow so Granite can walk beside me but he suggests separating again, so I dally and wait till he's out of view before continuing.
This next section of trail is difficult. It's a road—as in, driven on by cars—but it's rutted and full of rocks of every size. I pass a family trundling up, the men carrying huge backpacks and wearing camo and the women leading young children. One man has a huge revolver strapped to his belly.
Rain starts soon after I start down this rough, rock strewn road. I pause to add raingear and a layer of warm clothes. We're still a few miles from out intended campsite and I'm worried this rain might continue.
Granite is waiting for me under a tree a mile later, snacking. We consult the databook and look at potential campsites we might resort to if the cold rain continues. There are some dry campsites along the old railroad line, and if the rain is bad we can stop there.
We walk on another mile or two, the rain ebbing occasionally and then returning with force. I don't mind the rain, but I do worry if I start to freeze. Cold and numb body parts, especially coupled with dropping temperatures and a stiff wind, are what would compel me to stop. But the wind is gentle and I've got warm layers on, so we keep on, looking at potential campsites and carrying extra water just in case.
We reach the Alpine Tunnel, which looks like nothing but a rock wall but has dire historical plaques about the problems that beset the section of the railway.
The rain stops—really stops this time—and we dump our extra water and agree to climb to the next lake. We separate and I zone our with an audiobook, watching the chipmunks and looking at the cliff sides spotting with sunlight.
The climb is bracing but short, and then we walk over alpine tundra with stunted bushes to a greenish lake.
Finding a campsite takes longer than it ever has, with both of us roaming the lake and battering our way between bushes, looking for any flat spot we can throw a tent. I finally find one. It's a bit exposed, but there's a bent-over pine tree and a rock. If we squeeze our tent right against them, I think we'll be blocked from the wind.
Which is vital because temperatures have dropped and it's getting dark, and there's a sharp wind coming down from the ridge. We make dinner quickly and I duck into the tent with a gatorade bottle of hot water to warm my feet.
The rock and pine tree help with blocking the wind, but it's still cold. I lie in my sleeping bag with all my clothes on, rain jacket wrapped around my feet for extra warmth, and I'm still cold. My feet are cold and my chest is cold where it presses down toward the sleeping pad. We're on rocks, big slabs of rock with only a thin covering of dirt, and I can feel the coldness emanating from the earth.
Granite reads some John Muir and I fall asleep, despite the cold.
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