I dejectedly sat on a rock as Billy handed me a piece of beef jerky. He had probably waited 15 minutes at that spot. I should have had more to eat, which would have prevented bouts of vertigo later, but he had packed everything up and started to move again. At least the trail is all level from here, I thought.
I crossed the half-mile ridge called Mills Moraine with a steep drop to my left ending in that unnamed valley below. In front of me was Longs Peak, its summit shrouded in low, feathery gray clouds; to my left was Mt. Meeker, to my right, Mt. Lady Washington. I was surrounded by peaks three thousand feet high.
I walked along the ridge, thankful it was downhill. At the far end of the trail was Columbine Falls, draining water from unseen Chasm Lake and tumbling hundreds of feet down into Peacock Pool below. I crossed the falls and headed inward toward Longs Peak. My eyes followed the trail up ahead of me, behind a ranger cabin, across a field of meadows… and stopped abruptly in front of a wall of boulders fifty feet high. I realized with dismay that I’d have to climb that wall. I was at 11,700 feet, exhausted and nauseous. Yet I’d have to do some scrambling – fifty vertical feet’s worth -- to get to Chasm Lake.
I can’t do it, I thought. I don’t even want to try.
The clouds had started to roll in, though they didn’t seem dangerous. If it started to pour, we had our rain gear and were ready.
I rested for two minutes, and started my way up, my weary legs lifting up my entire weight a foot or two at a time. Each exertion caused a pounding sensation in my head and chest. Every time I bent down to maneuver, my nausea would seem worse, and a bubble would want to come up my esophagus. I went up ten feet, and rested. Another ten feet, and rested again. I was breathing hard and felt ill. I had never felt so out of whack.
Billy had disappeared somewhere at the top. Of course he had made it.
Somewhere close to where the boulders topped out above my head, I felt so sick that I decided to quit. I was dead-tired, gasping for air, and felt like I had a water balloon in my chest. Resigned, I waited for Billy, and the ensuing ten minutes turned out to be a rejuvenating break. I started moving up again, and realized that I had only been ten feet from the top!
I cleared the ledge and, finally, laid my eyes on Chasm Lake, nestled in a basin beneath Longs Peak and guarded by icy glaciers. I weakly jumped from boulder to boulder towards the gray-green water, surveying the towering walls of rock that surrounded it.
I was at 11,760 feet (3584 m), the highest I’d ever hiked, feeling the worst I’d ever felt, and the trailhead four miles away, 2,300 feet below.
[To be concluded]
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
So this is what it's like to be altitude-sick, part 1 (Hike To Chasm Lake)
Longs Peak is king in Rocky Mountain National Park. With its summit at 14,259 feet (4,346 m) above sea level, it is the highest peak in the park, and one of Colorado’s 56 famed “Fourteeners” (i.e., mountains whose summit is at 14,000 feet and above).
It was Tuesday, Aug. 7th, 2007. For today's hike, Billy had picked a 4.2-mile hike (distance one-way) to Chasm Lake and back, reportedly one of the most scenic places in the park. This remote body of water is nestled on a ledge 11,760 feet above sea level, right under the sheer east face of Longs Peak.
There were only a few parking spots left at the Longs Peak Ranger Station. This trail head is understandably popular and fills up early, as people who want to summit Longs Peak in a day are advised to leave by 3 a.m.
We started at 8:15 that morning at an elevation of 9,420 feet (2,871 m). As before, the trail switched back and forth through pine forest for a couple of miles, going higher and higher up the mountainside. After about an hour, we emerged in the alpine tundra, the region at which it’s too cold for trees to grow. In this park, it’s at about 11,500 feet. A sign warning of lightning storms greets hikers on the trail.
I looked around and was surrounded by valleys and mountains. To my right were smooth, rounded peaks covered with gold-red dirt and light-green meadows; behind me in the distance was a mountain range with rocky peaks like the backs of camels. The trail climbed continuously upwards and I slowly rose above the surrounding mountains, at the same time feeling the fatigue in my legs after hiking 10 miles the day before.
My progress slowed horribly. Not only were my legs tired, but I was starting to feel nauseous – a symptom of altitude sickness. I waved at Billy to go on, but he waited for me every few dozen yards or so. I pushed on with extremely weak legs and a loss of equilibrium. I crested a hill above which Longs Peak showed its face. I was sure Chasm Lake would appear on the other side, signifying a welcome turnaround. Instead, I saw, hundreds of feet below, a gorgeous valley with pools of water, and a sign that pointed to my right and said “Chasm Lake - 0.7 Mi”.
My heart sank. I could see the entire trail as it wound by the ridge. It seemed like the longest 0.7 mile of my life.
[To be continued]
It was Tuesday, Aug. 7th, 2007. For today's hike, Billy had picked a 4.2-mile hike (distance one-way) to Chasm Lake and back, reportedly one of the most scenic places in the park. This remote body of water is nestled on a ledge 11,760 feet above sea level, right under the sheer east face of Longs Peak.
There were only a few parking spots left at the Longs Peak Ranger Station. This trail head is understandably popular and fills up early, as people who want to summit Longs Peak in a day are advised to leave by 3 a.m.
We started at 8:15 that morning at an elevation of 9,420 feet (2,871 m). As before, the trail switched back and forth through pine forest for a couple of miles, going higher and higher up the mountainside. After about an hour, we emerged in the alpine tundra, the region at which it’s too cold for trees to grow. In this park, it’s at about 11,500 feet. A sign warning of lightning storms greets hikers on the trail.
I looked around and was surrounded by valleys and mountains. To my right were smooth, rounded peaks covered with gold-red dirt and light-green meadows; behind me in the distance was a mountain range with rocky peaks like the backs of camels. The trail climbed continuously upwards and I slowly rose above the surrounding mountains, at the same time feeling the fatigue in my legs after hiking 10 miles the day before.
My progress slowed horribly. Not only were my legs tired, but I was starting to feel nauseous – a symptom of altitude sickness. I waved at Billy to go on, but he waited for me every few dozen yards or so. I pushed on with extremely weak legs and a loss of equilibrium. I crested a hill above which Longs Peak showed its face. I was sure Chasm Lake would appear on the other side, signifying a welcome turnaround. Instead, I saw, hundreds of feet below, a gorgeous valley with pools of water, and a sign that pointed to my right and said “Chasm Lake - 0.7 Mi”.
My heart sank. I could see the entire trail as it wound by the ridge. It seemed like the longest 0.7 mile of my life.
[To be continued]
Monday, August 06, 2007
Wildness in the Wilderness (Hike to Sky Pond, RMNP)
It's like I'm walking among giants.
That's what I thought as I emerged from a lush pine forest into a clearing and was surrounded by two-thousand-foot-high mountains, each a mere two miles (3 km) from where I stood.
We left the trailhead at 7:45 a.m. on a five-mile trek to a place called Sky Pond. Frankly, I didn't know what the trail was going to be like -- I only looked at my topographical map really closely the moment we arrived at the trail. Five miles of uphill climbing, I discerned, though not too steep; trail was rated "moderate"; and the elevation gain of 1,660 feet over 5 miles was not bad at all. The only things about this hike that made it a trifle daunting was 1) the altitude, with the trail starting at 9,240 feet (2,816 m) and 2) the distance; 10 miles out and back is looooong!
We headed out under a gray, cloudy sky with icy gusts of wind, the smell of wet pine, and intermittent spells of gentle rain.
The trail was indeed long, yet not too difficult. We climbed two miles through pine forest, with a narrow river twenty feet away, gushing with snowmelt from yonder peaks. We would cross wooden planks that carried us across lush, wet meadows, with foot-high grass reeds of a vibrant green, dotted with wildflowers, purple and yellow.
Forest gave way to tundra, where the mountainsides were covered with steep piles of boulders and moraine, evidence of age-old glaciers that sculpted these sheer faces but are now gone. Thousand-foot high walls surrounded us as we passed alpine lakes so tranquil, all of them appearing so unexpectedly on the trail.
At last we were above treeline, totally exposed to the elements. Good, because were nearing our destination; bad, because if a storm rolled in, we would be fair game for lightning. "This is the danger zone," said Billy, though we both knew what it meant. "If it gets dark, we start heading down."
We approached a waterfall called Timberline Falls, which was about 30 feet high, with clear mountain water cascading quite decisively down its path of rock. I looked at my topo map and learned that we would have to climb these falls to get to Sky Pond. Uh-huh. Well, half a dozen people were doing it right in front of us, and it didn't seem too difficult. I scramble up, one step and handhold at a time, plunging my fingers into the icy water for purchase on stone.
Five minutes and a bruised knee later, I made it up and continued my trek. By this time, I had been hiking up for more than four miles, and for four straight hours. My breathing was alright though more labored than normal, but my legs were just dead-tired. I rounded a corner of boulders and was greeted by the sight of the Lake of Glass, huge, tranquil, and (like all lakes on this trail) suddenly right there, just twenty feet away. Its translucent gray surface reflected the somber clouds above, and the wind rippled along its face. Fellow-hikers stopped here, some to have a snack, others to fish.
But not me. Our destination was another fifteen minutes away. My legs were complaining angrily.
At last we arrived at Sky Pond, a haven at the bottom of a basin guarded by 2,000-foot (600 m) jagged towers of rock and ice. Glaciers hung along the mountainsides like flowing ice at a standstill. It was windy, and the sky still gray. We hadn't seen the sun yet, and wouldn't for the rest of this hike. I took photos and we sat down for a snack of beef jerky and trail mix, and before you could say "get back down the falls before a thunderstorm rolls in," we started our five-mile journey back to the trailhead.
It seemed a lot longer than five miles. Worse, my knees started to feel the brunt of hiking downhill. The last half-mile was the longest half-mile I've ever hiked. We were back at the car 7 hours and 15 minutes after we left that morning. We were both so exhausted.
On the way home, I hinted that maybe we could do a shorter hike tomorrow to recover. Billy said, apologetically, "Uhm... there are no short hikes here. Sorry!" Although I suppose one could just pick a trail, start walking, and turn back anytime, it's just not the same as getting to that valley, that ridge, that summit where you want to be. That little space of dirt your heart was set on inhabiting even before your boot first hit the trail. Turning around is almost like giving up. But what can one do when one's knees are shot?
Today's hike was classic, (long,) taxing, (long,) and offered unbelievable, magnificent views of the Rockies' peaks, lakes and glaciers (and yes, it was long). Five miles into the wilderness, everything just seems so... wild.
As for tomorrow, let's see what the future holds, as we embark on another ten-mile journey in and out of the backcountry. Will my knees hold up to the beating? Not just tomorrow, but for the next three days?
Let's take it one day at a time.
That's what I thought as I emerged from a lush pine forest into a clearing and was surrounded by two-thousand-foot-high mountains, each a mere two miles (3 km) from where I stood.
We left the trailhead at 7:45 a.m. on a five-mile trek to a place called Sky Pond. Frankly, I didn't know what the trail was going to be like -- I only looked at my topographical map really closely the moment we arrived at the trail. Five miles of uphill climbing, I discerned, though not too steep; trail was rated "moderate"; and the elevation gain of 1,660 feet over 5 miles was not bad at all. The only things about this hike that made it a trifle daunting was 1) the altitude, with the trail starting at 9,240 feet (2,816 m) and 2) the distance; 10 miles out and back is looooong!
We headed out under a gray, cloudy sky with icy gusts of wind, the smell of wet pine, and intermittent spells of gentle rain.
The trail was indeed long, yet not too difficult. We climbed two miles through pine forest, with a narrow river twenty feet away, gushing with snowmelt from yonder peaks. We would cross wooden planks that carried us across lush, wet meadows, with foot-high grass reeds of a vibrant green, dotted with wildflowers, purple and yellow.
Forest gave way to tundra, where the mountainsides were covered with steep piles of boulders and moraine, evidence of age-old glaciers that sculpted these sheer faces but are now gone. Thousand-foot high walls surrounded us as we passed alpine lakes so tranquil, all of them appearing so unexpectedly on the trail.
At last we were above treeline, totally exposed to the elements. Good, because were nearing our destination; bad, because if a storm rolled in, we would be fair game for lightning. "This is the danger zone," said Billy, though we both knew what it meant. "If it gets dark, we start heading down."
We approached a waterfall called Timberline Falls, which was about 30 feet high, with clear mountain water cascading quite decisively down its path of rock. I looked at my topo map and learned that we would have to climb these falls to get to Sky Pond. Uh-huh. Well, half a dozen people were doing it right in front of us, and it didn't seem too difficult. I scramble up, one step and handhold at a time, plunging my fingers into the icy water for purchase on stone.
Five minutes and a bruised knee later, I made it up and continued my trek. By this time, I had been hiking up for more than four miles, and for four straight hours. My breathing was alright though more labored than normal, but my legs were just dead-tired. I rounded a corner of boulders and was greeted by the sight of the Lake of Glass, huge, tranquil, and (like all lakes on this trail) suddenly right there, just twenty feet away. Its translucent gray surface reflected the somber clouds above, and the wind rippled along its face. Fellow-hikers stopped here, some to have a snack, others to fish.
But not me. Our destination was another fifteen minutes away. My legs were complaining angrily.
At last we arrived at Sky Pond, a haven at the bottom of a basin guarded by 2,000-foot (600 m) jagged towers of rock and ice. Glaciers hung along the mountainsides like flowing ice at a standstill. It was windy, and the sky still gray. We hadn't seen the sun yet, and wouldn't for the rest of this hike. I took photos and we sat down for a snack of beef jerky and trail mix, and before you could say "get back down the falls before a thunderstorm rolls in," we started our five-mile journey back to the trailhead.
It seemed a lot longer than five miles. Worse, my knees started to feel the brunt of hiking downhill. The last half-mile was the longest half-mile I've ever hiked. We were back at the car 7 hours and 15 minutes after we left that morning. We were both so exhausted.
On the way home, I hinted that maybe we could do a shorter hike tomorrow to recover. Billy said, apologetically, "Uhm... there are no short hikes here. Sorry!" Although I suppose one could just pick a trail, start walking, and turn back anytime, it's just not the same as getting to that valley, that ridge, that summit where you want to be. That little space of dirt your heart was set on inhabiting even before your boot first hit the trail. Turning around is almost like giving up. But what can one do when one's knees are shot?
Today's hike was classic, (long,) taxing, (long,) and offered unbelievable, magnificent views of the Rockies' peaks, lakes and glaciers (and yes, it was long). Five miles into the wilderness, everything just seems so... wild.
As for tomorrow, let's see what the future holds, as we embark on another ten-mile journey in and out of the backcountry. Will my knees hold up to the beating? Not just tomorrow, but for the next three days?
Let's take it one day at a time.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Rocky Mountain Hi!
Greetings from Estes Park, Colorado!
It's chilly outside, and it's raining. I'm laying on a window seat enjoying the fresh mountain air and letting my lungs adjust to breathing at 7,500 feet.
We arrived in Denver at 11:05 a.m. local time, got our rental car and drove to Estes Park, a charming town set at the foot of Colorado's Rocky Mountain range. We arrived a few hours later, and could see the dark gray sky beyond, as afternoon thunderstorms rolled in towards the Rockies. Not unusual for summertime along the continental divide.
We checked in at our bed and breakfast by 3 p.m. and set off on an afternoon drive through Rocky Mountain National Park, where we will be hiking the next four days. We drove up, higher and higher, through winding mountain roads and fragrant pine forest. We came to the park entrance and noticed the temperature outside had fallen to 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13.9 degrees Celsius) as it started to drizzle.
Inside the park, the drizzle turned into definite rain, and as we drove up even higher, the triangular silhouettes of mountain peaks were revealed, though obscured by the afternoon rain, with thick, low clouds drifting among them. We kept on driving, and the mountain tops slowly drifted from above us to below, as we climbed higher and higher, winding along the sides of this awesome mountain range.
We drove past forest-filled valleys, steep rocky cliffs, and the widest expanse of alpine meadows I have ever seen. And as we went past the rolling grasslands, traffic came to a halt as motorists gawked at a herd of two dozen elk, the graceful females lying on the grass, serene, while a few males frolicked about with their antlers held high, one stopping to look at traffic about twenty feet away.
On our journey this afternoon, we passed the highest point on this, the Trail Ridge Road, at 12,183 ft. An altitude record for me, and I could feel it, as my breathing became more labored and my heart pounded in my chest. We stopped at a nearby gift shop as the rain pelted down, and saw the temperature at this elevation had plummetted to 46 degrees (7.8 degrees Celsius). We ran across the parking lot in sandaled feet in the frigid rain and stayed inside for half an hour, letting our bodies adjust to the thinner air.
Back here in our room two hours later, my breathing has still not returned normal. I hope I effectively acclimatize over the next two days as we hike trails at 9,000 to 10,000 feet, before we attempt the summit of Mt. Ida at 12,880. It will all depend on the weather and our physical resilience. If succesful, that will set a new personal record.
Before that, though, we start tomorrow with a 10-mile moderately strenuous hike from Glacier Gorge to Sky Pond, starting at 9,240 feet with a 1,660-ft elevation gain. We plan to start at 6 a.m. I sure hope the weather cooperates.
It's chilly outside, and it's raining. I'm laying on a window seat enjoying the fresh mountain air and letting my lungs adjust to breathing at 7,500 feet.
We arrived in Denver at 11:05 a.m. local time, got our rental car and drove to Estes Park, a charming town set at the foot of Colorado's Rocky Mountain range. We arrived a few hours later, and could see the dark gray sky beyond, as afternoon thunderstorms rolled in towards the Rockies. Not unusual for summertime along the continental divide.
We checked in at our bed and breakfast by 3 p.m. and set off on an afternoon drive through Rocky Mountain National Park, where we will be hiking the next four days. We drove up, higher and higher, through winding mountain roads and fragrant pine forest. We came to the park entrance and noticed the temperature outside had fallen to 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13.9 degrees Celsius) as it started to drizzle.
Inside the park, the drizzle turned into definite rain, and as we drove up even higher, the triangular silhouettes of mountain peaks were revealed, though obscured by the afternoon rain, with thick, low clouds drifting among them. We kept on driving, and the mountain tops slowly drifted from above us to below, as we climbed higher and higher, winding along the sides of this awesome mountain range.
We drove past forest-filled valleys, steep rocky cliffs, and the widest expanse of alpine meadows I have ever seen. And as we went past the rolling grasslands, traffic came to a halt as motorists gawked at a herd of two dozen elk, the graceful females lying on the grass, serene, while a few males frolicked about with their antlers held high, one stopping to look at traffic about twenty feet away.
On our journey this afternoon, we passed the highest point on this, the Trail Ridge Road, at 12,183 ft. An altitude record for me, and I could feel it, as my breathing became more labored and my heart pounded in my chest. We stopped at a nearby gift shop as the rain pelted down, and saw the temperature at this elevation had plummetted to 46 degrees (7.8 degrees Celsius). We ran across the parking lot in sandaled feet in the frigid rain and stayed inside for half an hour, letting our bodies adjust to the thinner air.
Back here in our room two hours later, my breathing has still not returned normal. I hope I effectively acclimatize over the next two days as we hike trails at 9,000 to 10,000 feet, before we attempt the summit of Mt. Ida at 12,880. It will all depend on the weather and our physical resilience. If succesful, that will set a new personal record.
Before that, though, we start tomorrow with a 10-mile moderately strenuous hike from Glacier Gorge to Sky Pond, starting at 9,240 feet with a 1,660-ft elevation gain. We plan to start at 6 a.m. I sure hope the weather cooperates.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
