Getting Lost in Rocky Mountain National Park (Where the f*** is the trail??)

Grief. Not a good state to be in when attempting to summit a mountain. I was in Rocky Mountain National Park and had the intention to summit Flattop Mountain, and possibly Hallett Peak, on my first full day in the park. I had arrived in Estes Park, CO the previous day for what was supposed to be a sibling vacation, but I due to our grandma being very ill and close to passing, my siblings opted to remain home. I went anyway, partly because Grandma told me in no uncertain terms that I was to continue traveling, no matter what. The other reason was because I needed to go. Traveling is my way of relaxing, of stepping back and viewing life in a perspective I can't quite get while at home. I had started my morning by crawling out of my tent in the pre-dawn darkness, grabbed an energy bar, made sure my gear was ready for a long hike, and then hit the road to the park. I didn't check my phone until I was standing at the trail head, but I wouldn't have had service on the drive up anyway. As it was, I was surprised to see I had service when I got it out to take a picture, and even more surprised to see a missed call. The dread set in when I saw it was my dad. There was only one reason he would call me at 6am (Mountain Time), and when I finally got him on the phone, he relayed the news of Grandma's passing. Not unexpected, but still a terrible loss. So I set out on the trail with reflections of Grandma, life, loss, and general grieving on my mind. I did think, rather derisively, that it would just make everyone's day that much better if I were to get lost out there. Note to self: NEVER think those type of thoughts again.

That's a trail, right?

At first, the trail was like any other mountain trail: dirt, trees, the smell of pines and a slight chill in the air even though it was mid-June. Then I started seeing snow. Not much at first, but more and more until eventually I was forced to cross patches as it lay across my trail. Then, gently, without me realizing it, I didn't get off of the snow. It stretched out before me, obscuring the dirt, the rocks, the dips and peaks in the trail. I wasn't bothered by this change of substrate at first. I don't mind the cold, and I had good hiking shoes and was prepared for any weather I might encounter. I started to be bothered by the snow around the same time that I got that uneasy feeling no hiker wants to feel, the feeling that maybe this isn't the right trail. But I hadn't seen a marker pointing me in any other directions, and there had clearly been people on this trail since the last snowfall, so I kept going and ignored that uneasiness (note: HUGE MISTAKE).

Um, what trail? Notice the horizon is horizontal. It really was that steep.

Soon, however, I was forced to accept that I really had missed the turn, somewhere, somehow. I knew the trail was supposed to follow a ledge, and I was heading in the opposite direction from where that ledge should be. That, and the "trail" I had been following disappeared. Literally. One moment I was walking in someone else's footprints, the next, I was alone. Completely. I knew the general direction of the parking lot/my car, I knew the general direction of town, and I knew the general direction of the trail. I didn't know much else. I was sinking up to mid-thigh in snow that I knew was deeper than I am tall, I was half crawling through drifts taller than some of the krummholz trees, and I knew I was in trouble. I couldn't have found the "trail" I had been following even if I wanted to, but going back down into the timber was not something I wanted to do. I needed to see, to be able to get my bearings and maybe sight a landmark or two that I could navigate from. My daddy taught me well: I always carry a compass with me whenever I go on a hike. So I went up.

Relaxing while lost. Gotta enjoy the view!

I scrambled up the side of the mountain and actually got above most of the snow that hadn't melted yet, with only the occasional snow field to circumvent. I knew, both from being taught and from instinct, that I needed to sit down and evaluate my situation. A big, flat rock that had absorbed some of the sun's heat was the perfect place to take my first rest of the day, and I pulled out my water, food, and compass. And my camera. Even though I was lost, how could I resist taking pictures of the breath-taking view I was being treated to? After resting and clearing my head I knew which direction the trail was, and I had the energy to attempt a summit. So I headed toward the trail, and after being admittedly lost for over an hour, I FOUND THE TRAIL! Out of relief I sat down on one of the rocks marking the path, and within five minutes was passed by a group of other hikers. Read that again: HUMAN BEINGS. I wasn't going to be alone! I got up and followed behind their group, but quickly fell behind. I hadn't realized how much energy I had expended trying to find the damn trail, and I was tired. I kept going at my own pace, sitting to rest often in air that had less oxygen than I was used to. I recognized the symptoms of altitude sickness; the fatigue, the headache, the upset stomach, and just not feeling well. I had stopped and curled up next to a warm rock, seriously considering taking a nap, when I heard another couple of hikers approaching from below. They stopped when they saw me, and in the usual hiker fashion asked if I was ok and if I needed water or food. After exchanging the initial pleasantries, they asked me how I had gotten to where we were, because they hadn't seen any footprints along the way that they came up. I told them about getting lost and about the other group of hikers who passed me, and they told me they had gotten lost themselves and had only just found the trail again. There were six people, including myself, who had started out on the mountain sometime between 6 and 7 am, and every single one of us had gotten lost.

I very nearly kissed the ground once I was back on the marked trail

Boy, that sure made me feel better! After our discussion the hiking couple agreed that I shouldn't be hiking alone, and they and I continued up the mountain together. I would not have made it to the summit without them. I was exhausted and had been on the verge of turning around but they kept me going at a nice, easy pace with well timed encouragement. And before I knew it, they had stopped. A few feet in front of us was the official windblown, freezing cold top of the mountain, and they wanted me to summit first. After 4.4 miles, 3000ft elevation gain, getting lost, and a summit of 12,350ft above sea level, I got to the top of the mountain! We then quickly found a sheltered place behind a boulder and rested, recharged, warmed up, then leaned into the wind (we couldn't stand up straight, the wind was so strong) to get back down the mountain. I briefly considered going an extra half-mile round trip to summit Hallett Peak, which was just across a saddle and within sight of our sheltered boulder, but with how much energy I had exerted already, it just wasn't going to happen.

Sheltering and refueling before the descent

On our way down the other group of hikers caught back up with us; they had continued on to Hallett Peak and were moving quickly to get out of the wind and back into the shelter of the timberline. They stuck with us for the rest of the hike down, and between all of us we managed to find the correct trail to get us off of the mountain. We chatted all the way down, and got to know each other and our reasons for being on our hike. I even got some new travel ideas! I started my hike with every intention of doing it solo, but I hadn't accounted for the camaraderie that forms when a group of strangers tackle a challenge together. And I had forgotten how friendly people are while on a trail! And I don't mean one of those short, easy trails that have hungry toddlers, moody teens, and the exhausted parents attached to both. Those people mind their own business. But if you take the time and the energy, and are prepared enough to get off of the beaten path, you can be rewarded with incredible views and can also be reminded that there is a reason to have faith in humanity.

Long's Peak as viewed from the trail to Flattop Mountain

What I'm listening to: I Don't Think Now Is The Best Time by Hans Zimmer

The Most Spectacular Hike EVER, in Pictures

Sometime, after sitting and staring at my computer screen for a while, I will find the words to tell you about the most amazing hike I have ever had the privileged to accomplish. This hike was an 11 mile loup to the Joints through Chesler Park in the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park, Utah. For now, the pictures I took on that amazing trail will have to give you a taste of what I saw and did. Enjoy!

What Are My Chances of Getting Heat Stroke?

Exhaustion. From the heat, from the hike, from the day. My friend Cat and I were two days in to an eight day trip exploring Moab, UT and the surrounding National Parks, and we had started our day's hike just as the sun rose above a hazy horizon just to the north of the La Sal Mountains. We had planned an ambitious day hike following the Wilhite Trail from the upper rim of the Island in the Sky District of Canyonlands National Park to slot canyon along the White Rim Road, 1500 vertical feet and 6.1 miles below our starting point. The first mile out from my car was easy in the way the dawn coolness of the desert makes everything easy. We were both pumped to begin the longest desert hike either of us had attempted, and we were lulled into complacency as we walked a relatively flat mile to the edge of a nearly 900 foot drop off. 

Dawn in the desert.The only thing better might be a sunset in the desert. 

Then came the descent. 900 vertical feet of knee-busting scrambling on a "trail" that was hardly visible at times. We started to play a game called Touch the Carin, making sure at least one of us physically touched the next trail marker on the next switch-back to make sure we didn't get off of trail and have some huge obstacle to either overcome, circumvent, or be forced to backtrack. Going back up was not an option. We scrambled down a feeder canyon gully walled off on two sides by imposing, impossibly high cliffs; we could see up where we came from, and down where we were going to enter the main part of the canyon. Not that either of us looked around much, considering we were too concerned about our footing to take in much else. Rattle Snakes? What snakes? Black Widow spiders? What spiders? When you're trying not to start a rock fall by dislodging the wrong rock that may or may not hold your weight, and send it tumbling down into your partner's path, you don't worry about much else. The only thing we were grateful for on our way down was the shade. The sun hadn't made it above the canyon cliffs yet. 

Morning light on sheer cliff walls at the beginning of Wilhite Trail

By the time we reached the end of the scramble and kinda-sorta leveled out, we were exhausted from the sheer effort it took to get down. After a quick snack we crossed the line the sun had drawn as it came down into the canyon beyond the cliffs, and it felt like we crossed a barrier from the cool shady stillness of dawn into the stifling heat of the day. We followed the trail across the last bit of vegetation we would see until we made our way back to this place in the afternoon. We had been warned by a ranger the day before when we sought advice about the hike that there was no shade. None. Down here in the stretch between the upper rim and the White Rim, trees didn't exist. Grasses didn't exist. The occasional desert sagebrush, some tough but withering plants that might have been wildflowers at one point, and some prickly pear cactus were the only other living organisms in the canyon. Nothing to provide shade for two midwestern girls who were used to having at least a cottonwood to sit under. Still, even though it took us longer to get down than we had anticipated and we were already tired, we kept on going. That's what we were there for!  We had another scramble to get down to the level of the White Rim, this one only a few hundred feet into a desert wash that was clearly a route for flash floods to drain into the Colorado River, still another thousand feet or so below us. Rain wasn't in the forecast for anywhere within 40 miles of our location, and we weren't concerned about an abundance of water. We carried roughly 3.5 liters of water for each of us, along with plenty of snacks and power bars, but we were still concerned about running out of water. We knew from our topographical maps and the ranger that there was no water source on our hike. So we carried what we could. 

These little guys are made for the desert.

The walk down the wash seemed to take forever, and it was only mid-morning. Finally, finally, after another hour of walking, we reached the White Rim Road, and when we crossed it we saw the gash in the ground that indicated the presence of a slot canyon. Once we located a safe way into (and out of) the canyon, we slipped once again into the coolness of shade. We found a sandstone bowl carved out of the side of the canyon by the incredible force of water that shaped the entire area and sat down thankfully for a bit of food, some water, and some well-earned rest. We expected to explore the slot canyon for a while, enjoying the shade and maybe do some rock climbing as we went deeper into the canyon to places the sun never reached, not even at high noon. What we didn't expect was the deeper part of the canyon to be filled with water. We got to the first pool and thought maybe we could go around it. Then came another pool, and another, until it wasn't just a pool here and there, but a partially submerged canyon with unknown water depth and who-knows-what underneath. After a brief discussion that involved neither of us wanting to get wet with no change of clothes and another strenuous 6.1 mile hike back to my car, we admitted defeat. It was with disappointment that we took a few more pictures from the rim of the slot canyon, turned tail, and started our way in the heat of the day back toward the air conditioned heaven of my car. 

The slot canyon. Shady, awesome, and full of water.

Our hike back was brutal. The sun was directly above us, and what was worse, the rocks had been baking in it all day, so the deep sided wash we were stuck in felt like an oven. Everything we touched was hot. At one point we checked the thermometer I had attached to the outside of my day pack, and discovered it maxed out at 120 degrees Fahrenheit. If ever I was to get heat stroke, it would have been on that hike, however, the ranger who had warned us about the lack of shade was wrong. She should have said there was no shade provided by plants. She didn't take into consideration the lengths people desperate for relief from the sun will do. Cat and I managed to crawl and squeeze and cram ourselves under the smallest of rock outcroppings that provided just enough protection to get us out of direct sunlight. It seemed like whenever one of us reached our breaking point, we would spot a place where we could lean against a rock, or sit on the baked earth that had clearly just been blessed with shade. We began looking for shady places, and made a point to stop at every single one. Our worst hour was when we had to scramble up the few hundred feet in order to get back to the feeder canyon where we had started our descent. There wasn't even a rock we could crawl behind. We hiked on, and eventually found the place we had taken our first break, and hunkered behind a rock there. That was perhaps the time we were in the most danger of heat stroke. We were exhausted, over heated, had less than three liters of water between the two of us, and still had about 900 vertical feet of scrambling up the feeder canyon to get to the top, then yet another mile to go to the car. What were we thinking??

This bit of shade was the most we had since our descent in the morning

We took the ascent slowly. pausing every few switch-backs to breathe and take a sip of water. Our knees, already sore from the descent and ten or so miles across the desert, joined in with our feet, ankles and hips in their screams of protest as we hiked up. Our pace quickened, however, as we neared the rim. We could see the end! Not really, of course, but we could see the end of the scramble, and that counted for something. And then it happened: we came around the last switch-back and all but sprinted to the top! We were also treated to the beginnings of an amazing sunset over the canyon wastelands we had just walked across. 

See the dip just to the left of the middle of the rim? That's where we descended.

The walk back to the car was long in some ways and short in others. It really wasn't that far in terms of distance, but it was still hot, and every time we would crest a little rise in the trail we would search for the bright red dot in the distance that would indicate salvation. Not until we were almost on top of it did we see the car, and by the time we reached it I nearly cried with relief. We dumped our considerably lighter packs by the bumper and sat down, air conditioner blasting, and took off our shoes. It was by far the most difficult hike I have ever accomplished, but it was still worth the sweat and aches that came with it. The entire 12.2 mile hike took us 10 hours to complete, and not once did we see any indication that the human world even existed. Have you ever been so entirely alone that you thought you really could be the last human on the planet? This hike was the first time I have ever experienced that sensation for any extended amount of time. No phone, no internet, no contact with anybody other than my hiking partner. No indication that there was anybody else, anywhere, not even someone else's trash that so often litters our natural spaces. It was surreal, and absolutely amazing.

Back at the top, on the way to air conditioning!

What I'm listening to: Skullclub by The Glitch Mob