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Getting To Nowhere
I had planned on my Boulder to Vail expedition this past week but careful review of the topo maps between Winter Park and Silverthorne had me thinking that a recon trip might be in order. Turns out that was a wise, wise move. Like any big undertaking, there are always plenty of reasons not to go (work, weather, fatigue, fear) but I headed out on Tuesday morning. The level of fear that I had on Monday night was surprisingly high. I can't remember the last time I was that "scared" to do something. I dropped by the Ranger Station in Silverthorne to check in and ask questions about permits, camping and fires -- no restrictions right now. The rangers asked where I was heading and looked at me with a blank stare when I mentioned my destination (Jones Pass Jeep Road). If I needed confirmation that I was heading to "nowhere" then that was probably it. Once I pulled out my map to show them, they clued in -- my trip took me out of their district. Given the weather forecast they suggested that my route would be more appropriate for an animal with webbed feet. Having grown up in British Columbia, the rain doesn't bother me. Over my life, I've logged months of rain camping, rain cycling, rain running, rain hiking... What I hadn't combined, until this trip, was rain camping with rain mountaineering. It would prove educational. Truth be told, I hoped the trip would be challenging and involve some adventure. I wanted to go minimalist but still be safe. In the hills, there is an element of speed being safe but "too light" also means that hypothermia could trump speed. In the end, I went with with a set-up that favored technical gear over personal warmth. For those of you that do mixed climbing/hiking/mountaineering you should look into the Black Diamond Whippet ski poles -- for what I do, they make much more sense than the ice axe I cart around. I had a slip when working my way up a steep, treed face and the pole self-arrested before I even had a chance to realize that I'd lost my feet. For moderate snow climbing and ski mountaineering, a couple of these poles are versatile. Another false economy (as it turned out) was my $5.50 poncho. The poncho worked great for high altitude rain/snow/sleet but, unfortunately, shredded rather quickly when weather/cold forced a rapid bushwhack to the valley floor. The poncho was my back-up plan so having it shred was a concern. I saved the pieces in case things severely deteriorated. It's easy to see how circumstances gradually spin into a serious situation and I was conscious of the fact that I was putting together all the elements of a survival situation (rain, cold, lack of shelter). Now that I was well and truly in "nowhere" -- being a snowy valley on the south side of the South Fork of the Williams River. Having been lost before, it was a unique situation to know exactly where I was but be totally alone, wet and cold. I decided to fire up the GPS to check on the amount of daylight remaining. Just like race simulation workouts, trial camping trips give us a chance to work out the kinks and learn about our gear. My next lesson was that the internal clock on my GPS wasn't reliable until after it had acquired a strong signal. When I fired it up, it told me that I had sixty minutes to dark! As I was on a snowy mountainside, soaked with no place to camp... this wasn't the best news! This was the point where the poncho took heavy damage. At the bottom of the valley, I found a suitable patch of dirt in the lee of a few pine trees. It wasn't perfect but it would have to do. After a month of rain, the area was soaked through and I had to use my stove to get my campfire rolling (a first in many years of camping). Once the fire was established, I checked back in with my GPS to see how much time I had left until dark... the time had shifted from 7:30 pm previously, to 5:45pm now... Doh! With three hours left until total darkness, I probably had enough daylight to get myself out of the valley, over the pass and back on the trail that would lead me back to my van. However... I would have to leave my fire and climb up into rain/snow, possibly route finding in a snow storm at 12,000 feet. I made a good call with staying put. The next step was to gather enough wood to have a shot at keeping my fire rolling across the night. My shelter options consisted of a shredded poncho, two pine trees and bivy bag... the fire had become fundamental. I gathered a huge pile of wood. At 7pm, I was ready for the evening and drying out my clothes -- even in the rain, I was able to get myself, mostly, dry and rig up a rack for my gear. I'm not sure what I expected with the trip -- one of the things that first attracted me to mountaineering was the simplicity of technical climbing (stay on the mountain, don't die). As I don't do technical stuff anymore, I may harbor romantic notions about "insight" coming from my journey to nowhere. My trips tend to reinforce how much I value simplicity. Perhaps one night isn't long enough to get civilization out of my brain -- I had Alanis Morissette's Thank U rolling through my head for a good part of the evening and did audibly thank a tree that provided the bulk of my wood supply. An underlying sense of gratitude Life gets pretty simple in the woods, perhaps that's the attraction. Deep silence and a humility that comes from re-introducing ourselves to the food chain. As it turned out, I didn't make Jones Pass due to a "creek crossing" becoming more of a "river ford" -- I'd had enough wet & cold by Wednesday morning and wasn't up to placing myself on the far side of my line of retreat. So, 24 hours after I started, I was back at my van. Another good call because I was TOTALLY shelled and spent the next 24 hours pulling myself together. Gave me a new respect for adventure racers! gordo
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One of the neat things about living along the Front Range of the Rockies is that it takes about five hours to get to "nowhere". Nowhere being a place where, if something goes awry, it will take a long time for anyone to find you!