” What’s up ahead?”

“Caribou Pass.  But there’s a fresh rock slide with loose rock blocking the trail.  I made it over but probably shouldn’t have tried it.  Be careful.”

“Thanks for the warning.  I think I’ll check it out.”

We ease carefully past each other on the narrow ledge.

Hiking down to the pass, I turn a corner and come to the  slide.  Looking off to my right,  I get a touch of acrophobia.  It’s a long way down.  Decision time.

“““““““““““““““`

Earlier today, I was hiking steadily up the Arpahoe Pass trail from the Fourth of July trailhead.  Things have changed dramatically in the mountains since my last backpacking trip two weeks ago.   Though the day is warm for late September,  autumn has clearly come to the high country.

Autumn 

Red Leaf

Aspen and Buttermilk Clouds

Autumn in Indian Peaks

Near the junction with the Arapahoe Glacier Trail,  I spotted  some rusted machinery not far from the trail and spent some time checking it out.   What kind of project had been attempted here?  Who had hauled this metal up the mountainside?  What had happened to it?

Machinery

The wind became stronger as I climbed closer to the top of the Continental Divide.

A sign at a junction points left to Caribou Pass, and right to Arapahoe Pass.  My destination for tonight is Caribou Lake, in a basin below Araphoe Pass. Since it was still early in the day, I decided to go exploring and took the left fork toward Lake Dorothy and Caribou Pass.

Near Lake Dorothy, I met a couple of women dressed  in nylon wind shirts and pants.  One of the women was wearing a Lowepro Toploader camera case that is twice the size of mine.  We started talking photography and lamented the clear blue sky that was hampering our ability to get good photos in this most dramatic of settings.

“What do you shoot?”

“Just a Canon Rebel.  I do backpacking trips and take photos for my blog.”

“What’s your blog?”

“Dondo Outdoors.  It’s easy to find.  Just google “Dondo”,  and ignore any results that mention David Hasselhoff.”

Farther down the Caribou Pass trail is where I met the hiker who warned me about the rock slide.

“““““““““““

Now, standing here, facing it, I have to make a decision.   I study the rocks carefully.  Both hands and feet will be needed to get past this point.   Any loose rocks or loss of balance could send me hurtling into the abyss.  Too risky, I decide.  Carefully, I  turn around and walk a few steps, then turn back to study the rocks again.  Yesterday was my birthday.  I decide that I want many more.  Turning my back on the slide once more, I hike purposefully toward Arapahoe Pass.

Peering over a cliff, I spot tonight’s destination in the basin far below, Caribou Lake.

Caribou Lake from the Continental Divide

A series of switchbacks is etched into the steep rock on the west side of the Divide.  Getting down to the lake will be adventure enough.

Switchbacks (click for larger view)

At the top of Arapahoe Pass, the wind is really picking up.  Hiding behind a wall of rocks, I tighten and double-knot the laces in my trail runners,  lenghten my trekking poles, snug down the hood of my wind shirt, and take a swig of water.  Facing into the wind, I drop off the Divide.

It turns out that this is an excellent trail, with only a couple of really steep sections.  All I have to do is follow the path while fighting the wind.

Things are quiet at the bottom of the basin.  The wind calms to a gentle breeze.  There are no signs of other humans here.

A spur trail branches off the Arapahoe Pass trail toward the campsites.  Normally, I avoid places with designated camping, but this being a weekday at the end of September, I have my choice of sites.  Circling the lake, I pass sites #6 through #10 and decide that I  like #9,  near the far end of the lake.

 The sun is getting lower in the sky now, illuminating the marsh grasses from behind.

Marsh Grass

Large cutthroat trout appear in the shallow water at the  end of the Caribou Lake.  Continuing around the lake, I fail to find sites #1 through #5.  Back at the trail, I take a look  at Arapahoe Pass, which I’ll be reascending tomorrow morning.

Looking Back at the Pass

Quickly, I set up camp at site #9 and walk to the lake for dinner.

Backcountry Chef

Dinner finished and bear bag hung, I now explore the lake at my leisure.

Evening at Caribou Lake

Reflection

Dust to Dust

Night Falls

It’s a clear, still night.  I fall asleep while gazing at countless stars shimmering through the open door of my shelter.

During the night, I have a strange dream that I’ve overslept and missed the sunrise.  It feels so real, that I’m sure that it happened.  Waking up, I check my watch.  It’s a quarter to six.  I grab my camera and step outside to meet the new day.

Dawn at Caribou Lake

Sunrise at Site #9

In the morning, I linger over breakfast, then pack my bag and walk back toward the pass.  Refreshed by a night in the wilderness, my legs move easily through the many switchbacks to the top of the pass.

Shadow

Hiking back down the Arapahoe Pass trail toward the trailhead, the day heats up.  It’s a beautiful Indian summer day here in the Colorado Rockies.  It feels great just to be alive and moving.

On my way down,  I meet Robert and Annemarie, who are hiking slowly up the the top of Arapahoe Pass.   Annemarie is engaging with her lovely Dutch accent.  She tells me that Robert used to be a mountaineer.  Robert says that he doesn’t climb mountains any more but still likes to get up here and hike.  He gives me tips about handling switchbacks in the wind. We chat for a while about hiking, backpacking,  and staying warm and comfortable with a light pack. All agree that it’s pure desire that keeps us coming back to the mountains month after month, year after year.

Robert and Annemarie

“Pretty much.”

“That’s what we’re doing.  You too?”

“No. I’m going in.”

“You’re even crazier than we are.”

“That’s possible.”

We wish each other a good hike, and the couple and their German Shepherd disappear into the rain.

West Branch Trailhead

The West Branch Trailhead has 26 parking spaces and is often full on summer weekends.  This morning, the Tuesday after Labor Day, there were only four vehicles left when I arrived.  The first man I encountered leaving the mountains had planned to climb North and South Rawah Peaks but had to bail because of the rain.  Further up, I met a father and son who had camped last night near Blue Lake.  They told me that the rain had started at 5:00 AM and showed no sign of quitting, despite the National Weather Service prediction of only a 30% chance of showers today.

As I watch the couple and their dog hike down the mountain, I realize that there are only me and one other person or party left in the Rawah Lakes area today.  Maybe I am a bit crazy.  Blessed with 300 days of sunshine a year, we Coloradans are somewhat spoiled.  The most rain we usually have to tolerate is the brief afternoon thunderstorm.  I’m hoping that the rain quits today, the sun comes out to dry everything off, and I’ll have the whole place to myself.

It’s a cold rain, and I have to keep moving to stay on the right side of hypothermia.   Still, there is an undeniable beauty in the damp, green lushness  of the landscape.

Aspen Grove

Leaf Soaked with Rain

Wet Needles

Once getting used to hiking in the mud, I fall into an easy rhythm.  Early in the afternoon, I see a body of water shimmering through the trees to my left, and I know that I’ve arrived at Camp Lake.  To the left of the lake there is an open meadow, and something big and brown is grazing there.  I’ve spotted something that I came to the Rawah to see—a moose.

Though fascinated with moose, there is something that unnerves me about being in their presence out here in the wilderness.  In my handful of encounters with moose, they have never run from me as deer, or elk, or even bears would.  One fall, when I was hiking a dirt road near Monarch Lake, a big bull crashed out from the trees a few yards in front of me.  He stared me down, blocked the road, and wouldn’t let me pass for over an hour.  On another trip, here in the Rawah,  a cow just stood and watched as I broke camp, then followed me as I hiked out of the area.  Every time I turned around, there she was.

Moose have been known to charge at hikers, especially when they are protecting their young. This cow seems docile enough, just grazing contentedly on the willows.  Anyway, my memory is that the trail passes on the other side of the lake.  As I get closer, the trail takes a turn toward the meadow.  Checking my map, I find that my memory was wrong.  The trail takes me through the meadow right in front of the moose.   Scanning the other side of the lake, I see that it is choked with bogs and willows, a place where a hiker could get torn up or turn an ankle.  I decide to take my chances with the moose.

Moose Grazing on Willows

As I step into the meadow, the moose doesn’t even look up.  Is it possible to sneak past her?  The trail jogs to the left, directly toward the moose.  If she sees me walking toward her, would that be a provocation?  If she charges, there are no trees to hide behind here.  Just the moose on one side and the lake on the other.  I see a way through the willows and leave the trail to push my way through.  The rain-soaked bushes are waist high and icy cold.  I gasp involuntarily.

She has stopped grazing now and is watching me, very intently.  The cold rain begins again in earnest.  This is neither the time nor place to reach into my pack for my rain gear.  I push on.  Reaching the other side of the meadow, I breathe a sigh of relief.   Looking back into the meadow,  I spot another moose, this one much smaller, running from the forest toward the first one.  Then it hits me:  it’s a mother and her baby.

By now, I’m soaked from the cold rain.  Hastily, I put on my rain gear, grab a handful of trail mix, check the map, and hike upwards through the maze of trails toward tonight’s destination, the Rawah Lakes.  Slowly, I regain warmth.

Bluebells in the Rain

Though normally a popular area, tonight the Rawah Lakes are deserted.  Finding a spot between lakes #2 and #3, I quickly erect my shelter and dive inside to get out of the rain.  After cooking dinner under the spreading branches of a tree, I hang my bear bag, and climb into my sleeping bag.  There will be no photography tonight.

Camp below North Rawah Peak

Dawn arrives cold and wet.  The rain comes down, sometimes heavily.  After breakfast, I take a tour of the area around my camp.

Rawah Lake #3

Once back under my shelter, I sort through my options.  Tonight’s destination was Twin Crater Lakes, over the pass from where I’m sitting now.  It could be miserable trying to get over Grassy Pass  in this kind of rain.  I’m not due back in civilization until tomorrow night.  Remembering Colin Fletcher’s account in The Complete Walker of how he spent a couple of days under his tarp waiting out the rain, I decided that I could do it too,  if necessary.  So I climb back into my bag and keep myself amused by listening to rain on the roof and studying the map.

Studying the Map

Just before noon, I hear the rain lighten, then stop.  Deciding to take advantage of this break in the weather, I pack my wet gear quickly and shoulder my pack.  Two steps toward the pass and the rain begins again.

A heavy mist settles over the mountains and visibility is greatly reduced.   Though I’m surrounded by tall peaks, I can see nothing beyond a few yards.  The only thing to do is keep track of the trail and keep walking.  Off to my right, I can barely make out Rawah Lake # 1 through the clouds.

On to Grassy Pass

Flag Trees in Mist

Coming down from the pass, it’s great to be back in the trees again, where there is at least some protection from the rain.   I walk along at an easy pace through the forest, enjoying the lush wetness of the vegetation.  Coming to a clearing in the woods, I stop for a moment, then get the unsettling impression that someone or something is watching me.  Then I see her, hiding in the forest just a few feet from the trail.

Lurking Moose

The moose knows that I’ve seen her, so there’s no pretending that I didn’t.  And there’s no way that I’m going to follow the trail to within a few feet of her.  After hesitating  for a minute, I step out in the clearing, intending to give her a wide berth.  The moose is having none of it.  She strides into the clearing and shows me her bulk, then turns her head to face me, giving me the evil eye.

Standoff

I take a few more paces out into the meadow.   She matches me step for step.

Staking her Claim

Apparently, she is staking claim to this meadow and all the willows it contains.   Showing deference to her bulk and the reputation of her species,  I take a few steps backwards and head diagonally back toward the trail.  Satisfied, she begins grazing, but keeps a close eye on me the whole time.

There is still the matter of getting beyond the moose.  Reasoning that if she stepped this far into the meadow,  she is not hiding any young in the forest, I proceed carefully down the trail.  As I get closer, she stops grazing and turns around to watch me.   Unlike in the previous encounter, I have the trees to my advantage here.  If she charges, I can duck behind the trunks.  Exiting the meadow, I take a look over my shoulder.  She is still staring at me.

Field of Yellow Flowers

Snowpack is well above average in northern Colorado this year.  Wildflowers are abundant for September.  Streams are running much higher than normal.  Most log bridges have been wiped out.  Not bothering with the makeshift bridges hikers have made, I wade right through the ice streams.   Finding the turnoff to Twin Crater Lakes, I begin hiking upward again.

Snow and Runoff

A heavy fog descends upon the landscape.  Peering through the mist, I can just make out the shore of one of the Crater Lakes.  My plans to photograph  the lakes this evening will have to be curtailed.

Twin Crater Lake in the Fog

Rose Crown

Feeling my way through the mist, I find a flat spot with a tall tree nearby for hanging my food.  Luckily there is a pond nearby as well as a flat rock to serve as a table.  All I’m missing is the scenery.

Misty Camp

Coming to Bed

In the middle of the night, I awaken to a cool breeze coming through the open door of my shelter.  The rain has stopped.  Stepping outside, I notice that the clouds have moved away, and that the stars are shining brightly in the sky.  Now that the fog has lifted, I can make out the silhouettes of tall mountains just outside my shelter.  Excitedly, I crawl back into my sleeping bag and wait for the morning.

Dawn at Twin Crater Lakes

Camp Beneath South Rawah Peak

The Sun Hits my Camp

Back on the Trail

On my way back to the trailhead, I run across a pair of backpackers who are going up to Twin Crater Lakes to fish.  They introduce themselves as Steve and Augie from Greeley.  The Rawah Wilderness is in their backyards, and they have explored the area extensively, but have never been  up to Twin Crater Lakes.  I give them route and campsite information, and they in turn, tell me  about the places they have been in the Rawah.  Talk turns, as it often does, to tales of our encounters with wildlife, of our meetings with elk and mountain goats, with bears and moose.  After a while,  we wish each other a good hike and turn our separate ways:  they, up to the mountains and me, back to civilization.

Arnica

Along this stretch of trail, pools of stagnant water reflect the dying trees.  A lily pond appears on the right, and I take the time to walk its banks.

Lily Pond

Eventually, I reach the turn off to Salmon and Willow Lakes.  The trail steepens, and my pace slackens to match the slope.  Once more, I remind myself to lighten my pack, and to exercise more.  As I climb, the forest becomes greener.  Clouds pass overhead. The slope moderates.  So far, I have seen no one, but in the distance, I spot what I take for a large, white dog trotting down trail toward me.  It soon becomes clear that this is not a dog.  I’m sure he sees me, but he doesn’t slow down.  I stop, but he keeps coming until he comes to rest about ten paces away, glowing in the late-afternoon light, like a creature from a fairy tale.

Mountain Goat

From my previous encounters with mountain goats, I know that each has it’s own personality.  This one is not begging, but just seems interested in the intruder.  We stand that way for a few minutes, just eyeing each other curiously.  Since we can’t stay there forever, I make the first move and take a step forward.  The goat turns around and starts walking down the trail like a dog before it’s master.  He walks well ahead, but turns around occasionally to keep an eye on me.  At another trail junction, he takes the right fork toward Salmon Lake, my destination for the evening.  Finding something he likes on the trail he stops and starts licking the ground.  I mount my camera on my Pacerpole/monopod and shoot frame upon frame of the goat licking the ground,  turning around, and looking into the camera.  Distracted by my photography, I accidentally kick my other Pacerpole off the rock it’s resting on, and it clatters to the ground, startling the goat.  He turns around and walks off down the trail toward Salmon Lake, turning around to watch me as before.

Time to Go

Climbing higher, I arrive at Salmon Lake and walk around to the far end along a faint trail.  Finding a flat spot to camp, I take off my pack and sit on a rock to rest.  Minutes later, the goat emerges from higher on the mountain.  He walks to within a few yards of me and heads back down the trail, while stopping and peeking at me through the trees that line the lake.  I expect him to return for salt, or perhaps for food, but he never does.  There are no humans here at Salmon Lake either, and I revel in the solitude.

Camp at Salmon Lake

Stream

Landscape above my Camp

Reflection on Salmon Lake

Despite the heat of the day, the night is cold at this altitude.  Snuggling deeply inside my sleeping bag, I fall asleep while watching the moon cast strange shapes on the walls of my shelter, like the shadow puppets I use to make when I was young. My dreams are filled with fantastical creatures that emerge and then disappear back into the forest.

The night is still lit by the moon, but I sense another source of light beginning to appear to the east.  My bed is so warm and comfortable.  After a brief internal battle, I rise up to meet another day.

The Moon Sets

Dawn Reflection

After breakfast, I break camp and hike back toward the junction to Willow Lakes.  Losing the trail briefly, I wind up on a talus slope.  Reminding myself of the promise I made to my wife and myself about playing things more conservatively out here after my last trip, I retrace my steps and find a safer way to the junction.

While ascending the trail to Willow Lakes, clouds pass overhead, casting the wildflowers into a beautiful light.

~

Indian Paintbrush

Climbing higher,  ponds and lakes begin to appear against the rocky walls of the Gore Range.

~

Colorado Columbine

Little Red Elephant

Another Willow Lake

As I climb higher and pass lake after lake, it becomes clear that no other humans are present in this area either.  I hike slowly and take the time to stop, listen, and observe.

Upper Willow Lake

All Over It

The day passes slowly, and I feel that I have returned, however briefly, to the Garden of Eden.  In the late afternoon, I climb to a flat spot high above Upper Willow Lake to set up camp.

Willow Lakes Camp

The next morning, I awaken early in the darkness, grab my headlamp and Pacerpoles and feel my way carefully down the slope to the lake.  I don’t want to miss the light show at Zodiac Ridge.

Another Day Dawns

~

While hiking back down the Gore Range Trail to the trailhead, I meet a woman hiking alone, the first human I have spoken to since leaving home a few days ago.  She tells me excitedly about the moose she saw and photographed at the parking lot.  In turn, I relate my mountain goat story.  There is something about our encounters with the other animals we share the planet with that stirs wonder and awe in us humans.  It seems nearly universal.  There is something about looking into the eyes of creatures so much like us, yet so different.

As I descend, the day becomes hotter. The dead trees just stand there in the late morning light.  This is not a place I would want to be in a wind storm.  And certainly not during a red flag warning.

A friend who works for the forest service tells me that he and his colleagues often speak of The Big One, a vast fire that will turn these many beetle-killed acres into smoke and ash.  He says it’s not a matter of if, but when.  The conflagration will be horrible for the creatures that live here.  Many will perish.  Yet, even before the last embers have died and the ash has returned to the earth, green shoots will appear.  The understory will regenerate, sucession forests will grow, and animals will return, to live, reproduce, and die here.  Life finds a way.

At the trailhead, I glance at the information board.  Stage II  fire restrictions,  bear warnings.  Standard stuff.  It barely registers, though aware of the fire restrictions, I’m carrying a canister stove instead of my usual alcohol burner.

Back in June, Ringtail and Kevon, two regulars at the TLB forums, invited me to join them on a trip through the canyon. Because of a schedule conflict, I couldn’t make it, but now I’m ready to try it on my own.

It’s the day after Independence Day.  Bushes with tiny yellow flowers dot the landscape far into the distance. Insects buzz around in the stillness and the heat.

At the fork in the trail, I go right.  The map shows the trail as unmaintained until half way down the canyon, then nonexistent.  That’s the part that concerns me a bit.  Experience with the very rugged and convoluted terrain of the Lost Creek Wilderness has given me a healthy respect for it.  Off-trail travel here is not to be taken lightly.

The trail drops a bit, then more steeply.  The sound of the Lost Creek on my left becomes louder as it cascades over tumbled blocks of granite.

~

Ringtail described the route through the canyon as  ”nearly a trail, but not quite.”  It takes some effort to keep track of the path and quite a bit of tree bashing and rock hopping.

The terrain eases a bit, and a narrow path enters a thick forest of young aspen.  It’s very quiet here as I glide softly through the trees.  A crashing sound breaks the silence, and I see a big brown figure taller than myself just a few yards ahead through the white trunks.  A bear.  In a second, it’s gone, fleeing downstream, the same direction I’m heading.

Leaving the path, I go to the creek in search of tracks in the soft mud.  All I can find are the tracks of an ungulate, probably a bighorn sheep.

The sky is clouding up now.  I take time to admire the meandering creek and the surrounding rock formations.

~

Farther down, cairns indicate a creek crossing, so I maneuver my way over boulders to get to the other side.  Thunder booms in the  canyon, then it start to rain.  The going gets tougher now.  The vegetation and rocks are slick with rain and every step must be well placed.

Eventually, cairns indicate a recrossing of Lost Creek.  This crossing appears a lot more difficult.  The boulders are bigger, arrayed at odd angles, and now wet.  The creek is no longer visible, but I can hear it far below.  Thunder rumbles ominously in the darkened sky.  I study the boulders and plan my moves like a chess player.  Then I go for it.  The granite is even more slippery than I anticipated.  I slip and slam my left shin against a boulder, drawing the first blood of the trip.  Ice caves appear below the rocks. Concentration intensifies. I don’t want to end up down there.  At the other side, I stop and breathe a sigh of relief.

Following another cairn, I enter a place where Lost Creek emerges from a cave.  This place feels familiar to me but I don’t know how. Then it hits me.  Two months earlier, I ended up here while exploring the area near  Refrigerator Gulch.  This is the head of the box canyon.

To my left, I hear a big flapping of wings.  Looking over, I see a great horned owl flying just above my head.  I’m  looking it right in the face.  In the evening gloom, this is unsettling. It feels like some kind of omen or premonition.  Thunder echoes again against the canyon walls.

Last time I was here, I felt trapped but found my way out.  I wade across the creek and try to climb out of the canyon, but the way eludes me now.  Giving up,  I decide to spend the night in this secluded spot.

~

While cooking dinner, the rain intensifies.  I’m reluctant to cook inside my shelter because of the bear encounter earlier in the day.  He’s still out there and probably hungry.  While going to hang my food bag from a tree, my right foot slips on some vegetation and into the creek.  My left knee comes down hard onto a sharp rock and I wince in pain.  Using my sawed-off tripod as a cane, I hang my food bag and hobble back to my shelter.  By this time,  I’m soaked and chilled to the bone.  Entering my shelter, I strip off the wet clothing, warm myself in my sleeping bag, then tend to my wounds.  While listening to the rhythmic sound of rain on the roof, warm and snug inside the sleeping bag, I drift off to sleep.

The rain is intermittent through the night, but returns in the morning.  After breakfast, I pack up my wet gear,  wade across the creek, and attempt to find my way out of the canyon again.  No dice.  It appears that the way out will have to be the same way I came in, over the slippery boulder crossing of Lost Creek.

While hiking back to the crossing the rain stops, patches of blue appear in the sky, then the sun appears.  A blessing.  Slowly, carefully, and strategically, I make may way back over the boulders.  At the other side, all the tension leaves me.  The rest of the day will be a walk in the park.

In a clearing, I lay out my wet gear to dry in the sun.  Then I hike back up the canyon, taking the time to stop and observe.

~

In the mid-morning sun, a hawk circles slowly above a cliff with a minimum of effort.  A finch peeks out at me from an aspen sapling.  A black butterfly flutters amid the vegetation.  It’s summer, and life is abundant.

~

When I get to the spot where I surprised the bear, I leisurely wade back and forth across the creek, studying footprints in the mud. Then I find it.

~

In the afternoon,  storm clouds gather.  Thunder crashes up and down the canyon.  It starts raining again.

~

~

~

By the time I arrive at the cattle gate, it’s been raining on and off for some time.  I stop to listen.  What I hear is the sound of raindrops on the hood of my rain jacket, the rumbling of thunder, and the muffled roar of Lost Creek.  Feeling a deep contentment,  I smile and walk on.

~