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Saturday,
Mount Harvard, 14,420 feet, 14 miles round trip 4500 vertical feet gain and
loss.
This was
probably the best day of the 14ers climbs, for surprising reasons. We started
out before dawn at 5:30. The trail stays fairly level for a couple miles before
climbing into the high Horn Creek Basin. Very quickly it was obvious the Lady was
not feeling good. She is one fit determined Lady and was mad for feeling the
way she did. It was time for her to turn around. Disappointment. Tears. She and
I headed back to camp.
Stew and
Fastshot decided they would continue on - the weather was good. They said they
would at least like to get up into into the high basin. The Lady and I slowly
wandered back to the trailhead, left a note on Fastshot's rig (stating we were
returning to camp), and hiked back to our camp where the Lady slept hard for
several hours. I read and listened to the buzz of the hummingbirds.
In the afternoon,
the Lady felt like trying to eat; we put the camp chairs next to the creek and
relaxed and waited for the boys. And waited.
It was the
day of the Geezers! Dusty, tired, they drove in at 5:30 in the afternoon,
thumbs up and grins a mile wide. Eleven and a half hours round trip to the
summit of Harvard. We were so happy for them.
Here are a
few photos that Fastshot passed on about the boys' day of triumph.
Here's high
above timberline looking ahead at the route to the summit.
A summit
shot back down Horn Creek Basin and their route up. Another worthy fourteener,
Mount Columbia is on the left.
Stew is
working on the final scramble to the summit.
Bear Lake
and many other climbers far below.
Stew the
man, with a well deserved thumbs up.
The Harvard
Graduates, Fastshot and Stew at 14,420 feet.
I won't
speak of Stew's age but he does have a geezer card. I am 57. Fastshot is eleven
years my senior. Impressive job boys!
It was a
great day! We then cleaned up, hopped in Fastshot's rig, and drove up toward
Cottonwood Pass to join Fastshot's daughter's camping group for a great dinner.
Tuesday, we
(Ski3pin, the Lady, and Fastshot) hoisted the packs on our backs and hiked
into the Mt. Zirkel Wilderness. We hiked back out the following Tuesday.
Wilderness fly fishing, exploring and hiking, solitude, high country visuals,
rejuvenating our souls. These were our goals.
Cutthroat
cruising the shallows. The Lady called them "Osprey Bait."
Atop the
Continental Divide looking toward the home waters on the Pacific side.
One thousand
one, one thousand "BOOM!" One thousand "BOOM!" We wondered
if Stew was also counting the seconds between the lightning flash and the
thunder.
Our adventure into the Mount Zirkel Wilderness
left us with moments we will not forget.
Wilderness
fly fishing. I love to sight fish for large trout in crystal clear water. Spot
a nice trout, figure out what it is feeding on, a good presentation usually
demands a lot of stealth and long fine tippets. The fishing in Mt. Zirkel I
would rate as good, for mostly Cutthroats. I caught a few large Rainbows and a few
Cuttbows. In three days of serious fishing I caught about 48 fish. Most were in the
14" to 18" range. I caught only four or five smaller. Fastshot caught
a couple 20"ers. Many were on the thin side, maybe not fattened up
yet after a long winter. My largest was a 18" female Cutthroat, easily
twice as heavy as any other trout I caught here. Nice and fat.
My most
satisfying morning of fly fishing was on this meadow stream. These were very demanding
conditions with the slow moving clear water. A wise angler carefully approaches
and then spends time observing before beginning to fish. Fly fishing this morning was as close
to perfection as I have experienced with careful presentations in gin clear water without spooking the fish and catching and releasing two large cutthroats..
All trout
were carefully released.
Our last
evening.
Our last
morning.
Please allow
me to tell one story. One thing I've mentioned before is one of the joys of
exploring is the chance to meet different people. My brother Fastshot wanted to
see the Continental Divide. On Sunday he and I hiked up. The ridge top is wide, a
couple of feet under 12,000 feet. The Continental Divide/ Wyoming Trail
runs along the top.
Here's the
story:
As we walked
north on the Continental Divide, we watched as a pack string with two riders
came slowly gaining on us; lots of room
to move off the trail on this rolling terrain, no problem there. We ambled
along enjoying the walk. I heard something on the wind.
“Hear that?”
I asked.
“Hear what?
Fastshot countered.
“The voice I
heard. One of those cowboys is a cowgirl.”
“Well, we
have to stop. I reckon it wouldn’t be neighborly of us not to stop and chat
with these pilgrims”, Fastshot said. He was grinning big. He does not like to pass on a chance of meeting a woman.
As they got
closer, yes, the rider behind was a lady, slim and tall and drinking from a can
of Budweiser.
They pulled
up beside us and the man grinned and said “Howdy”, slow and purposefully,
just as a cowboy should.
“How ya
doing?” Fastshot asked.
Before
either of them could answer, I caught the lady’s eye. “Ma’am” I said, “Not to
be too forward, but we stopped because we heard the sweet sound of a woman’s
voice on the breeze. We wanted to meet you.”
A wide smile
brightened her face. The Irish Wolfhound walked over to Fastshot and gave him
his head for a little gentle rubbing.
“These Irish
are the best dogs aren’t they? Great dispositions. How old is he?” Fastshot
talked as he rubbed the big dog’s chin. The large dog made Fastshot look small.
“He’s about
five. Hey you guys want a beer?” the cowboy was opening up a pack.
Fastshot
replied, “If I had a beer, I’d lay down right here and go to sleep. Probably be
a long time before I woke up!”
“Well then,
take some back to camp for later. We have a lot more beer than we can drink!”
“Friend”, I
said, “Thank you very much, but no. It is very kind of you to offer.”
“Well, we do
have another dog in a pack here, you want to see him?”
“Another
dog?” I asked.
“Yep, a
hound pup. We thought we would let him ride. He’s right in here.” The cowboy
reached over to a pack flap. A hound’s head lazily popped out.
We chatted a
bit more. The stock was getting antsy, they wanted to either eat or
move.
“Best be
goin’”, the cowboy said.
“Ma’am, it
was nice to meet you and it was nice to hear your voice up here. Thank you.” I
said.
“What did
you hear?” she asked. This was the first time she had spoke since they stopped.
Fastshot
jumped in, “Just the sweet refrain of a woman’s voice.”
“You didn’t
hear what I said?”
“No, we
didn’t”, I answered.
She just
smiled, took a sip of her beer, and they headed off to the north.
We parted
ways with Fastshot in Walden. It was time for the Lady and me to head home, We
had a few days, no real need to hurry. I'll share a few of our stops.
The remains
of Camp Hale, the 10th Mountain Division's WWII training camp is on highway 24,
south of Minturn and Interstate 70. My Dad's brother, my uncle who I am named after, was
in the 10th. The Lady and I ski and mountaineer so we have connections.
The
thunderstorms subsided so we could spend a couple of hours here. This place evokes
emotions of all sorts. There appears to be lots of opportunity here for
dispersed camping but looks also to be heavily used by the ATV crowd. We
headed up to Tennessee Pass.
We headed
over Tennessee Pass and down through Leadville, thinking about getting a spot below
Independence Pass to camp for the night. Black and ugly clouds, thunder and lightning,
incredible downpours, hail, flash flood warnings; thanks Stew! We got a motel
in Buena Vista, their last room. We had
a great dinner in downtown at Mother's Bistro. Got drenched on the walk back to
our room. Another long hot shower. It was good.
Whenever we
pass through Glenwood Springs, we think about Doc Holliday. On the northeast
corner of Grand Ave and 8th St., downtown Glenwood, is Summit Canyon Mountaineering, a gear shop we stop in at. As you enter the corner door
off the street look down and to the left. There is a small sign that reads
"Doc Holliday died here on Nov. 8, 1887." Doc's Grave is in the
Linwood Cemetery. Walk east on 11th street and up a hill to pay your respects
to this probably questionable character.
That night
we camped up on the Grand Mesa, south of Interstate 70 on highway 65, east of
Grand Junction. This place is grand, indeed. A basalt mesa 10,800 feet high,
alpine tundra, big game, lakes, fishing. In the morning we
drove out to Lands End overlooking Grand Junction. The views are incredible,
including the Wilson group of 14ers, Uncompahgre Peak, the La Sal Mountains, Colorado
National Monument.
and the old
Lands End Observatory.
In the early morning, Golden Eagles glided right along the edge of the
mesa.
Our last
night was spent in Great Basin National Park, but not out of Baker, Nevada.
Having an interest in native trout of the west, I have read about the
reintroduction of Bonneville Cutthroat in streams that fall down out of the
Snake Range, including those in Great Basin National Park. I have wanted to get
up into Strawberry Creek and I had heard there were 3 or 4 dispersed campsites
available. We found the turn off of highway 50. It is now marked, and the dirt
road goes up about 5 miles in to a hiking trailhead. Almost to the end, a road
goes off to the right and in about 200 yards to a grove of aspen, an old
corral, a fire ring, two tables. The Lady says it was her favorite camping spot
of the whole trip for the camper. We made dinner while the thunderstorm passed,
and then wandered to enjoy the evening light. This was a weekend and there was no
one else along this road.
And, as the
storm passed............................
Sunday
afternoon, we are almost home. We turned off of highway 50 in South Lake Tahoe
onto Pioneer Trail and into a hell of a thunderstorm. We heard later that the mast
of a sailboat was struck by lightning sinking the boat. We are not blaming
Stew. But, we have not seen a drop of rain since we arrived home.
And, with
this, the end of our adventure.
