ajm - errata non grata

The Ascent of Man/Thinkin' One Thing Doin' Another

I started my run today with a bike up NCAR Mesa to limber up the legs. It’d been weeks since I’d hit the trail, and I figured a short run would be good. It was late in the afternoon, and I thought I’d missed my window to get in a really solid hike, a that hike has been waiting for months, if not years. Only four miles, and just out the back door, but still I’d only been talking about it. The time it took to get a good pair of new boots only served as further delay. Retiring any piece of well-worn gear can be nostalgic, especially depending on the miles it’s traveled with you. Thus, it wasn’t putting down the Asolo’s that walked with me on trails up north, hiked to the top of mountains here in Colorado, and scrambled down canyons in the southwest.

Cascades of memories flowed through my mind as I looked at my old Asolo’s, especially when they sat next to the new Asolo’s. There really is nothing like an old pair of boots. Maybe an old pair of Carhartt’s comes close, but boots perform the really serious work in the outdoors. Still, as I took off my run, the new boots sat in the closet with fresh, new rubber smell. I will slay that dragon, and soon, I told myself.

After a strenuous bike ride up NCAR Mesa (it’s all uphill from the front door), I locked up the bike and hit the trail, legs feeling ready. The “magic light” of late afternoon that photographers so lavishly seek framed the Foothills in all of their grandeur. I passed a few groups of hikers and thought it was a good sign, as the late-day crew was leaving the trails.

I’d have some nice head time.

I reached a fork where the trail leads to Mallory Cave, a redoubt tucked into the Flatirons, and I saw the signs: Closed for the Habitation of Some Flying Creature Whose Name I Forget At the Moment.

Huh. So much for that idea.

Looking at the map station sitting at the split in the trail, I saw that it was less than half-a-mile to the trailhead of Bear Canyon, and after that it was less than three miles to the summit. Sure, it was all uphill, but I calculated that I was willing to run another mile into Mallory Cave, why not just follow the creek to the top of the big hill that sits in my backyard.

I took off, not thinking that I was in running shorts, a Duofold t-shirt, running socks, and running shoes. In addition, since I’d planned on just quick run, I had no water, no nourishment, no map, and no watch, no rain jacket, no headlamp, no spoon, and no bandanna. I was committing the cardinal sins told to me long ago. Nevertheless, there I was, travelin’ light (the only way to fly). I was listening to the creek and following it to the source.

As I reached the West Ridge Trail of Green Mountain, I turned back east and ascended the slope of the hill. Looking back over my shoulder, I knew what brought me here on this trail and what brought me here to Colorado in the first place. With a turn of my head, I could see Eldorado Canyon (the birthplace of modern sport climbing) to the south, the Indian Peaks forming the Great Divide and the Eldora Ski Hill behind Nederland to the west, Long’s Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park to the northwest, and the expanse of the northern reaches of the Front Range, geologic waves telling the story of mountain formation. It was an Epic run, with some spectacular views. Burrowed in a bank of cumulonimbus, the sun shot slivers of light through the clouds casting a glistening of yellow-gold on the snowy mountaintops beyond. It was an image that would give Ansel Adams wet dreams if he were alive to sleep.

Probably a little more than an hour from when I’d left the Mallory Cave fork, I was standing on top of Green Mountain, fighting gusts of wind and cradling the benchmark erected by the CU Hiking Club in 1929. The view east and south was wider than I’d seen on any of my runs on the Mesa Trail, and I could see the dark, low-hanging clouds coming over the Indian Peaks. More weather on the way. Time to get off the hill. Taking in the view to the south and east, the bright lights of Denver were shining like diamonds, like ten thousand jewels in the sky (Thanks Willie). Normally you can only see the blue light of the Qwest tower from the Mesa Trail. This was quite a scene. Glad I took the extreme run.

And what a “run” it was. More like walk, sprint, walk, and stop to breathe. After all, it’s 8,144 feet at the summit of Green Mountain, and my house at Seven-Ten Gillaspie is at about 5,300 feet. The descent wreaked havoc on my ankles and knees, but the bike ride down NCAR Mesa brought tears to my eyes (but it was probably the wind in my face).

Next, it’s time to summit Bear Peak and South Boulder Peak with the new boots. Then it’s time for summer hiking in the High Country and the myriad Fourteeners that grace the Rockies. It's time to start living and breathing again, without the dust of books recalled from the library archives and away from the glow of a screen breaking the waking hours of dawn.

Gettin’ there.

Posted by ajm at May 16, 2005 12:11 AM