The plan for the day was to head back towards the fork near Stave Spring, then make camp and try to get Deertrap Mountain trail in as a day hike with a possible Cable Mountain hike for either sunset or the last day's sunrise.
We slowly tramped back down to the trail alongside Echo Canyon and turned south, eventually winding up in the same open field where we'd met the family the prior morning. It was strange to even think of that encounter as the day before. The variety and length of Saturday had played hell with our sense of time; we couldn't have possibly gotten it all done between two evenings.
Dan noticed a cave in the ridges off to our left, so he slipped off his pack and started heading towards it. Feeling a curiosity that may well get me killed by a cat, I joined him, giant knife at hand, as we climbed up towards the mouth of the cave and stepped in. The opening was probably eight feet tall and wide enough for a man to walk into, while the space within disappeared around a corner only a few feet inside. Dan followed the curve around and called out that it just ended in a small hole near the ground. We switched places and I saw the small hole, maybe a foot across, along the floor of the cave. Then, as I turned to leave, I saw Dan looking up along the walls just inside the mouth of the cave. "We probably should have been more worried about that," he said. I followed his gaze up a trail of wet rocks to a ledge that neither of us had seen. The cave continued out of view above the ledge and, feeling distinctly creeped out, we both shuffled back down the hillside to meet Moffet at the bags.
It was a quick hike back to the fork north of the Spring, but there I learned we were actually planning to camp near the next fork, where the trail split between Cable and Deertrap Mountains, a distance of perhaps another mile we'd have to cover again the next morning on the way out. This far into the trip, one mile's difference was a temporarily crippling thing to find out and I stayed quiet for a bit of the trail, feeling grumpy. In fact, when Dan and Moff decided to drop packs and step off the trail to enjoy some scenery, I told them I'd wait until they came back, just wanting the hike with the big packs to be over. As I waited, though, I began to feel ridiculous. I was mad over a small difference in hiking, a misunderstanding, really, and considering where we were, any decision to unplug from the group meant isolation with the aches and pains and strain that hid beneath the magic of the trip. Acknowledging the silliness, I dropped my pack beside the others and joined them in their appreciation. From where we stood, I looked back towards the trail and could only just make out our packs. There was everything we needed to drink, to eat, to sleep, all in a tiny splash of color amid the browns and greens.
The path rose slowly as we neared the area we'd chosen to camp, so slowly in fact that I remember Moffet finishing a story he'd tried to tell at the end of the previous day before the steep trails stole the breath from the telling. Now, it was an easier morning and we were all thankful to be able to swap stories again.
That gratitude only increased when we found the fork in the trail, backtracked slightly, and climbed a ridge to what would be our third and best campsite of the trip. The ground was mercifully flat and already quite clear between each tree and the next. Three overturned trunks formed a broken circle, a perfect place to eat, and all around us, the trees offered shade from the bright sun and sky while breezes swept over the hilltop. As we'd noticed the day before, the area showed signs of some previous fire that left a lot of ground clear and a lot of trees blackened. The latest fire I can find with a quick Google is a controlled fire in 2005. That seems way too far back, but then again, I have no idea how these things look after certain lengths of time.
Having such a light day planned and still feeling accomplished from the day before, we didn't need to rush to make camp, so we dropped our packs and hung up the tent to dry. Then, we walked around the area, stopping where the bushes grew thick to reorient ourselves in relation to our campsite. Finally, we found a spot just before the ground dropped and rolled into a plain. The trees were thin enough that we could see out to several mountain ridges in the distance, some white with snow at their peaks. The view was breathtaking and so we sat a while, alternating contented silence with whatever musings tumbled out.
One such musing went as follows:
Ian: I can't believe this is my first camping trip.
Dan: Wait, what?
Moff: Are you serious?
Ian: Yeah, I've never been camping before.
Dan: Oh my god...
Moff: (laughing) Well, you kind of...jumped into the deep end.
Dan: Yeah, this isn't exactly beginner camping...wow...I'm not saying we wouldn't have invited you if I'd known that, but I definitely would have been more concerned.
This isn't entirely included for humblebrag purposes; if anything, I think it's the best indication of how distant my personal experience to date was from what we were doing. I didn't even know the level of the undertaking, hadn't thought about it when agreeing to come along, and had readied a pack and supplies without considering the implications of each completely new item. And I hadn't even thought to mention my inexperience. After their shock wore off (though the topic came up on the trail that day and the next), Dan and Moff said some very kind words about how I'd not slowed them down or blinked at any aspect of the trip so far. It was especially reassuring to hear after the previous day's hike and their support of my physical workarounds.
After a sufficient time with the view, we scrambled up and down hills back down our campsite and decided to set up camp. After the tent was up, we had some time before the hike, so I introduced the guys to Coup and we played a few rounds with the tent flaps down and a lovely breeze.
Finally, it was time to tackle the trail to Deertrap Mountain, which meant initially traversing ground similar to the prior morning's hike, only with considerably clearer views.
Just as we had traded in fleeces and rain jackets for short sleeves and ball caps, the flora and fauna on either side of the trail showed a new side just a day after snow cover, with flowers blooming and ants teeming over frighteningly large anthills.
After spending the better part of an hour walking, we found the first overlook of the trail and what I think might be my favorite view of the entire trip (and currently the backdrop of this blog).
Some of the later overlooks were incredible as well, but something about the towering white mesa and the endless landscape beyond sucked the air from my lungs. It was the view I didn't know I'd made the entire trip to see.
Still, there was plenty of trail left and we'd catch it again on the way back, so we soldiered on. The next stretch of trail rolled away from the overlook and down into a sprawling field of low trees before heading up into another tree-topped mesa.
Unlike Cable Mountain, we could tell as the path continued that we were in for a helluva view. The ragged canyon edges peeked around the nearest cliffs and trees as we followed the path over the mesa and down a tricky patch of loose rocks. Finally, there was one last low field between us and the canyon rim.
The landscape grew more and more colorful as we continued, the hues leaching from one level to the next over unobservable millennia. To our left was the wild, broken country with toothy crags and vast spaces hidden between one ridge and the next; to the right, the canyon proper gaped beneath us, with the opposite walls standing tall and bare.
The path finally reached the rim and though we knew our ultimate destination would be the outermost pinnacle, we could not help but stop every hundred feet and marvel at the space carved out just beside our path and the small shimmer of a river below that had done all of the work.
We were eager to relax and maybe play some cards, but exposed to the wind as we were, even our hats were at risk, so we stood and returned up the ruddy trail. It wasn't long before we found a sheltering tree with a perfect log and a still spectacular view, so we parked it once more and pulled out the cards for a poker game at the edge of the world.
After a nice long break, we set off again. I have only a few pictures or memories from the way back, which I attribute to a few things. One, my camera began to die. Two, my knee and my ankles had not appreciated the trail out to the point, especially the rocky descents which were now to be rocky ascents. But most importantly, the trail back to camp on Sunday was the point when I began to worry about water again. It's hard to imagine, given that we'd pushed ourselves to the limit the previous day to do a complete refill, but I was already reaching the end of my personal 3L bladder. I'm sure I hit the pack a little too hard once we got the all clear on the prior day's return and Sunday was no doubt the hottest full day we had to contend with, with the sun beating down throughout and me sweating even in the shade. In any case, I was nearly tapped and, though I was embarrassed to admit it, I had to tell the guys; my water was their water too.
As with the limitations of my knee, Moff and Dan took the information in stride and once again adjusted. We discussed what we had left across all of our supplies. Most of the water bottles were already gone from the night before, the morning recamp, and the hike to Deertrap, but because of that, Moff and Dan had the better part of their bladders. And there was still the safety sac, another 1.5L. We wouldn't have trouble making it out of the park, thankfully, as we could easily assign a liter for each of us, below which the guys saw as the red zone. We could have dinner and breakfast without boiling water, if needed, so we would only need to think about our rehydration needs. There were, however, additional hikes to think of. Moffet had already questioned the wisdom of a sunset hike back to Cable Mountain, citing the difficulty of making the few miles back to camp in the dark. Sunrise, however, was still in play, and we agreed to see where we were at the end of the day with our water supply before tossing that idea out in order to make it back to the car.
As a result of those three issues, I felt a little miserable on the return hike. A few short hours before, I'd felt like the accomplished rookie, but now I felt a small amount of shame about having blown through my own stores so quickly and no small amount of concern about how to balance the desire to conserve and not make the problem worse against the reality of needing water...a basic human requirement I had never had to consider so directly. I stayed quiet most of the way back, retreating into my head and my thoughts so as to distance myself from the situation and pay as little attention as possible to the seemingly endless steps between us and our goal. I knew we'd get there eventually.
My spirits returned when we reached the fork of Deertrap and Cable and while I couldn't match the previous days sense of victory, I nonetheless trudged into camp deeply satisfied. I could finally rest, expend less energy, drink less water. The afternoon sun fought through the trees above us, but there was enough shade on the three circled logs for us to sit and relax. I stared out at the far-off mountain ranges and drank slowly from an extra filter bag Moff had generously passed to me after my bladder finally ran dry.
I believe we all passed out for a nap in the tent again, unless I'm thinking of one we took before the hike, but in any case, we killed a few hours and then decided on a water-less dinner of whatever was at hand, which meant peanut butter for Moffet and canned tuna for Dan and me. While it was probably not totally necessary and was definitely a bit gross, I made sure to consume both the tuna and the water in the can.
The sun began to set and we all sat on our logs watching it. It was our last sunset in the park and, in some ways, our first. Friday had been overcast and Saturday, while clearer, ended with our attention focused on getting back to camp with our water. It was nice to have something to appreciate and the ability to appreciate it at the same time.
I also appreciated Moff's thinking on the sunset hike, as it was nice to be able to enjoy the view and then simply retire to the tent without a long, dark walk back. We still wanted to catch some stars on our first clear night, so we played a few dozen games of Coup by headlamps, stopping frequently to check if the night had grown dark enough. Once it finally had, we emerged and returned to our log circle. As in any place removed from light pollution, the stars were legion, with familiar constellations blurring into a hazy glow from the hundreds of smaller stars in between. We did our best to call out recognizable shapes, but as with the drive out to the park, the hike down to water on Saturday, and the afternoon's time on the canyon ridge, we were mostly left with stunned exclamations, our meager contribution to the very lively chorus in the trees around us.
And as with those previous sights, I felt extremely but pleasantly small.
No comments:
Post a Comment