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mellymellWe woke up early, still very cold, and got ready for an all day hike. We were going to head up to the Arapaho Glacier Overlook. I was aware that the trail was 12 miles when we started (6 miles one way). I was not aware of the elevation change nor my own ability (or inability as the case may be) to handle such a hike at the time.
We started out at about 9am or so. I figured even if it was a hard hike, we'd have all day to get it done, so we could take our time, and not hurt ourselves. The first couple of miles affirmed this. We covered them slowly, but steadily, and were able to keep pace and conversation without exhausting ourselves.
We saw all sorts of birds and several squirrels and chipmunks. The joke while we were there was "you're a northern reticulated chipmunk aren't you, yes you are you're so reticulated" [from the "You only move twice" episode of the Simpsons]. Of course there were more wildflowers as well. And the sky was so clear that day! As the few people we passed on the trail mentioned, "a beautiful day for a hike in the tundra".
I noticed something interesting about the aspen spruce the day before. They start out, sprawling in all directions more like undergrowth, and then start to grow upwards. Seems they reach their girth very quickly in life, then just grow upward for the most part.
I was still doing well, energy, muscle and breathing wise, after we finally rose above the tree line. The trail was nicely switched backed and very well engineered throughout. But we quickly realized, "crap, we forgot sunscreen!!" All the preparations for being the desert later in the trip and we forgot to put on sunscreen for an all day hike above the treeline on a sunny Colorado day. We also forgot to bring any aloe at all on the trip. The sunscreen was just left back at the campsite.
As we exited the treeline, we saw the Boulder City Watershed, their municipal water supply, which incidentally is fed by glacial waters. The watershed consists of Frozen Lake, the Triple Lakes (behind me) and I think a couple of other lakes, as well as thousands of acres of reserved land to help keep it clean and untouched (other than the equipment to purify and transport it). Look how clear that water is (that's a zoomed in shot from probably a couple thousand feet higher than the lake, but you could see it that clearly with your naked eye).
By that point, we had only hiked about 2.5-3 miles, and still a rather long way to go. The flowers in the mountain meadows were completely different than the ones we had seen all along. I think I got pics of nearly every new variety I saw as I spotted them.
Turning the other way and moving further along the trail, we could see the Rainbow Lakes that we had hiked to the day before. It's neat seeing things from another perspective like that and then realizing you're walking on what you were looking at the day before. Another neat feeling was stopping at the glacier we were looking up at from the lakes the day before. We ate a snack there and rested a bit, since the climb around that peak was the first strenuous hiking we encountered.
From there, it only got more strenuous. Climbs got steeper and more rugged, but the trail was still fairly well engineered. And of course we were quite a bit higher at this point, so once in a while, I'd get a headache. I made sure to keep steadily drinking water and if I felt I needed food, stopping to eat something (we had lots of dried fruit with us, bananas and apples, some homemade jerky and some Clif bars).
All those pictures that just like rock formations (starting here and ending here) actually have something else in them. There were these birds, I think some sort of quail, just cooing all around. They were pretty docile, letting Chris get pretty close to them on occasion. We could easily see them as they moved, but in the pictures, they blend right in with the rocks. It took us a minute to figure out what all the rock pictures were when we went over them again, taking out fuzzies.
While he took pictures of them, I took the time to rest some more, finding a slightly flat rock to lay myself out on. The hike was really starting to take a toll on me at this point. We had taken such a long time to get to where we were, and still had about 2 miles to the overlook. The further we went, the slower we got and the tougher the trail. But we kept going, and stopped as we met up again with a guy who had passed us further down the trail. He was on his way back down and explained there was still about a mile and a half to go to the top. The sun was starting to drop, so we moved on, trying to make a day of it.
Somewhere with about 3/4 of a mile left to go, I looked up, saw Chris far ahead of me, and suddenly broke down. I was exhausted, yes, but my muscles weren't aching and I could breathe just fine. For some reason, my mind was telling me I couldn't do it, and that I'd be left there alone, having come all this way and still not see the glacier. I couldn't explain it. Nothing seemed to be wrong, but everything seemed to be wrong at the same time. I dropped my backpack and started balling. I took off my jacket and stuffed it in my pack, picked it up and kept going, hiking through tears. I'd never broken myself mentally on a hike before. I thought I had been taking care of myself through the hike, trying to eat enough food, drink enough water, rest and take it slow when I felt I needed to. But something between exhaustion, not enough calories, not enough water and the altitude just snapped something in my head. Finally, and very slowly, I arrived at the Glacier Overlook in tears (I told Chris to delete that pic, but what are ya gonna do?).
Chris felt really bad for leaving me behind, but when we had stopped before, I seemed fine. Exhausted, irritated and ready to turn around yes, but otherwise fine. In retrospect, had we stopped at 10 miles, I probably would have been fine. But we also would have hiked all the way up, within a mile of the glacier, and given up and not gotten to see it. I wish I could have enjoyed the view more while I was there. Chris was even so exhausted, he didn't get many pictures of it. But several days later, I was finally able to say it was worth all the pain and exhaustion (this is after the muscles stopped aching and the sunburn started to heal).
The worst part was still to come though. We still had a six mile hike back down. We started out pretty quick, pretty much maintaining a 2 mph pace (in comparison with about a .5-.25 mph pace on the way up in most spots). There was a dark cloud rising over the North Arapaho peak that we were worried to get caught in above the treeline (lightning at 12,000 ft when you're pretty much the tallest thing around is never good). The sun was also on it's way down, and we certainly didn't want to get caught in the rain after sundown.
I was doing ok and had recovered from the mental breakdown, though I was still plodding along completely exhausted, making clumsy steps (I'm surprised I didn't seriously injure myself). Chris and I started to notice both of our faces were starting to get really red. It was cold enough we both wore long sleeves, but our faces and necks were completely exposed the entire time. I had almost convinced myself it was mostly windburn. I'm pretty sure I was wrong, judging from the blisters that arose the following day.
As the sun headed down further, the lighting completely changed on the mountains and valleys we had hiked through on the way up. Shadows cast interestingly behind and before illuminated hills and meadows and lakes. Chris took several of the same pictures on the way back down, but in completely different light, they almost look like different things. One of my favorites is this one of Frozen Lake. If you look at the full sized image, you can see the reflection of the snow and mountain in the water, as well as the waterfall that flows from it. We can thank the dark cloud for the light/shadow play on that one. We luckily skirted around the cloud and never got a drop.
As Chris snapped pictures, I kept going, steadily toward the treeline. Once we got there, I felt like we were on the home stretch. But, instead, that's where the real pain started. The hike down through the treeline was more of a descent than I remembered on the way up. Funny how when you're fresh and ready for a full day of hiking, things don't seem nearly as bad as when you're coming back through at the end, exhausted.
We both thought that last two miles would never end. At every switchback, we were convinced it was the last one. At every turn, we just knew we'd see the trailhead sign ahead. It seemingly never came. Chris only took two pictures on the way down (the two with the hazy, purplish-blue sky and the edge of the aspen in the foreground). Our joints were aching from steady downhill on rocky terrain. My hips were starting to ache even.
As well pulled into the last mile, we officially dubbed it a death march, so far comparable only to the Fiery Gizzard/Dog Hole trail in the South Cumberland Recreational Area. Chris and I had a conversation a few days prior about how the last mile is always the hardest, and at the time I disagreed. I usually get a profound second (or third, or fourth. . . ) wind when I know I'm nearly finished and can fly through the last mile. This time, it was all I could do to lift my foot to take the next step. Once we finally reached the trailhead, I told him I finally agreed, the last mile is the hardest!
I think the hardest part was making it from the restroom, where I stopped off first, to the campsite. Chris threw together a couple of chicken salad wraps for us for dinner and stands by his opinion that it was the hardest meal he's ever cooked. Unfortunately, we arrived at our temporary home to see our neighbors had packed up and left during the day and a rowdy looking family with a dirt bike and a camper had pulled into their place. Luckily they weren't too loud around their fire that night and passed out early. We passed out as soon as we finished our dinner! Crawling into the tent as dusk's light still shone its light made me feel very defeated for some reason.
The last four pictures in the folder were taken the following morning as our new rowdy neighbors' son rode around the parking lot on the dirt bike. Meanwhile, the neighbor to our opposite side had pulled up sometime in the night and just thrown a sleeping bag out to crash (no tent, just a bag). I felt bad for him as we left. With redneck kids running around on dirt bikes and shooting bb guns, who in the hell could get any sleep? They were even rude to us as we waved at them pulling out of the campsite to leave (just sort of ignored us).
We started out at about 9am or so. I figured even if it was a hard hike, we'd have all day to get it done, so we could take our time, and not hurt ourselves. The first couple of miles affirmed this. We covered them slowly, but steadily, and were able to keep pace and conversation without exhausting ourselves.
We saw all sorts of birds and several squirrels and chipmunks. The joke while we were there was "you're a northern reticulated chipmunk aren't you, yes you are you're so reticulated" [from the "You only move twice" episode of the Simpsons]. Of course there were more wildflowers as well. And the sky was so clear that day! As the few people we passed on the trail mentioned, "a beautiful day for a hike in the tundra".
I noticed something interesting about the aspen spruce the day before. They start out, sprawling in all directions more like undergrowth, and then start to grow upwards. Seems they reach their girth very quickly in life, then just grow upward for the most part.
I was still doing well, energy, muscle and breathing wise, after we finally rose above the tree line. The trail was nicely switched backed and very well engineered throughout. But we quickly realized, "crap, we forgot sunscreen!!" All the preparations for being the desert later in the trip and we forgot to put on sunscreen for an all day hike above the treeline on a sunny Colorado day. We also forgot to bring any aloe at all on the trip. The sunscreen was just left back at the campsite.
As we exited the treeline, we saw the Boulder City Watershed, their municipal water supply, which incidentally is fed by glacial waters. The watershed consists of Frozen Lake, the Triple Lakes (behind me) and I think a couple of other lakes, as well as thousands of acres of reserved land to help keep it clean and untouched (other than the equipment to purify and transport it). Look how clear that water is (that's a zoomed in shot from probably a couple thousand feet higher than the lake, but you could see it that clearly with your naked eye).
By that point, we had only hiked about 2.5-3 miles, and still a rather long way to go. The flowers in the mountain meadows were completely different than the ones we had seen all along. I think I got pics of nearly every new variety I saw as I spotted them.
Turning the other way and moving further along the trail, we could see the Rainbow Lakes that we had hiked to the day before. It's neat seeing things from another perspective like that and then realizing you're walking on what you were looking at the day before. Another neat feeling was stopping at the glacier we were looking up at from the lakes the day before. We ate a snack there and rested a bit, since the climb around that peak was the first strenuous hiking we encountered.
From there, it only got more strenuous. Climbs got steeper and more rugged, but the trail was still fairly well engineered. And of course we were quite a bit higher at this point, so once in a while, I'd get a headache. I made sure to keep steadily drinking water and if I felt I needed food, stopping to eat something (we had lots of dried fruit with us, bananas and apples, some homemade jerky and some Clif bars).
All those pictures that just like rock formations (starting here and ending here) actually have something else in them. There were these birds, I think some sort of quail, just cooing all around. They were pretty docile, letting Chris get pretty close to them on occasion. We could easily see them as they moved, but in the pictures, they blend right in with the rocks. It took us a minute to figure out what all the rock pictures were when we went over them again, taking out fuzzies.
While he took pictures of them, I took the time to rest some more, finding a slightly flat rock to lay myself out on. The hike was really starting to take a toll on me at this point. We had taken such a long time to get to where we were, and still had about 2 miles to the overlook. The further we went, the slower we got and the tougher the trail. But we kept going, and stopped as we met up again with a guy who had passed us further down the trail. He was on his way back down and explained there was still about a mile and a half to go to the top. The sun was starting to drop, so we moved on, trying to make a day of it.
Somewhere with about 3/4 of a mile left to go, I looked up, saw Chris far ahead of me, and suddenly broke down. I was exhausted, yes, but my muscles weren't aching and I could breathe just fine. For some reason, my mind was telling me I couldn't do it, and that I'd be left there alone, having come all this way and still not see the glacier. I couldn't explain it. Nothing seemed to be wrong, but everything seemed to be wrong at the same time. I dropped my backpack and started balling. I took off my jacket and stuffed it in my pack, picked it up and kept going, hiking through tears. I'd never broken myself mentally on a hike before. I thought I had been taking care of myself through the hike, trying to eat enough food, drink enough water, rest and take it slow when I felt I needed to. But something between exhaustion, not enough calories, not enough water and the altitude just snapped something in my head. Finally, and very slowly, I arrived at the Glacier Overlook in tears (I told Chris to delete that pic, but what are ya gonna do?).
Chris felt really bad for leaving me behind, but when we had stopped before, I seemed fine. Exhausted, irritated and ready to turn around yes, but otherwise fine. In retrospect, had we stopped at 10 miles, I probably would have been fine. But we also would have hiked all the way up, within a mile of the glacier, and given up and not gotten to see it. I wish I could have enjoyed the view more while I was there. Chris was even so exhausted, he didn't get many pictures of it. But several days later, I was finally able to say it was worth all the pain and exhaustion (this is after the muscles stopped aching and the sunburn started to heal).
The worst part was still to come though. We still had a six mile hike back down. We started out pretty quick, pretty much maintaining a 2 mph pace (in comparison with about a .5-.25 mph pace on the way up in most spots). There was a dark cloud rising over the North Arapaho peak that we were worried to get caught in above the treeline (lightning at 12,000 ft when you're pretty much the tallest thing around is never good). The sun was also on it's way down, and we certainly didn't want to get caught in the rain after sundown.
I was doing ok and had recovered from the mental breakdown, though I was still plodding along completely exhausted, making clumsy steps (I'm surprised I didn't seriously injure myself). Chris and I started to notice both of our faces were starting to get really red. It was cold enough we both wore long sleeves, but our faces and necks were completely exposed the entire time. I had almost convinced myself it was mostly windburn. I'm pretty sure I was wrong, judging from the blisters that arose the following day.
As the sun headed down further, the lighting completely changed on the mountains and valleys we had hiked through on the way up. Shadows cast interestingly behind and before illuminated hills and meadows and lakes. Chris took several of the same pictures on the way back down, but in completely different light, they almost look like different things. One of my favorites is this one of Frozen Lake. If you look at the full sized image, you can see the reflection of the snow and mountain in the water, as well as the waterfall that flows from it. We can thank the dark cloud for the light/shadow play on that one. We luckily skirted around the cloud and never got a drop.
As Chris snapped pictures, I kept going, steadily toward the treeline. Once we got there, I felt like we were on the home stretch. But, instead, that's where the real pain started. The hike down through the treeline was more of a descent than I remembered on the way up. Funny how when you're fresh and ready for a full day of hiking, things don't seem nearly as bad as when you're coming back through at the end, exhausted.
We both thought that last two miles would never end. At every switchback, we were convinced it was the last one. At every turn, we just knew we'd see the trailhead sign ahead. It seemingly never came. Chris only took two pictures on the way down (the two with the hazy, purplish-blue sky and the edge of the aspen in the foreground). Our joints were aching from steady downhill on rocky terrain. My hips were starting to ache even.
As well pulled into the last mile, we officially dubbed it a death march, so far comparable only to the Fiery Gizzard/Dog Hole trail in the South Cumberland Recreational Area. Chris and I had a conversation a few days prior about how the last mile is always the hardest, and at the time I disagreed. I usually get a profound second (or third, or fourth. . . ) wind when I know I'm nearly finished and can fly through the last mile. This time, it was all I could do to lift my foot to take the next step. Once we finally reached the trailhead, I told him I finally agreed, the last mile is the hardest!
I think the hardest part was making it from the restroom, where I stopped off first, to the campsite. Chris threw together a couple of chicken salad wraps for us for dinner and stands by his opinion that it was the hardest meal he's ever cooked. Unfortunately, we arrived at our temporary home to see our neighbors had packed up and left during the day and a rowdy looking family with a dirt bike and a camper had pulled into their place. Luckily they weren't too loud around their fire that night and passed out early. We passed out as soon as we finished our dinner! Crawling into the tent as dusk's light still shone its light made me feel very defeated for some reason.
The last four pictures in the folder were taken the following morning as our new rowdy neighbors' son rode around the parking lot on the dirt bike. Meanwhile, the neighbor to our opposite side had pulled up sometime in the night and just thrown a sleeping bag out to crash (no tent, just a bag). I felt bad for him as we left. With redneck kids running around on dirt bikes and shooting bb guns, who in the hell could get any sleep? They were even rude to us as we waved at them pulling out of the campsite to leave (just sort of ignored us).