I discovered by happenstance just a few days before leaving that one needs a back country camping permit for most places in the Indian Peaks Wilderness. The Forest Service website wasn’t very encouraging, saying they became available in January and went quickly. Uh oh. There was also no mention of any provision to get one other than by mail or in person. However when I called the Sulphur District Ranger Station in Granby, there were extremely helpful. They told me that my first target, Gourd Lake, was almost certainly ice free and they issued me a permit for the three nights I wanted to go over the phone. I just had to stop on the way through to the trailhead to collect it.
Monarch Lake Trailhead turned out to be a bit of a trip. You cross a huge dam on a dirt road. With no railing. Long way down. Vertigo. I wasn’t prepared for just how crowded and busy the accessible wilderness in Colorado is. It’s not a reason not to go as you can mostly work around it. But boy howdy a lot of people are doing a lot of things everywhere you go. The trailhead parking lot was huge and congested.
Things seem so effortless when you’re sitting on your ass daydreaming in Iowa. The reality is, my age starts with a 5, I’m not exactly a gazelle, and I’m in okay but fairly indifferent shape at this juncture. And Colorado is really high. Still, I charged out at a good pace. The thing I have going for me is a life of fairly extreme behaviour in the outdoors, often involving carrying 80-100 lb packs of rock long distances in single minded pursuit of my life’s work (fossil trilobites). So to a certain extent what I lack at any given point in, uh, physical preparation is offset by full knowledge of the depths of endurance-based outdoor misery and a reasonable ability to navigate them.
Which as it turns out came in handy.
The route headed up the Cataract Trail, then split off and really started to climb on the Buchanan trail, which heads up alongside Buchanan Creek toward Buchanan Pass. The first five miles I’d call “moderate” as they progress. There’s some decent elevation gain, but it’s not murder. But when you were in Iowa at 700 feet the morning previously, you feel it pretty good. I met a few people, mostly nice. I met a fitter than thou couple. You meet these just about anywhere you go in the mountains with well known trails. They’re inevitably middle aged, bony, with awesome light brand name kit, and the most expensive trekking poles. They always stop to size you up. The dude will say “Just keep on slogging and you’ll get there!” Ohhhhh, is that how it works? You know, Fitter Than Thou Dude, I did not actually ask. Then the wife will inevitably say “You’re a long way from the top.” Always. What is that even supposed to convey? I think maybe: “YOU’RE GONNA DIE UP THERE!” but I’m not sure. The trouble is, I’m always gasping for air when I have to deal with these people. So I just sort of spastically nod and smile until they leave me alone.
Then there’s the final two miles. Gourd Lake is north of the Buchanan trail, and not really that far as the crow flies. But it’s straight up, so the trail switchbacks endlessly. It’s still nasty and steep. I was doing okay as I started up. It was late, because I’d started in Fort Morgan and spent time at the fly shop on the way through Denver. But it was only about 5 pm. Plenty of time for two more miles and getting camp set up. Yup.
Well. So I hit a wall. Mostly I think an acclimation/altitude wall. My legs started to burn. After a while, stopping and sitting down didn’t stop them burning. I ran out of gas. Toward the top, progress was measured in maybe 100 foot intervals, followed by bent over stops to gasp. Wasn’t pretty. Used up all the reserves.
Eventually I stumbled out on top at 10,800 feet and started making my way toward the main lakeshore. Lots of snow banks. Lots of water. I trudged out like a zombie to find a bunch of dudes who turned out to be from Arkansas, with lots of tents and hammocks set up. Well, so much for solitude. They were really nice, though. Some of them were fly fishing. They hadn’t caught anything. They had seen two rises, total, they thought. They had seen two small cruising fish.
“You…” (pant pant) “have” (pant pant) “got to be” (pant, gasp, pant pant) “f-wording” (pant) “kidding me.” I said. But nope, they weren’t.
I staggered off and found a reasonably nice spot to get my tent up. The lake seemed lovely, but I wasn’t in any condition to appreciate it. As soon as I had everything organized it was nearly dark. I was too tired to eat, just got in my sleeping bag and went aaaaaaaaahhhh.
Sadly, I can’t sleep on bloody sleeping pads. I’m a side sleeper, and my nights consist of sleeping on one side until pain in my hip wakes me up. Switch sides. Repeat. All night. This had never gotten better and I’ve never been able to find any solution on forums (though there’s lots of discussion about it) aside from “switch to a hammock.” But still. At least I was no longer dragging my ass up a mountain. That part was good.
