One of the most important things I discovered the more I traveled, is how much I absolutely love and appreciate...home. Sure the thrill of the riding in a tuk tuk through Bangkok's exhaust filled marketplaces and food stalls is...death defying. And hanging from a metal rung of a ladder nailed into a vertical cliff in the Italian Dolomites is...sweat provoking. And savoring a mouth-watering home grown Italian meal on the terraced steps of the Amalfi coast is...waist expanding. But there comes a point when even the hand-sized Thai spiders, smelly french cheese, and Dutch windmills are not enough to keep me away from my true love...mountains.
Ever since University in Nashville, cycling through Europe, and relocating to beachy Bermuda, I feel more like a tourist when I get the chance to go back to my home in little Louisville, Colorado. No...I do not wear gaudy white sneakers and walk around with a map in hand and camera around my neck. But I do have this sense of urgency and appreciation that unfortunately tends to fade when you live somewhere over a certain amount of time. As my trips home are now only a week here, or an excursion there, I maximize the most activity in a minimal amount of time. Hop aside Energizer bunny. There's a new rabbit in town, and she is going, going, going...
Unfortunately, my quaint childhood town was just voted the 2009 YAHOO Money Magazine's No. 1 city to live in the entire United States. I can hear the stampede of people flocking to invade my city right now. Current population...18,000. Future population...how many people live in California? While I disagree with the publicizing of my town, I must agree with YAHOO that Louisville really is the best place to live. Nestled near the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, yet still close enough for the fine dining, arts, and entertainment required by metro addicts, Louisville offers the cozy neighborhood feel juxtaposed to an adrenaline junkies' dream. 14,000 foot peaks to ski and climb (affectionately called fourteeners). Crisp, clear, glacier fed waters to kayak and paddle. Hundreds of local trails to run before work, at lunch, after work and as a bedtime snack. A work/life balance that allows you to be happy and full of energy at 40 years old (albeit with the knees of a 70 year old). And a subculture of people who's bikes cost more than their cars, who's sense of direction is "towards the mountains and away from the mountains," and who can drive 65 mph through 10 feet of snow over a mountain pass without flinching.
Single track biking, gorging on Mexican food, and shopping at Flatiron mall are important items on any CO bound itinerary, but not as crucial as ensuring you bag at least one peak while you are home. Dragging my hiking buddy out of retirement, and away from OLIs (Old Louisville Inn...the local pub), came just after packing the G.O.R.P. (good ole' raisins and peanuts) and just before grabbing the moleskin. Climbing mountains (and accidentally sliding down them) has been one of my dad's past times longer than he would like me to share. And besides the humor he provides (anyone who knows him understands that I am not referring to his jokes) through his clumsiness on the trail, he is quite the handy mountain man to have while in the back country. Sure, his ability to account for the declination when using a compass is boyscout worthy, but what's more impressive is his uncanny ability to tell you if a storm is about to hit. And they say that sliding down snowfields head first into rocks has no benefits...
With my human barometer in tow (literally), my dad and I hit the trail before the dew had time to melt. Opting for a "shorter" peak, we choose Mount Toll. Just 21 feet shy of the "thirteener" title, Toll can be seen from the front range as the triangle shaped pinnacle on the continental divide. The beginning of the trail boasts characteristics of your typical hike in the Rocky Mountains...tree lined dirt trail with roots, rocks, and little to no leaves on the ground. You put one foot in front of the other as you balance your way across the narrow bridges (some people call it what it is...a tree trunk) over the streams of gushing glacier water from the lake ahead. And if it's a good trail, you are able to quickly stretch your legs above treeline before you rip into your first bite of granola bar. As usual, we pass virtually no one except a few shaggy brown marmots (think beavers without the tail...and smaller teeth) and chirping pikas (think chipmunks with a longer tail...and the same sized teeth). Keeping within the pattern of Rocky Mountain summit trails, our foot friendly and soft dirt trail disappeared early, leaving us two harsher options on the way to the top...snow or rock. Or rocks with snow. Or snowy rocks.
With no trail to guide us, and my propensity to choose the most direct (and thus steepest) route, my dad quickly pulled in the reins and made sure we scouted our plan of accent. Good boy scout. For some people, the very idea of just walking to the top of the mountain is enough reason to grab the remote and pop some popcorn. Add the fact that you are usually scrambling across scree fields and sliding down ice fields...well, what sounds like adventure to one person may sound like insanity to another. Sharing a mutual hatred of scree (loose rocks and gravel that cause you to slide downhill and loose more elevation than you gain), we decided to stick to as many snow fields as was physically possible without ice axes, crampons, or sanity. At least I was looking forward to foot-skiing down them on the way back down. Using my hiking pole as a make-shift ice ax (you never know when you may need to self arrest!), we slowly made our way across the snow fields. Due to the aforementioned barometric "gift" he acquired sliding head first down his first snow field, my dad's mantra was "just six inches at a time...just six inches at a time..." I realized that day, there are a lot of "six inches" in a thirteen thousand foot climb.
As we scrambled ourselves closer to the summit, our snow sliding and scree skiing was joined by boulder hoping and rock climbing. Not always obeying the keep-three-points-of-contact-at-all-times climbing rule, we squatted, lunged, crawled, pulled, jumped, slid, scratched and lifted ourselves to the top of...the first false peak. One of my absolute hands-down favorite part of a climb is a false peak (please don't slip on the sarcasm as you scuttle up the rocks behind me). Wriggling over the perfect leg-eating sized boulder holes, we cleared the false peaks and made it to the summit of Mount Toll.
There are very few emotions in life that can match the thrill of summiting a peak. The crisp mountain air almost crackles as you gulp down the oxygen-less substance. The smells are cool, sweet, and almost alive as the scent of the peak wisps up your nose. The views are a dizzying never-ending panorama with no beginning and no end. In front of you, in what seems like a far away land, you can see where your journey began. To your left you can see mountains stretching for miles and miles, whispering to you to come climb them next. Behind you, the land creases and unfolds with lakes and valleys and ominous black clouds. And to your right you see couloirs of snow fields, rocks, jagged peaks....and...wait a minute. Go back. What what that behind you? Sharp vertical stripes shooting out of those dark clouds? Moisture in the air? Winds starting to cut through your concentration? Time to grab my fatherly barometer and hope that he hikes down faster than he climbs up!
Dorothy was right. There really is no place like home...
Kristyn
No comments:
Post a Comment