“It’s not an adventure until something goes wrong.” — Yvon Chouinard
Doesn’t it seem like January is calibrated for everything to pile on? It’s dark and cold, the roads are icy, and if you make any plans, the weather will likely throw a wrench in them. My friend and I made a simple plan for a fat bike weekend in Leadville, but then several feet of snow fell in the central Colorado mountains — nixing the likelihood of nicely packed bike trails — and her partner had to start a new job, and then he got sick, and then a plow truck slammed into his parked vehicle and totaled it. My friend felt she couldn’t escape from beneath the growing pile of problems.
I decided to travel out to Leadville anyway, call it a training weekend, bring my new gear to test in more rugged conditions, and leave my bike at home. I was excited about this pivot. While I looked forward to spending time with my friend, I love a good solo trip. I don’t have to worry about anyone else’s whims. I can do whatever I want.
Solo weekends away also mean I can make all of the decisions, which doesn’t always prove to be a positive thing. The conditions around Leadville held several challenges. The previous week’s feet of new snow had created dangerous avalanche conditions across the state. The Sawatch Mountains and the Mosquito Range were still under an avalanche warning, although the forecast had recently been downgraded from high (4/5) to considerable (3/5.) Still well above my pay grade. I thought, “It’s easy to stay out of avalanche terrain in Leadville. I’ll just stick to Mineral Belt and the CMC trails. It’s better for training anyway. I’ll be able to run on the groomers where the conditions will more closely mimic the White Mountains 100.”
But then, out of curiosity, I spent a half hour scrutinizing CalTopo’s gradient map and assessing the potential danger of any slope I could possibly find myself near and across any trail I could possibly traverse. As it turned out, the East Mining District was fairly safe — those slopes feel super steep when I’m slogging up them but for the most part stay within that gentle 20% range.
“I can do a little exploring,” I thought.
Several appointments kept me in Boulder for most of Friday morning, and by the time I headed west, I was stuck in the typical #I70things heinous ski traffic that always reminds me why I should just stay home until May. I hit the trail straight from the car at 2:30 p.m., thinking, “Two hours will be good if I do my long run tomorrow.” I strapped my new lightweight snowshoes to the summer trail shoes I had driven in (“It’s 36 degrees. It’s warm.”) Then I cued up an audiobook titled “Where You'll Find Me: Risk, Decisions, and the Last Climb of Kate Matrosova” — which is a thorough exploration of the decisions of experienced hiker who died of exposure in a terrible storm in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Then I set out up the hill.
I was able to jog for the first two miles. As I climbed, the snow softened into a grainy mush of snowmobile churn. The mashed potato-like surface sucked the power from my legs as the thin air sucked the oxygen from my blood. I relented to hiking, then hiking slowly, and then punching deep holes over a single snowmobile track that veered off toward Ball Mountain. Somehow the sun was already settling over the Sawatch Mountains across the valley, and I was still climbing above 12,000 feet. This was not a run and this was not the training I had planned at all. But it was such a gorgeous afternoon. A thick patchwork of silver clouds draped over a cerulean sky as filtered sunlight cast spotlights on the snow.
As author Ty Gagne described Kate’s perilous climb into the impending storm, the narrow snowmobile track finally flipped a U-turn and I started down. Punching through deeper snow had soaked my shoes, and the temperature was plummeting rapidly at this altitude. Ice blocked my hydration hose, which I didn’t bother to protect, and I wasn’t carrying much food. Still, I thought I’d be fine looping down a steep snowmobile trail that drops into a gully rather than returning the way I came. “Just start running,” I thought, “then my feet won’t be cold.”
Even after I started down, running still couldn’t happen. The mashed-potato snow stole the strength from my legs even at a steep downhill grade, and I struggled to keep my balance. By the time I veered onto the Mineral Belt trail, twilight was fading and a chill was working its way into my core. Still, I was finding my stride and enjoying my book, so I tacked on three extra miles for a 14-mile, five-hour “run.”
I set out at 8 a.m. the following morning to loop around Turquoise Lake. This trail is popular with beginner snowmobilers. Even at its best, the trail surface is usually chewed up. I could only imagine how rugged it would be with all of the new snow and reported drifting of the previous week. Still, I had my trusty snowshoes. It was a beautiful morning — 5 degrees and mostly clear, a nice surprise when the forecast called for another cloudy, warm day.
Despite the colder morning temperatures, Turquoise Lake was a churned-up mashed potato morass. After a mile, I gave up on the dream of even jogging. Slow-paced slogging is something I do not need to practice, but at the same time I love the scenery around Turquoise Lake, so I promised myself it would be worth it.
At mile three, I noticed a particularly messy snowmobile track veering off toward Hagerman Pass. I have long been curious about Hagerman Pass in the winter. My observation of the CalTopo maps showed that the road grade traverses beneath a few steep slopes, but they’re mostly early in the traverse. It steers clear of the steeper gullies beneath the Continental Divide to the northwest, taking a long contour to the east. As soon as I saw that path, the justifications began: I haven’t seen a single sign of avalanches here yet. No cracking or whomping in the snowpack. The last snowfall was three days earlier. It’s been warm for a few days now. Trees dropped their snowloads and sent curling snowballs rolling down the slope, but none of these triggered anything larger. And the snowmobiles had been here already.
I know these justifications mean nothing. Avalanches can happen even amid safe-seeming conditions, and without the necessary expertise and equipment, it’s best just to avoid avalanche terrain altogether. Especially if you are alone. Believe me, I know, I don’t need a lecture.
But it wasn’t a lot of avalanche terrain.
For the first mile of Hagerman Pass Road, several snowmobiles waged a violent battle with the deep, crusty snow. The trail was an unwalkable mess. I tried trail-breaking in my lightweight snowshoes, which wasn’t as bad as I expected but only afforded a pace of just under 1.5 mph. Just as I was about to give up, I passed an abandoned machine in the middle of the trail. A few yards past this, another machine had turned around. The trail beyond was a beautiful, smooth skin track. One or more skiers had dragged a sled along this road sometime recently, although it wasn’t today or possibly even yesterday, given the windblown state of the track. Still … I was consumed with curiosity.
While following the tough but beautiful track, I passed the steep gradients I’d seen on CalTopo. For the most part, they were cliffs above short snow slopes. The terrain above treeline was wind-scoured and bare. Any slide here would most likely be small and probably wouldn’t even reach the road grade. Plus, the skiers had been here. And they hadn’t triggered any avalanches. I was brimming with confidence (unearned, I know.)
The day began to heat up. I had no idea where these skiers were going, but I could see it was somewhere beautiful and I just couldn’t leave it alone. Onward I trudged. Three miles out of my way. Four. Five. The road grade steepened again. I stopped and admonished myself. But I kept going.
Six miles. High into a thick forest of snow-encrusted ghost trees. On this ridge, where I was finally clear of remote avalanche danger, I felt spooked by the depth of the snow. A few times, I stumbled out of the track and plunged into a waist-deep plume. It was difficult to climb out of these missteps. I know, I know, this is why skis are a required piece of gear in the mountain backcountry. But I’m not a skier. I’m an unskilled beginner with an aversion to gravity. There’s no way I could descend this terrain in skis without severe consequences. Which is why I’m not supposed to be here. And still, I needed to know — how far did this track go?
6.5 miles out of my way — 9.5 miles total, at an elevation of 11,688 feet, the track finally came to an end. Of course, the destination is a hut! There was nobody inside. The trail-breaking skiers came and went, and I hadn’t seen a soul since I left the Turquoise Lake trailhead in the morning. Later, I learned this is the Skinner Hut, the second-highest alpine hut belonging to the 10th Mountain Division Hut Association.
As the group describes: “Because of steep terrain and possible avalanche danger, no route to the Skinner Hut is rated less than advanced. Indeed, more than one party has realized that the hut's name comes close to that of an essential piece of equipment for every route to the hut: climbing skins.”
Well. Okay then. I see.
I felt sheepish once I read about the hut from the safety of my hotel room. But in the moment, I was elated. What a great spot! And there was a bathroom, just when I was thinking I would be grateful for one. As I stomped toward the outhouse, I passed a hole in the snow that must have been deeper than I am tall. One of the skiers must have been walking around without their skis and they practically disappeared into the snowpack. There were signs of struggle and what looked like body prints from somebody else pulling them out. Seeing this hole made me feel sick to my stomach all over again. What if you fall into the deep snow when you’re alone? …
I skedaddled off the mountain as fast as I could, which was not fast and became slower as the warming trail sucked what was left of the strength from my legs. I never did see signs of avalanches, but discretion is the better part of valor. Why couldn’t I resist?
I breathed a sigh of relief as I crossed onto the churned-up snowmobile trail, but I was confused as to why I couldn’t see the trail I had broken for myself to avoid this mess. In a half mile, I came to another stuck and abandoned snowmobile. What is wrong with people?!? And I include myself in this statement.
After six and a half strenuous hours, I had covered 16 miles, and yet I was still only at mile three of my planned run. I had planned for 15 miles total and figured it would take five hours since I figured I’d be able to run at least some of it. And I wanted to pack relatively light, so I only took as much food and water as I thought I might need.
I took a sip from my water bladder, which I’d largely neglected amid the adrenaline and hard push toward Hagerman Pass.
“Well, I still have a fair amount of water. I can ration my food. (The food I started with was four bars and a small baggie of trail mix, which I figured was about 1,000-1,200 calories. What I had left at this point was two bars and a tiny amount of trail mix.)
Still, I came here to loop around Turquoise Lake! Dammit, I’m going to loop around Turquoise Lake.
You know where this is going. I slogged along in the deep mushy snow, buzzing with my discovery of Skinner Hut and the incredible views of this incredible day. After about a mile, the adrenaline wore off, but I had sunk the cost of that mile and I wasn’t about to turn around. I didn’t bother to do the math that if I turned around I’d have four miles to go, and if I didn’t, the distance would be 11. I’ve been around Turquoise Lake how many times? How do I still forget how long it is?
The rationing of my bars failed when I started to feel dizzy and decided, “I need glucose to keep from fainting.”
The excess of drinking water failed when my body remembered how thirsty it was after that long, hot climb and guzzled the rest of it greedily. The horrible calf cramps were not far behind.
The gorgeous scenery of Turquoise Lake failed when dull clouds filled the sky and twilight set in. It was still beautiful, but I was too miserable to care.
The sad tragedy of Kate Matrosova had long since concluded on my mP3 player. My conclusion was not the typical “that will never happen to me,” but “that exact thing could happen to me. I really need to make better decisions. If only so SAR volunteers don’t try to go out in 90-below windchills looking for me. If it’s the storm of the century and I’ve gone out in it, leave me to fend for myself. I deserve it.”
Darkness came. The shadows cast by my headlamp were circled by colorful halos that I decided must be hallucinations. The rest of the landscape was blurred. I stumbled drunkenly, cursing every snowmobile that tore up this trail and made it into a slippery, chunky morass I could barely walk at 2 mph. Because of course, it was their fault, not mine.
I cried out when cramps gripped my leg. But as the bonk deepened, I began to feel better. I embraced the dreamlike state — the fuzzy moon hanging overhead, the patchwork of stars and silver clouds, the brief views across the frozen lake, a lake that just kept going and going.
I became my most basic self — walking and watching. No thoughts. No fears. No misery or pain. I blinked in confusion at the occasional road signs. I looked through the frosted trees at the lights of Leadville below. I craned my neck and watched the sky.
I arrived at the empty parking lot 12 hours and 28 miles after I started. I sat on the ground beside my car for a long while, too exhausted to pull off my snowshoes. Finally in the driver’s seat, I rubbed my eyes and tried to make sense of the dashboard. “If I had any food in the car that would make this a lot easier.” But I had nothing. I wondered if it would be wise to make the drive to Leadville, which was five miles away.
Finally, I decided that the dream of a sandwich trumped road safety, and off I drove into the night.
The following morning, I took my cramped legs and raging dehydration headache to Mineral Belt to embark on the 12-mile training run I had planned all along. Just because I could.
It felt fantastic to move on packed snow at 5 mph. But, really, the entire weekend was fantastic. So many bad decisions. So many great memories.
I would change Chouinard's quote: "It's not a story until something goes wrong." Or "It's not a great story until something goes wrong because I did something stupid." But your column adds a new twist: "It's not a great story until I do something stupid, even if nothing really bad happens." Glad you survived your own stupidity!
Great writing and inspo as always Jill I finally figured out how to comment.