Advent begins on Sunday, December 1, marking the official beginning of the Christmas season, and thus marking the official (and only appropriate) time to listen to Christmas music.
Below is my completely objective and accurate listing of the best Christmas albums of all time.
10. Songs for Christmas (2006) by Sufjan Stevens. The Michigan singer-songwriter book-ends this list with his spectacular 50-song box set of Christmas standards and weird originals. Horns, guitars, out-of-tune pianos, and titles such as "Get Behind Me, Santa!" and "Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day? (Well, You Deserved It!)" make this a true Christmas top-tenner.
9. Holidays Rule (2012) by Various Artists. There was a time when Starbucks sold compact discs. You could walk into the local coffee shops in December and buy this outstanding compilation (I bought my copy at the Geneva Road and Schmale Starbucks in Wheaton). Calexico, Andrew Bird, and particularly Eleanor Friedbergers' "Santa, Bring My Baby Back (To Me)" are memorable.
8. A Jolly Christmas from Frank Sinatra (1957) by Frank Sinatra. Old Blue Eyes sings the standards with his timeless charm and style. Pour yourself a toddy and settle in by the fire.
7. White Christmas (1986) by Bing Crosby. For Eisenhower-era nostalgia, nothing beats Bing singing "White Christmas."
6. A Christmas Gift for You (1963) by Various Artists. Phil Spector produced this spectacular compilation of secular Christmas songs featuring Darlene Love, the Ronette's, and Spector's iconic wall-of-sound. Amazing.
5. Elvis' Christmas Album (1957) Elvis Presley. At the height of his popularity, Elvis released this exceptional Christmas compilation, giving some shake and rockabilly swivel to Christmas standards.
4. Christmas (1989) by Michael W. Smith. As the "Overture/Come All Ye Faithful" transitions into the quiet beauty of "Lux Venit," one forgets that this incredible Christmas album is orchestrated by a pop artist little known outside of Christian contemporary music circles. I'm usually blubbering by the time "All is Well" rallies for its resounding finale. Wonderful.
3. A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965) by the Vince Guaraldi Trio. Complex, iconic, and memorable even to those who can't make the association to Charlie Brown. Pianist Vince Guaraldi's brilliant album strikes all the right chords, from the child-like innocence of "Christmastime is Here" to the lovely cascades of "Skating."
2. A Very Special Christmas (1987) by Various Artists. I remember my older sister buying this album in late-fall, 1987. I had already fallen in love with U2, whose "Baby Please Come Home" provides a steady center, but soon fell in love with Run D.M.C.'s "Christmas in Hollis," perhaps the best Christmas rap of all time.
1. Silver and Gold (2012) by Sufjan Stevens. Breathtakingly beautiful, this stunning collection of nearly 60 songs is the gold standard of original Christmas music (supplemented by a smattering of traditional carols). This album has been a part of our Else Family Christmas Playlist for seven years. "Justice Delivers Its Death" is one of my favorite songs of all time, regardless of season or genre.
Bonus-Favorite Christmas Singles:
5. "River" by Kurt Elling. The jazz singer absolutely crushes this beautiful Joni Mitchell classic.
4. "Little Drummer Boy" by David Bowie and Bing Crosby. An unlikely duet resulting in an enthralling rendition of the classic.
3. "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" by Wizzard. Go ahead and look up this fascinating 1973 "hit" on YouTube. Don't be afraid.
2. "Do They Know It's Christmas" by Band Aid. This iconic Christmas hit has been playing steadily since its debut in 1984.
1. "Fairytale of New York" by Rostam. The former Vampire Weekend multi-instrumentalist covers The Pogues' unlikely Christmas classic with aplomb. You might want to preview this one before letting the kids listen in.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Reading List 2019
Metaxas, Eric. Martin Luther: The Man Who Rediscovered God and Changed the World. New York: Viking, 2017.
Keegan, John. The First World War. New York: Knopf, 1998.
Smith, James K.A. How (Not) To Be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014.
Ewan, Chris. The Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2007.
Faber, Michel. The Crimson Petal and the White. London: Canongate, 2002.
Waugh, Evelyn. Brideshead Revisited. New York: Little, Brown, and Co., 1944.
Vodolazkin, Eugene. Laurus. London: Oneworld, 2012.
Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de. The Little Prince. London: Harcourt, 1943.
Doerr, Anthony. All The Light We Cannot See. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2014.
Palahnuiuk, Chuck. Fight Club. New York: Holt & Co., 1996.
McManus, Erwin Raphael. The Last Arrow: Save Nothing for the Next Life. London: Penguin Random House, 2017.
Mak, Geert. Amsterdam: A Brief Life of the City. London: Random House, 1995.
Easton Ellis, Bret. White. New York: Knopf, 2019.
Camus, Albert. The Fall. New York: Vintage, 1956.
Camus, Albert. The Possessed. New York: Vintage, 1960.
Norwich, John Julian. France: A History from Gaul to DeGaulle. London: John Murray, 2018.
Coogan, Steve. I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan. London: HarperCollins, 2011.
Houellebecq, Michel. Lanzarote. London: Vintage, 2000.
Anderson, Brett. Coal Black Mornings. London: Little & Brown, 2018.
Palin, Michael. Erebus: The Story of a Ship. London: Arrow Books, 2018.
Larson, Erik. The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America. New York: Vintage, 2003.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Nausea. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1938.
White, Neil. Sanctuary of Outcasts: A Memoir. New York: Harper Collins, 2009.
Millard, Candice. Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President. New York: Random House, 2011.
Richards, Dan. Outpost: A Journey to the Wild Ends of the Earth. Edinburg: Canongate Books, 2019.
Zola, Emile. Le Débâcle. Trans. Leonard Tancock. London: Penguin, 1972.
Keegan, John. The First World War. New York: Knopf, 1998.
Smith, James K.A. How (Not) To Be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014.
Ewan, Chris. The Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam. New York: St. Martin's Press, 2007.
Faber, Michel. The Crimson Petal and the White. London: Canongate, 2002.
Waugh, Evelyn. Brideshead Revisited. New York: Little, Brown, and Co., 1944.
Vodolazkin, Eugene. Laurus. London: Oneworld, 2012.
Saint-Exupéry, Antoine de. The Little Prince. London: Harcourt, 1943.
Doerr, Anthony. All The Light We Cannot See. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2014.
Palahnuiuk, Chuck. Fight Club. New York: Holt & Co., 1996.
McManus, Erwin Raphael. The Last Arrow: Save Nothing for the Next Life. London: Penguin Random House, 2017.
Mak, Geert. Amsterdam: A Brief Life of the City. London: Random House, 1995.
Easton Ellis, Bret. White. New York: Knopf, 2019.
Camus, Albert. The Fall. New York: Vintage, 1956.
Camus, Albert. The Possessed. New York: Vintage, 1960.
Norwich, John Julian. France: A History from Gaul to DeGaulle. London: John Murray, 2018.
Coogan, Steve. I, Partridge: We Need to Talk About Alan. London: HarperCollins, 2011.
Houellebecq, Michel. Lanzarote. London: Vintage, 2000.
Anderson, Brett. Coal Black Mornings. London: Little & Brown, 2018.
Palin, Michael. Erebus: The Story of a Ship. London: Arrow Books, 2018.
Larson, Erik. The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America. New York: Vintage, 2003.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Nausea. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1938.
White, Neil. Sanctuary of Outcasts: A Memoir. New York: Harper Collins, 2009.
Millard, Candice. Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President. New York: Random House, 2011.
Richards, Dan. Outpost: A Journey to the Wild Ends of the Earth. Edinburg: Canongate Books, 2019.
Zola, Emile. Le Débâcle. Trans. Leonard Tancock. London: Penguin, 1972.
Friday, December 21, 2018
The Year in Music: 2018's Best
It is again that time of year to unveil my listing of the year's best music. Take a listen, and be sure to turn it up LOUD!
10. Songs of Experience by U2--For a bunch of 50-somethings, these guys are unbelievably prolific. If only for loyalty's sake, Bono, the Edge, Larry Mullen and Adam Clayton again make the list. There are some good songs, though it cannot be said that this is a deep or important album. We saw them live in Omaha in May, however, and they certainly still know how to put on a good show.
9. Hippo Lite by DRINKS--Okay...this is pretty weird stuff. I'm not sure why I like it so much. Tim Presley and Cate Le Bon are amazingly creative, and this neo-psych LP is ample proof.
8. Clean by Soccer Mommy--Women are doing amazing things in rock. Sophie Allison made one of the finest rock records of the year with Clean.
7. Cranberry by Hovvdy--Texans Will Taylor and Charlie Martin make lo-fi, laid-back, and simple songs that are perfect for autumn days in Iowa.
6. Lush by Snail Mail--Baltimore-based Snail Mail is built around singer-guitarist Lindsey Jordan. This is chilled-out/blissed-out guitar rock from classically-trained Jordan. The girl can play.
5. Freedom by Amen Dunes--Damon McMahon has a remarkable voice. His tight vibrato fits nicely with an electronic and bass-driven aesthetic. This is a dark, energetic, and rhythmic record.
4. Hope Downs by Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever--RBCF is assurance that guitar rock is still alive. This soft punk band from Australia rolled out one of the better albums in 2018 by following The War On Drugs formula of energy, melody, shimmering synths, and guitar licks.
3. The Horizon Just Laughed by Damien Jurado--Seattle's finest singer-songwriter (and perhaps the greatest of his generation) keeps pumping out remarkably thoughtful, intelligent, and melodic records.
2. Bottle It In by Kurt Vile--The long-haired slacker-rocker and master of psych-folk-Americana put out a long, meandering, gold-toned master work that gets more interesting with each listen. This is a wonderful album (and I'm taking the kids to see him live in Omaha in February...can't wait!).
1. Wide Awake! by The Parquet Courts--Intelligent punk, with elements of ska, world music, and rockabilly. They are a 21st-century American version of The Clash, though quite a bit weirder and even more political. Saw them at The Vic in Chicago last month...top three concert of all-time.
10. Songs of Experience by U2--For a bunch of 50-somethings, these guys are unbelievably prolific. If only for loyalty's sake, Bono, the Edge, Larry Mullen and Adam Clayton again make the list. There are some good songs, though it cannot be said that this is a deep or important album. We saw them live in Omaha in May, however, and they certainly still know how to put on a good show.
9. Hippo Lite by DRINKS--Okay...this is pretty weird stuff. I'm not sure why I like it so much. Tim Presley and Cate Le Bon are amazingly creative, and this neo-psych LP is ample proof.
8. Clean by Soccer Mommy--Women are doing amazing things in rock. Sophie Allison made one of the finest rock records of the year with Clean.
7. Cranberry by Hovvdy--Texans Will Taylor and Charlie Martin make lo-fi, laid-back, and simple songs that are perfect for autumn days in Iowa.
6. Lush by Snail Mail--Baltimore-based Snail Mail is built around singer-guitarist Lindsey Jordan. This is chilled-out/blissed-out guitar rock from classically-trained Jordan. The girl can play.
5. Freedom by Amen Dunes--Damon McMahon has a remarkable voice. His tight vibrato fits nicely with an electronic and bass-driven aesthetic. This is a dark, energetic, and rhythmic record.
4. Hope Downs by Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever--RBCF is assurance that guitar rock is still alive. This soft punk band from Australia rolled out one of the better albums in 2018 by following The War On Drugs formula of energy, melody, shimmering synths, and guitar licks.
3. The Horizon Just Laughed by Damien Jurado--Seattle's finest singer-songwriter (and perhaps the greatest of his generation) keeps pumping out remarkably thoughtful, intelligent, and melodic records.
2. Bottle It In by Kurt Vile--The long-haired slacker-rocker and master of psych-folk-Americana put out a long, meandering, gold-toned master work that gets more interesting with each listen. This is a wonderful album (and I'm taking the kids to see him live in Omaha in February...can't wait!).
1. Wide Awake! by The Parquet Courts--Intelligent punk, with elements of ska, world music, and rockabilly. They are a 21st-century American version of The Clash, though quite a bit weirder and even more political. Saw them at The Vic in Chicago last month...top three concert of all-time.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Silence & Solitude in the Sawatch 2018
Each year in the third week of September, I venture out to Colorado for several days in the backcountry of the Rocky Mountains. This is not a vacation. Rather, it is the discipline of engaging in intentional silence and solitude. In 1966, Timothy Leary encouraged those seeking higher consciousness to "tune in, turn on, and drop out." As a follower of Jesus Christ, I seek communion with God in a world that is too busy and too loud. Therefore, I find time to commune with God by tuning in to his Spirit, turning off all those things that bring noise into my life, and dropping out of my regular work routine (which, ironically, affords less time than one would think to engage in the practice of meditation, solitude, and silence). So, each September, I pack up my gear, Bible, and a journal and get lost in the mountains. What follows is a modest recounting of my adventures in the high country of central Colorado's Sawatch Range.
Sunday, September 16
It was a good day of worship. The church was packed. Discipleship hour started without anyone getting hurt. The complaints were modest. I had intended to spend the afternoon reading the Chicago Tribune, packing, resting, and engaging the kids in forced family fun in anticipation of leaving early Monday morning. Home from church, Julie encouraged me to leave that afternoon. I acquiesced. It has been a hard season, and I was ready to get out of town.
I loaded up the Escape with a lot of gear: tent, food, clothes, climbing gear, books, journal, pipe, and the necessary sundries that would get me through the week. I left Sioux Center at 1:30 p.m., arriving in Sioux City at 2:15 for a quick lunch at Qdoba. Leaving Sioux City, I hit I-29 south to Omaha, then I-80 west to Kearney. Arriving at the Kearney Marriott at 6:30 p.m., I checked in, grabbed some food, and settled into the hotel for the NFL (I don't know why I bother), The Goonies (what a wonderful, mindless movie), prayer, and sleep.
Monday, September 17
Woke. Breakfast. Ablutions. Departure. I was on I-80 again by 6:40 a.m. My soundtrack (both Sunday and Monday) was a Spotify playlist compiled specifically for this trip: Kurt Vile, The War on Drugs, Fleet Foxes, Damien Jurado, Amos Lee, Explosions in the Sky, et al. I stopped in North Platte for Starbucks, Sterling for gas, made the movement to complete silence at the Colorado border, stopped for a bathroom break in Denver, and then enjoyed a sublime drive through the front range west on I-70. Arriving in Dillon, I stopped at Jimmy John's for a quick lunch and final check-in with Jule and the kids. Taking I-70 west and then CO-91 south, I arrived in Leadville at 1:30 p.m. MST.
Leadville is no great shakes. The east side of town is depressed and depressing. It's glory days as a mining and, strangely, cultural mecca have long since passed. It tries to attain to a sort of Colorado-cool, but too much distance from I-70 and thus too-little tourist traffic leaves it a strange combination of mountain-town affluence and mountain-town blight. The east side of town is old and unkept. The west side of town is pleasant and upwardly mobile. Colorado highway 24 bisects these two halves with a main street containing nice restaurants aside boarded up shop-fronts. I hit the True Value for firewood and Gatorade, a couple of consignment stores, and a bookstore. Eager to get high, I made my way south to the area I hoped to make home for the next several days.
My plan was to find a dispersed camping site just to the west of the Mt. Elbert and Mt. Massive trailheads. The two trailheads are less than a mile apart from each other on Half Moon Road (Elbert's to the east and Massive's to the west) in the San Isabel National Forest, to the south and west of Leadville. The afternoon was lovely, the drive was easy, and the aspens were popping. I went about one half mile west of the Massive trailhead and, deciding the trusty Escape could go no further on the fire road, set up camp on a flat, elevated area just up an embankment from Elbert Creek. I parked and established camp.
The order of my back-country "home" is never quite as good as I would like. I'm amazed at my absurd perfectionist tendencies in such situations. Hold it loosely. Relax. Resigned, I finally made my way to the creek to have a soak. I wrote in my journal. "It is beautiful here, but it is not heaven. I long to see God face-to-face." Psalm 121: "I lift my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth." He made it spectacularly well.
By 6:30 p.m. camp was set-up, the moon was bright, and a fire was burning. I ate some soup, enjoyed the quiet, and considered my plan for the next day. The goal for Tuesday was Mt. Elbert, Colorado's highest peak at 14,433 feet. I anticipated it being a relatively easy climb, however knowing that "easy" fourteeners are never that. In bed by 9:00, I read, prayed, and finally went to sleep.
Tuesday, September 18
As usual, I slept pretty poorly. It was cold (37 degrees). I had a hard time settling in. At each watch of the night I was awake, praying, reciting Scripture, feeling anxiety in the need for elusive sleep. A brief note: my sleep issues are not the fault of my gear. I have an down REI sleeping bag that is rated to 20 degrees, a Big Agnes Air Core Ultra insulated sleeping pad that doesn't carry an R-value, but is according to the company (based in Steamboat Springs) comfortable in temps down to 15 degrees. My tent is a Mountain Hardwear Trango 3-person/4-season bomb shelter that is not ideal for solitary backpacking, but works when car-camping.
Awake at 3:30 a.m., I boiled water with my trusty JetBoil. Doing my best to stay within the warm confines of my bag while drinking coffee and eating oatmeal, I reviewed my map again. God willing, by mid-morning I would be standing on the top of Colorado.
I dressed (Garmont boots, Columbia pants, Patagonia base layer and puffy, gloves, skull cap), loaded up my pack (Black Diamond Axis 33 filled with 3L bladder, Mountain Hardwear shell, emergency gear, food), and set out for the Elbert TH.
At 4:30 a.m. I hit the North Elbert Trail, which doubles as the Colorado Trail/Continental Divide Trail. Expecting a gentle introduction, I was surprised to find the trail was steep and rocky. Despite the exertion, I was delighted: it was a cool, windless morning and I was alone, truly alone, in the Colorado wilderness. However difficult, the trail was spectacularly maintained and the scenery revealed by my headlamp was glorious. Watchful for bears and killer clowns, I settled into a groove in my mind: intermittent prayer, marvel at my surroundings, vigilance to danger, and attention to my bodily systems (heart, lungs, muscles, mind). My initial goal was the treeline...then the sunrise. The sky began to lighten by the time I hit the alpine tundra. The sun began to peak through at approximately 6:45. I stopped to take some pics, shed layers, eat food, and take off my headlamp. It was a glorious morning.
By 7:30 a.m. I hit the ridge line that would take me to the summit. The climbing was steady but not overwhelming. The trail was excellent. In the early alpenglow I marveled at God's good creation, gave thanks for the body and mind to enjoy it, and asked for strength to continue to the top. I summited at 8:00 a.m. I was alone. True joy.
At 14,433 feet it was cold and windy. I donned my shell and tried to settle in for a phone call, journal entry, food, and prayer. The conditions were not ideal for such exercises (save the latter). So, I explored the summit, delighted in the views, and sought to name the surrounding 14ers--La Plata to the south, Massive to the north, and Sherman to the east; far to the west I could make out the intimidating peaks of the Elks Range.
Cold, sunburned, and windblown, I began my descent at 8:15 a.m. There was a line of people ascending. I was glad to be working with gravity as each person I met seemed to be struggling up. Offering encouraging words, I maintained a brisk pace going down, stopping only occasionally to eat, take some pics, and make a new friend or two.
It was a long descent. My feet were hot, my quads tired, my face burned. The trail that was mostly hidden in the early morning darkness now appeared before me in full light. It was beautiful.
Back to the car by 11:00 a.m. I was shredded. 6 hours 30 minutes total time round trip. 3h30m up. 15m at the summit. 2h45m down. 9.6 miles. Relieved to be back to the safety of the car, I guzzled some Gatorade and set out west on Half Moon Road to find the North Half Moon TH, my departure point for Mt. Massive via its southwest slopes (my first choice in how to climb Massive on Wednesday). I made it about one mile down the road before it became crystal clear that my trusty 2WD Ford Escape was simply not going to get me close to the TH. Disappointed, I retreated to camp for food, a soak in the creek, and a nap.
I spent the rest of the evening determining a plan for the next day: do I hike 2 miles to the North Half Moon TH (for access to Massive's southwest slopes via the much shorter Half Moon Trail) or do I take the traditional and much longer Mount Massive Trail? I ate my spicy chicken curry by the fire, considering this question and many others. It was a rather delightful way to spend a windless, clear evening. A quick walk east to the Massive TH for a bit of reconnaissance and some reading/prayer in the hammock by the little sunlight remaining finished out a wonderful day. I was in bed by 9:00 p.m. for evening devotions, Richard Hays on 1 Corinthians, and some final map work. Lights out by 10:00 p.m.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
I slept reasonably well, despite colder temperatures in the night. I was awakened by a truck (which, I presume, was making its way to the North Half Moon TH) around 4:30 a.m. I laid there for quite some time...it was warm and cozy in my sleeping bag, and the air smelled much colder. At long last, still warmly ensconced in my bag, I got up to make coffee and oatmeal. The sky was brilliantly clear--the Milky Way shown softly high above. I donned my usual gear and set out for the Massive TH. The car temp showed 32 degrees. Chilly. And yes...I drove to the TH. Though a mere half mile away, I figured I would appreciate one full mile less when the day was done. Also, I needed to charge my iPhone.
I hit the trail at precisely 5:45 a.m., very glad that I did not start earlier for two reasons: 1) it was quite cold; and 2) my new Black Diamond headlamp was running out of batteries (I'd left extras uselessly in the tent). I had one hour of dark before the sun mercifully rose at 6:40 a.m. Thankfully, it was calm in the trees and the moonlight was a sufficient supplement to my weak light. Sleepy, cold, and insufficiently lit in the first half hour of the hike, I was uninspired by the terrain. While not terribly steep, it was simply not interesting. Thirty minutes in, however, everything changed. Walking north/northeast on the Colorado Trail/Continental Divide Trail, I found myself on a well-maintained trail in some of the prettiest forest I'd ever been. It was beautiful. Two stream crossings (South Willow Creek and Willow Creek) and 3.3 miles later, I was to the Mt. Massive Trail junction. It took me one hour to make this first leg of the journey. I knew it would get harder, but I was pleased with my pace and the increasingly beautiful terrain.
The joy continued west through the trees, into a lovely alpine meadow, and finally to the tree line at 11,680 feet. Then it got hard and the fun ended. After switchbacks to 12,100 feet, the long, slow slog up Massive's vast east slopes began. It was endless. 1.7 difficult miles later, I finally gained the saddle between South Massive and Mt. Massive at 13,920 feet. I took off my pack, found some rocks to hide behind, and settled in for a good rest and snack. I had 6.5 miles under my belt, most of it up, and I was tired. While cold, it remained relatively calm. Again the first person up the mountain, I watched a ridiculously fit trail runner make his way slowly up the way I had just come. It was surely in the low thirties with a chilling breeze, and this guy was dressed in shorts, trail runners, a tee-shirt, and baseball cap. He looked uncomfortable. We exchanged brief pleasantries as he approached the saddle. I was, in fact, very glad to see him as the trail at this point ended, leaving a "climber's trail" to the top. Route-finding, while not as difficult as Long's Peak, did not include Long's helpful bullseyes. Shedding a layer, I strapped on my pack and followed him up. He quickly showed that he was in a different league than me. He nearly levitated over the rocks in this high scramble. I found my way gingerly, doing my best to avoid cliffing out. A fall here would not produce death (like Long's), but it would produce a significant amount of pain and difficulty in getting back down again.
As I settled in for this final half mile of climbing, the fun returned in earnest. It was a blast scrambling up the rock in this wonderfully high place. It produced a wonderful high in me. The sun was out. The rocks were warming up. I was going up and gaining ground quickly. I hit the magnificent false summit at 14,260 feet, dropped a few vertical feet, and then climbed again to a glorious aerie on the summit of Mt. Massive at 14,421 feet, the second highest point in Colorado and the most magnificent summit I've yet encountered in the Rockies. Overjoyed and relieved, I took off my pack and settled onto a glorious perch. Remarkably, the wind had died completely. It was dead still. Clouds and sun decorated the sky and surrounding peaks in every direction: the ridgeline to Massive Green and North Massive (both 14ers in their own right) continuing on to the northwest; Holy Cross to the north; the Gore Range to the northeast (and what I thought to be Gray's and Torreys in the distance); the Mosquito Range to the east (Bross, Lincoln, Cameron, Democrat, and Sherman); Elbert and La Plata to the south; and far to the west the imposing Elks Range. I sat and soaked it all in, enjoying my simple jerky, trail mix, and water lunch. Soon, my quiet was interrupted by a solo hiker and his dog (who came up the impossibly steep southwest slopes, getting lost in the process) and some college-aged women, one of whom was making her twelfth 14er summit since June. We were all so surprised at the beauty and quiet that, aside from a few pleasantries, we simply sat in the still and quiet and enjoyed the spectacular vistas. It was an absolute joy.
I spent a full hour on the summit and didn't want to leave. However, as I continued to look west, I saw that rain was falling on the Elks, and then closer. It was moving in rather quickly. Reluctantly, I packed up my stuff and began my descent. Moving with purpose, I felt the wind pick up and the temperature drop as I moved east from the saddle. My hope was to get to the tree line before any inclement weather began. Descending on the vast east slopes was only slightly less tedious than ascending. By this point, my energy was flagging. Nearing the tree line, a cold rain began to fall. By nightfall this would turn to graupel and, eventually, snow.
Safely back in the trees, the trail continued on interminably. The sun was hidden and the rain continued to fall. What had been pretty on the way up was now dark and forbidding. I marched on, again feeling like the only person on the mountain, and experienced a rather high degree of relief when I hit the Colorado Trail junction.
On exceedingly tired legs, I continued south toward home. The fun was gone. The rain was cold. The legs were shot. By the time I hit South Willow Creek, I had nearly convinced myself that the trail would never end and I would be hiking eternally on an endless trail in a cold rain far removed from the warmth of hearth and home. Dark thoughts filled my mind. It was rather bleak.
Finally, at 2:45 p.m., I was back at the TH. 4h30m up. 1h on the summit. 3h30m down. A grand total of 9 hours on the mountain, 4640 vertical feet, and 13.6 miles. Suffice to say, I was tired. Glad to be back at camp, I stripped off my clothes and gave myself a European shower (using the surprisingly effective viscose cloths I bought on a whim at REI), hopeful that the now steadily falling rain would soon relent so I could make a huge fire and dinner. I quickly fell asleep to the sound of rain.
Waking up a little after 4:00 p.m., I was surprised to hear that the rain was now falling harder. It was, thankfully, not getting a lot colder. I tidied up camp a bit, but was eventually forced to retreat back into the dry confines of the tent. I made dinner (more spicy chicken curry, hot chocolate, and dark chocolate), and settled in for a night of reading, prayer, and rest. By 9:00 p.m. it was lights out.
I woke around midnight to what I was quite certain to be a blood cult setting up camp not far from me. The thrash metal was thumping, people were yelling, and a party raged despite the fact that it was 35 degrees and raining. Praying that I would not be the sacrifice, I eventually went back to sleep, glad to know that I could sleep in and hoping the rain would stop by morning.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Turns out it was not a blood cult gathering for ritual sacrifices in the high places, but instead a group of female mountain bikers. A lot of them. I woke up at 5:00 a.m., ate a quick breakfast of coffee and a Clif Bar, and engaged in the always unhappy business of breaking camp. The rain had stopped, but it was soggy. Tear-down went quickly, I loaded up, bid a fond farewell to my home, and set off with hard-core bikers following close behind (no joke--it was a bit like Mad Max Thunder Road, the War Boys now War Girls, riding $5,000 full-suspension Yeti's instead of souped up desert 4x4's, heavy metal blaring from the trailing Mercedes van). I made a quick pitstop at the Elbert TH to relieve my bowels, and was soon making my way down the mountain, quite glad to be back in the land of reliable cell signals and paved roads.
Hitting Colorado Highway 24, I looked back on Elbert and Massive to see snow covered peaks. It was a beautiful, cold, overcast morning. The mountains looked intimidating. I climbed them. Continuing north into Leadville, I navigated my way to downtown, and then headed south and east in search of the Mount Sherman TH. Using Roach's directions, I made my way up a lovely, alpine tree-laced road and finally to a steeper, unpaved road that took me nearer and nearer to Sherman and it's high 13er counterpart, Mt. Sheridan.
I stopped at what I thought was the TH, only to be passed by a Lexus and Suburu going up farther still. I decided to follow them, and nearly two miles later found myself at a very unassuming TH along with a small gaggle of 50-something women--evidently the Leadville Women's Hiking Guild. As they talked and bundled up, I strapped on my pack and set out at 8:00 a.m., moving automatically and wearing generally the same clothes I'd worn since Monday.
The trail was mostly clear, with a little route-finding as I made my way south and east up the west side of Sherman, the Iowa Amphitheater providing a glorious backdrop. As I gained the saddle between Sherman and Sheridan at 13,100 feet (which also served as a junction with the Fourmile Creek Trail from the east), I looked east to see dozens of hikers coming up from the eastern TH. I had passed a few hikers on the Iowa Gulch Trail. As I turned north to finish the remaining mile to the summit, I was hit full force with a blast of wind that had been playing with me since about 12,900 feet. What had been earlier a pleasant if cool hike up steep terrain now turned into a death march in blizzard conditions. It was not snowing, but the snow that had fallen the night before and not already turned to ice (and thus slippery footing on the rocks) was being blown by steady 50 mph winds that caused me to lose my balance, lose feeling in my fingers and face, and at one point lose contact with the ground.
By this time, I was hiking with a young Arc-Teryx bedecked man who was finding the going as hard as I did. We stopped for a moment--enough time for me to put my puffy on beneath my shell and replace my thin gloves with Gore-Tex mittens. My puffy, shell, and mittens nearly blowing away in the process, I considered the wisdom of moving forward, not wishing to go to the trouble of getting my micro-spikes on but concerned about the wind, ice, and potential for lightning in the clouds that continued to blow over Sherman and Gemini Peak (Sherman's 13,950 foot northern neighbor). We continued on to about a half-mile from the summit when my climbing mate stopped and, pointing to the clouds, suggested (yelling over the din of the wind) that we wait it out. We stood there for twenty minutes watching the weather, shivering, wishing to keep moving but sensing the futility and danger of pressing on. This was supposed to be the easiest peak of my week and it was kicking me in the ass.
Now frozen and discouraged, with no sign of the storm relenting, I yelled to my fellow climber, "Time to abort?" We were alone on the mountain. The others who had gathered far below us in the saddle, having come up from Fourmile Creek, had aborted some time ago. I had no idea where the Leadville Women's Hiking Guild was--probably enjoying a cup of hot tea at the cafe in town by now. Through perfect Colorado teeth, my Arc-Teryx model climbing mate shouted back, "Yeah! This is insane!" I turned and headed down, disappointed, but mostly cold and tired and not wanting to die. The hike down, however chilly and slick, went fast. I was back in the safety and quiet of lower altitudes forty-five minutes later. Constantly looking back up to the mountain, the clouds and wind persisted. It looked thoroughly unpleasant on top.
Glad to be back to the car, I dumped my bag and headed down, high on the altitude but glad to be coming back down to earth. Nearing town, I pulled off on a fireroad for ablutions, my viscose REI cloths once again coming in handy. While not a shower, it was refreshing and cleansing. I put on fresh clothes and my dear Chacos, doing my best to make myself presentable. My destination: High Mountain Pies in downtown Leadville.
It is rumored that, somehow, HMP works THC into their pizza and bread dough. This is surely the stuff of urban/Colorado legend. I rejoiced, however, to pull up to the restaurant, walk in just as it was opening, and order a muffuletta, salad, and Coke to the pleasantly stoned cashier. This would be my first real food since Jimmy John's in Dillon on Monday for lunch. I settled in at the counter, drank my Coke, called Jule, and enjoyed the ambience. The playlist: punk, Britpop, and old country (The Clash, Willie Nelson, The Stone Roses, Johnny Cash). My sandwich came. It was divine.
Full, I went to fill up with gas and give the Escape a wash. By noon, I was on the road, CO-24, north. My silence and solitude now officially over, I lit up my pipe and cranked up the volume--Radio Free Minturn. The sun was out, the scenery was spectacular, and I enjoyed what was the best driving experience I've ever had, deciding that I want to build a home in Minturn, Colorado when it's all said and done.
By the time I was moving north of Wolcott, the Flat Tops were in view and the music changed--it was back to my mountain playlist, singing along to John Denver, U2, Amos Lee, The Head and the Heart, and Jakob Dylan. The sun was shining. I was soon to see my wife and daughter. Joy.
The Rest
Arriving in Steamboat Springs at 2:00 p.m., I made a quick stop downtown to visit my sister-in-law. By 2:30 I was at our brilliant condo on Mt. Werner. Reunited with my wife, I was truly back in civilization. The rest of the weekend revolved around the wedding, though I managed to get in a long hike with Annie at Fish Creek Falls (and celebratory breakfast at The Shack), three meals (and many drinks) at Carl's Tavern, which remains one of my favorite places in the world, shopping on Lincoln and at The Ski Haus, where I nearly dropped $225 on a pair of freaking pants (really nice soft shell pants from Fjallraven), $65 on a pair of Arc-Teryx tights, and $150 on a set of used Atomic skis (with Marker bindings). Irrational. My brother-in-law and I got an education at Billo, a lovely "medical dispensary," and learned quite a lot from the wonderfully helpful Katherine. We worked hard. We enjoyed Steamboat. I slept well, ate well, and took many showers. We left on Sunday, enjoying another spectacular early-morning drive through the mountains (fueled by a delightful Starbucks experience in Dillon). We were home by 8:00 p.m. to happy kids. It was a good trip.
Takeaways
My help is from God...not mountains (Ps. 121). Is is the rock who draws me to himself (Ps. 61 & 62). That said, he blessed me with time in the theater of his glory.
I am grateful for my wife and children.
I have to learn how to rest, be still before the Lord, and find my delight not in what I do, but in what he is doing.
My perfectionist tendencies detract from my enjoyment of life. I need to hold things loosely.
I need to accept that God delights in me.
Some day, I would like to live in the mountains.
Sunday, September 16
I loaded up the Escape with a lot of gear: tent, food, clothes, climbing gear, books, journal, pipe, and the necessary sundries that would get me through the week. I left Sioux Center at 1:30 p.m., arriving in Sioux City at 2:15 for a quick lunch at Qdoba. Leaving Sioux City, I hit I-29 south to Omaha, then I-80 west to Kearney. Arriving at the Kearney Marriott at 6:30 p.m., I checked in, grabbed some food, and settled into the hotel for the NFL (I don't know why I bother), The Goonies (what a wonderful, mindless movie), prayer, and sleep.
Monday, September 17
Woke. Breakfast. Ablutions. Departure. I was on I-80 again by 6:40 a.m. My soundtrack (both Sunday and Monday) was a Spotify playlist compiled specifically for this trip: Kurt Vile, The War on Drugs, Fleet Foxes, Damien Jurado, Amos Lee, Explosions in the Sky, et al. I stopped in North Platte for Starbucks, Sterling for gas, made the movement to complete silence at the Colorado border, stopped for a bathroom break in Denver, and then enjoyed a sublime drive through the front range west on I-70. Arriving in Dillon, I stopped at Jimmy John's for a quick lunch and final check-in with Jule and the kids. Taking I-70 west and then CO-91 south, I arrived in Leadville at 1:30 p.m. MST.
Leadville is no great shakes. The east side of town is depressed and depressing. It's glory days as a mining and, strangely, cultural mecca have long since passed. It tries to attain to a sort of Colorado-cool, but too much distance from I-70 and thus too-little tourist traffic leaves it a strange combination of mountain-town affluence and mountain-town blight. The east side of town is old and unkept. The west side of town is pleasant and upwardly mobile. Colorado highway 24 bisects these two halves with a main street containing nice restaurants aside boarded up shop-fronts. I hit the True Value for firewood and Gatorade, a couple of consignment stores, and a bookstore. Eager to get high, I made my way south to the area I hoped to make home for the next several days.
My plan was to find a dispersed camping site just to the west of the Mt. Elbert and Mt. Massive trailheads. The two trailheads are less than a mile apart from each other on Half Moon Road (Elbert's to the east and Massive's to the west) in the San Isabel National Forest, to the south and west of Leadville. The afternoon was lovely, the drive was easy, and the aspens were popping. I went about one half mile west of the Massive trailhead and, deciding the trusty Escape could go no further on the fire road, set up camp on a flat, elevated area just up an embankment from Elbert Creek. I parked and established camp.
The order of my back-country "home" is never quite as good as I would like. I'm amazed at my absurd perfectionist tendencies in such situations. Hold it loosely. Relax. Resigned, I finally made my way to the creek to have a soak. I wrote in my journal. "It is beautiful here, but it is not heaven. I long to see God face-to-face." Psalm 121: "I lift my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth." He made it spectacularly well.
By 6:30 p.m. camp was set-up, the moon was bright, and a fire was burning. I ate some soup, enjoyed the quiet, and considered my plan for the next day. The goal for Tuesday was Mt. Elbert, Colorado's highest peak at 14,433 feet. I anticipated it being a relatively easy climb, however knowing that "easy" fourteeners are never that. In bed by 9:00, I read, prayed, and finally went to sleep.
Tuesday, September 18
As usual, I slept pretty poorly. It was cold (37 degrees). I had a hard time settling in. At each watch of the night I was awake, praying, reciting Scripture, feeling anxiety in the need for elusive sleep. A brief note: my sleep issues are not the fault of my gear. I have an down REI sleeping bag that is rated to 20 degrees, a Big Agnes Air Core Ultra insulated sleeping pad that doesn't carry an R-value, but is according to the company (based in Steamboat Springs) comfortable in temps down to 15 degrees. My tent is a Mountain Hardwear Trango 3-person/4-season bomb shelter that is not ideal for solitary backpacking, but works when car-camping.
Awake at 3:30 a.m., I boiled water with my trusty JetBoil. Doing my best to stay within the warm confines of my bag while drinking coffee and eating oatmeal, I reviewed my map again. God willing, by mid-morning I would be standing on the top of Colorado.
I dressed (Garmont boots, Columbia pants, Patagonia base layer and puffy, gloves, skull cap), loaded up my pack (Black Diamond Axis 33 filled with 3L bladder, Mountain Hardwear shell, emergency gear, food), and set out for the Elbert TH.
At 4:30 a.m. I hit the North Elbert Trail, which doubles as the Colorado Trail/Continental Divide Trail. Expecting a gentle introduction, I was surprised to find the trail was steep and rocky. Despite the exertion, I was delighted: it was a cool, windless morning and I was alone, truly alone, in the Colorado wilderness. However difficult, the trail was spectacularly maintained and the scenery revealed by my headlamp was glorious. Watchful for bears and killer clowns, I settled into a groove in my mind: intermittent prayer, marvel at my surroundings, vigilance to danger, and attention to my bodily systems (heart, lungs, muscles, mind). My initial goal was the treeline...then the sunrise. The sky began to lighten by the time I hit the alpine tundra. The sun began to peak through at approximately 6:45. I stopped to take some pics, shed layers, eat food, and take off my headlamp. It was a glorious morning.
By 7:30 a.m. I hit the ridge line that would take me to the summit. The climbing was steady but not overwhelming. The trail was excellent. In the early alpenglow I marveled at God's good creation, gave thanks for the body and mind to enjoy it, and asked for strength to continue to the top. I summited at 8:00 a.m. I was alone. True joy. |
| Disregard the date:) |
At 14,433 feet it was cold and windy. I donned my shell and tried to settle in for a phone call, journal entry, food, and prayer. The conditions were not ideal for such exercises (save the latter). So, I explored the summit, delighted in the views, and sought to name the surrounding 14ers--La Plata to the south, Massive to the north, and Sherman to the east; far to the west I could make out the intimidating peaks of the Elks Range.
 |
| If you look closely, you can see my new friend. |
Cold, sunburned, and windblown, I began my descent at 8:15 a.m. There was a line of people ascending. I was glad to be working with gravity as each person I met seemed to be struggling up. Offering encouraging words, I maintained a brisk pace going down, stopping only occasionally to eat, take some pics, and make a new friend or two. |
| Looking back to the summit. |
It was a long descent. My feet were hot, my quads tired, my face burned. The trail that was mostly hidden in the early morning darkness now appeared before me in full light. It was beautiful.
 |
| Mt. Elbert Trail |
I spent the rest of the evening determining a plan for the next day: do I hike 2 miles to the North Half Moon TH (for access to Massive's southwest slopes via the much shorter Half Moon Trail) or do I take the traditional and much longer Mount Massive Trail? I ate my spicy chicken curry by the fire, considering this question and many others. It was a rather delightful way to spend a windless, clear evening. A quick walk east to the Massive TH for a bit of reconnaissance and some reading/prayer in the hammock by the little sunlight remaining finished out a wonderful day. I was in bed by 9:00 p.m. for evening devotions, Richard Hays on 1 Corinthians, and some final map work. Lights out by 10:00 p.m.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
I slept reasonably well, despite colder temperatures in the night. I was awakened by a truck (which, I presume, was making its way to the North Half Moon TH) around 4:30 a.m. I laid there for quite some time...it was warm and cozy in my sleeping bag, and the air smelled much colder. At long last, still warmly ensconced in my bag, I got up to make coffee and oatmeal. The sky was brilliantly clear--the Milky Way shown softly high above. I donned my usual gear and set out for the Massive TH. The car temp showed 32 degrees. Chilly. And yes...I drove to the TH. Though a mere half mile away, I figured I would appreciate one full mile less when the day was done. Also, I needed to charge my iPhone. |
| One of several stream crossings. |
The joy continued west through the trees, into a lovely alpine meadow, and finally to the tree line at 11,680 feet. Then it got hard and the fun ended. After switchbacks to 12,100 feet, the long, slow slog up Massive's vast east slopes began. It was endless. 1.7 difficult miles later, I finally gained the saddle between South Massive and Mt. Massive at 13,920 feet. I took off my pack, found some rocks to hide behind, and settled in for a good rest and snack. I had 6.5 miles under my belt, most of it up, and I was tired. While cold, it remained relatively calm. Again the first person up the mountain, I watched a ridiculously fit trail runner make his way slowly up the way I had just come. It was surely in the low thirties with a chilling breeze, and this guy was dressed in shorts, trail runners, a tee-shirt, and baseball cap. He looked uncomfortable. We exchanged brief pleasantries as he approached the saddle. I was, in fact, very glad to see him as the trail at this point ended, leaving a "climber's trail" to the top. Route-finding, while not as difficult as Long's Peak, did not include Long's helpful bullseyes. Shedding a layer, I strapped on my pack and followed him up. He quickly showed that he was in a different league than me. He nearly levitated over the rocks in this high scramble. I found my way gingerly, doing my best to avoid cliffing out. A fall here would not produce death (like Long's), but it would produce a significant amount of pain and difficulty in getting back down again.
As I settled in for this final half mile of climbing, the fun returned in earnest. It was a blast scrambling up the rock in this wonderfully high place. It produced a wonderful high in me. The sun was out. The rocks were warming up. I was going up and gaining ground quickly. I hit the magnificent false summit at 14,260 feet, dropped a few vertical feet, and then climbed again to a glorious aerie on the summit of Mt. Massive at 14,421 feet, the second highest point in Colorado and the most magnificent summit I've yet encountered in the Rockies. Overjoyed and relieved, I took off my pack and settled onto a glorious perch. Remarkably, the wind had died completely. It was dead still. Clouds and sun decorated the sky and surrounding peaks in every direction: the ridgeline to Massive Green and North Massive (both 14ers in their own right) continuing on to the northwest; Holy Cross to the north; the Gore Range to the northeast (and what I thought to be Gray's and Torreys in the distance); the Mosquito Range to the east (Bross, Lincoln, Cameron, Democrat, and Sherman); Elbert and La Plata to the south; and far to the west the imposing Elks Range. I sat and soaked it all in, enjoying my simple jerky, trail mix, and water lunch. Soon, my quiet was interrupted by a solo hiker and his dog (who came up the impossibly steep southwest slopes, getting lost in the process) and some college-aged women, one of whom was making her twelfth 14er summit since June. We were all so surprised at the beauty and quiet that, aside from a few pleasantries, we simply sat in the still and quiet and enjoyed the spectacular vistas. It was an absolute joy.
I spent a full hour on the summit and didn't want to leave. However, as I continued to look west, I saw that rain was falling on the Elks, and then closer. It was moving in rather quickly. Reluctantly, I packed up my stuff and began my descent. Moving with purpose, I felt the wind pick up and the temperature drop as I moved east from the saddle. My hope was to get to the tree line before any inclement weather began. Descending on the vast east slopes was only slightly less tedious than ascending. By this point, my energy was flagging. Nearing the tree line, a cold rain began to fall. By nightfall this would turn to graupel and, eventually, snow.
Safely back in the trees, the trail continued on interminably. The sun was hidden and the rain continued to fall. What had been pretty on the way up was now dark and forbidding. I marched on, again feeling like the only person on the mountain, and experienced a rather high degree of relief when I hit the Colorado Trail junction.
On exceedingly tired legs, I continued south toward home. The fun was gone. The rain was cold. The legs were shot. By the time I hit South Willow Creek, I had nearly convinced myself that the trail would never end and I would be hiking eternally on an endless trail in a cold rain far removed from the warmth of hearth and home. Dark thoughts filled my mind. It was rather bleak.Finally, at 2:45 p.m., I was back at the TH. 4h30m up. 1h on the summit. 3h30m down. A grand total of 9 hours on the mountain, 4640 vertical feet, and 13.6 miles. Suffice to say, I was tired. Glad to be back at camp, I stripped off my clothes and gave myself a European shower (using the surprisingly effective viscose cloths I bought on a whim at REI), hopeful that the now steadily falling rain would soon relent so I could make a huge fire and dinner. I quickly fell asleep to the sound of rain.
Waking up a little after 4:00 p.m., I was surprised to hear that the rain was now falling harder. It was, thankfully, not getting a lot colder. I tidied up camp a bit, but was eventually forced to retreat back into the dry confines of the tent. I made dinner (more spicy chicken curry, hot chocolate, and dark chocolate), and settled in for a night of reading, prayer, and rest. By 9:00 p.m. it was lights out.I woke around midnight to what I was quite certain to be a blood cult setting up camp not far from me. The thrash metal was thumping, people were yelling, and a party raged despite the fact that it was 35 degrees and raining. Praying that I would not be the sacrifice, I eventually went back to sleep, glad to know that I could sleep in and hoping the rain would stop by morning.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Turns out it was not a blood cult gathering for ritual sacrifices in the high places, but instead a group of female mountain bikers. A lot of them. I woke up at 5:00 a.m., ate a quick breakfast of coffee and a Clif Bar, and engaged in the always unhappy business of breaking camp. The rain had stopped, but it was soggy. Tear-down went quickly, I loaded up, bid a fond farewell to my home, and set off with hard-core bikers following close behind (no joke--it was a bit like Mad Max Thunder Road, the War Boys now War Girls, riding $5,000 full-suspension Yeti's instead of souped up desert 4x4's, heavy metal blaring from the trailing Mercedes van). I made a quick pitstop at the Elbert TH to relieve my bowels, and was soon making my way down the mountain, quite glad to be back in the land of reliable cell signals and paved roads.
Hitting Colorado Highway 24, I looked back on Elbert and Massive to see snow covered peaks. It was a beautiful, cold, overcast morning. The mountains looked intimidating. I climbed them. Continuing north into Leadville, I navigated my way to downtown, and then headed south and east in search of the Mount Sherman TH. Using Roach's directions, I made my way up a lovely, alpine tree-laced road and finally to a steeper, unpaved road that took me nearer and nearer to Sherman and it's high 13er counterpart, Mt. Sheridan.
I stopped at what I thought was the TH, only to be passed by a Lexus and Suburu going up farther still. I decided to follow them, and nearly two miles later found myself at a very unassuming TH along with a small gaggle of 50-something women--evidently the Leadville Women's Hiking Guild. As they talked and bundled up, I strapped on my pack and set out at 8:00 a.m., moving automatically and wearing generally the same clothes I'd worn since Monday.
The trail was mostly clear, with a little route-finding as I made my way south and east up the west side of Sherman, the Iowa Amphitheater providing a glorious backdrop. As I gained the saddle between Sherman and Sheridan at 13,100 feet (which also served as a junction with the Fourmile Creek Trail from the east), I looked east to see dozens of hikers coming up from the eastern TH. I had passed a few hikers on the Iowa Gulch Trail. As I turned north to finish the remaining mile to the summit, I was hit full force with a blast of wind that had been playing with me since about 12,900 feet. What had been earlier a pleasant if cool hike up steep terrain now turned into a death march in blizzard conditions. It was not snowing, but the snow that had fallen the night before and not already turned to ice (and thus slippery footing on the rocks) was being blown by steady 50 mph winds that caused me to lose my balance, lose feeling in my fingers and face, and at one point lose contact with the ground.
By this time, I was hiking with a young Arc-Teryx bedecked man who was finding the going as hard as I did. We stopped for a moment--enough time for me to put my puffy on beneath my shell and replace my thin gloves with Gore-Tex mittens. My puffy, shell, and mittens nearly blowing away in the process, I considered the wisdom of moving forward, not wishing to go to the trouble of getting my micro-spikes on but concerned about the wind, ice, and potential for lightning in the clouds that continued to blow over Sherman and Gemini Peak (Sherman's 13,950 foot northern neighbor). We continued on to about a half-mile from the summit when my climbing mate stopped and, pointing to the clouds, suggested (yelling over the din of the wind) that we wait it out. We stood there for twenty minutes watching the weather, shivering, wishing to keep moving but sensing the futility and danger of pressing on. This was supposed to be the easiest peak of my week and it was kicking me in the ass.
Now frozen and discouraged, with no sign of the storm relenting, I yelled to my fellow climber, "Time to abort?" We were alone on the mountain. The others who had gathered far below us in the saddle, having come up from Fourmile Creek, had aborted some time ago. I had no idea where the Leadville Women's Hiking Guild was--probably enjoying a cup of hot tea at the cafe in town by now. Through perfect Colorado teeth, my Arc-Teryx model climbing mate shouted back, "Yeah! This is insane!" I turned and headed down, disappointed, but mostly cold and tired and not wanting to die. The hike down, however chilly and slick, went fast. I was back in the safety and quiet of lower altitudes forty-five minutes later. Constantly looking back up to the mountain, the clouds and wind persisted. It looked thoroughly unpleasant on top.
Glad to be back to the car, I dumped my bag and headed down, high on the altitude but glad to be coming back down to earth. Nearing town, I pulled off on a fireroad for ablutions, my viscose REI cloths once again coming in handy. While not a shower, it was refreshing and cleansing. I put on fresh clothes and my dear Chacos, doing my best to make myself presentable. My destination: High Mountain Pies in downtown Leadville.
It is rumored that, somehow, HMP works THC into their pizza and bread dough. This is surely the stuff of urban/Colorado legend. I rejoiced, however, to pull up to the restaurant, walk in just as it was opening, and order a muffuletta, salad, and Coke to the pleasantly stoned cashier. This would be my first real food since Jimmy John's in Dillon on Monday for lunch. I settled in at the counter, drank my Coke, called Jule, and enjoyed the ambience. The playlist: punk, Britpop, and old country (The Clash, Willie Nelson, The Stone Roses, Johnny Cash). My sandwich came. It was divine.
Full, I went to fill up with gas and give the Escape a wash. By noon, I was on the road, CO-24, north. My silence and solitude now officially over, I lit up my pipe and cranked up the volume--Radio Free Minturn. The sun was out, the scenery was spectacular, and I enjoyed what was the best driving experience I've ever had, deciding that I want to build a home in Minturn, Colorado when it's all said and done.
By the time I was moving north of Wolcott, the Flat Tops were in view and the music changed--it was back to my mountain playlist, singing along to John Denver, U2, Amos Lee, The Head and the Heart, and Jakob Dylan. The sun was shining. I was soon to see my wife and daughter. Joy.
The Rest
Arriving in Steamboat Springs at 2:00 p.m., I made a quick stop downtown to visit my sister-in-law. By 2:30 I was at our brilliant condo on Mt. Werner. Reunited with my wife, I was truly back in civilization. The rest of the weekend revolved around the wedding, though I managed to get in a long hike with Annie at Fish Creek Falls (and celebratory breakfast at The Shack), three meals (and many drinks) at Carl's Tavern, which remains one of my favorite places in the world, shopping on Lincoln and at The Ski Haus, where I nearly dropped $225 on a pair of freaking pants (really nice soft shell pants from Fjallraven), $65 on a pair of Arc-Teryx tights, and $150 on a set of used Atomic skis (with Marker bindings). Irrational. My brother-in-law and I got an education at Billo, a lovely "medical dispensary," and learned quite a lot from the wonderfully helpful Katherine. We worked hard. We enjoyed Steamboat. I slept well, ate well, and took many showers. We left on Sunday, enjoying another spectacular early-morning drive through the mountains (fueled by a delightful Starbucks experience in Dillon). We were home by 8:00 p.m. to happy kids. It was a good trip.Takeaways
My help is from God...not mountains (Ps. 121). Is is the rock who draws me to himself (Ps. 61 & 62). That said, he blessed me with time in the theater of his glory.
I am grateful for my wife and children.
I have to learn how to rest, be still before the Lord, and find my delight not in what I do, but in what he is doing.
My perfectionist tendencies detract from my enjoyment of life. I need to hold things loosely.
I need to accept that God delights in me.
Some day, I would like to live in the mountains.
Saturday, July 28, 2018
Long's Peak Summit 2018
Long’s Peak Ascent, July 24, 2018
My alarm surprised me at 4:30 a.m. on Monday, July 23: why is thissong (The War on Drugs’ “Thinking of a Place,” my alarm ringtone) playing now? And where the hell am I, anyway? Disoriented and verysleepy, it slowly dawned on me that Mark would be arriving in thirty minutes to pick me up for our trip to Long’s Peak.
Hustling to the bathroom, fragments of thought began to coagulate, producing shimmering pools of joy in my sleepy, scattered mind. I am going to the mountains.I showered, dressed (shorts, t-shirt, Chacos), poured a cup of a coffee, and brought my gear outside just as Mark pulled up in his truck. We were on the road by 4:55 a.m.
The drive south on Iowa Highway 75 went quickly, and by the time we were heading to Omaha on Interstate 29, a beautiful sunrise was greeting us from the east. We passed the time talking and listening to music. At Julesburg, we grabbed lunch at Wendy’s and switched drivers.[1]I would take it the rest of the way into Estes Park. Aside from a little rain in central Nebraska, the weather was clear—a bit overcast and warm. We made good time, arriving in Estes Park at 2:30 p.m. MST. It was, perhaps, the most pleasant drive I’ve ever had to Colorado.
In Estes, we were met by threatening clouds and, soon, pouring rain. We found the Beaver Meadows Visitor Center, procured our backcountry camping permits, and assured the helpful RMNP worker that we would indeed get a bear canister (evidently required for backcountry camping in the park). We stopped at The Warming House to wait out the rain, rent a canister, and perhaps pick up some last-minute gear. The young and apparently quite stoned young worker asked what we were doing in Estes.
“We just drove in from Iowa and are heading up Long’s.” His reply was not encouraging: “Well, if you hear gurgling when you breathe, you’ll want to make sure you get down off the mountain.” Hater. I was not concerned with pulmonary embolism, but I was concerned with AMS or, perhaps more realistically, tired legs. Could two relatively fit 40-something males make this arduous climb? Would the weather even allow us an attempt? The forecast was not looking good.
The rain continued as we found a parking garage and devised our plan in the comfort of Starbucks: we would wait out the rain, make camp in any window that appeared, and then depending on how things progressed, attempt the summit on Tuesday. If we had to abort because of altitude or weather, we would try again on Wednesday. After that? Based on the weather service forecast, Tuesday was looking like our day.
With a quick stop at the Estes Park Visitor Center bathroom, we determined that the rain had relented enough to make our way to camp.[2]When Mark asked one of the volunteers at the center when the best time would be to hit Long’s, he very unhelpfully suggested, “Last week.” Asshole. More haters. The weather and Estes locals were conspiring against us, forgetting the eternal rule: never everunderestimate two over-achieving forty-something Iowans with a goal and limited time. We get shit done.
With bowels in revolt and stinging from the barbs of our detractors, we made our way under threatening skies to the Long’s Peak Trailhead. There, we changed clothes, packed up, and set out just as the rain began to fall again. I was loaded down with sixty pounds of gear. Mark carried four one-gallon jugs of water. The trail was wet and slippery and up. It was one of the most dispiriting hikes I’ve ever made, despite it being only 1.5 miles.
We finally arrived at Goblin’s Forest, our 10,000 foot campsite for the next three nights. I was overjoyed to have arrived. I was dismayed, however, that I lost my body weight in sweat making the long, wet slog up the trail to the campsite. If that short hike was such a chore, how in the world would I hold up over 12 miles, most of it above 12,000 feet? We set up camp and hunkered in as the deluge began again.
The rain soon turned to hail. A lot of hail.The sound was magnified in our bomb-proof Mountain Hardwear Trango 3 tent. I had little concerned we would get pelted to death; I had someconcern we might drown: a pool was quickly forming on the perimeter of the tent, which would ensure a miserably uncomfortable night. It finally ended, at which point Mark made the brilliant move of trenching out the pool, ensuring a dry floor. I made some oatmeal, and we ate our simple repast with solemnity, hopeful that the serious weather had passed. As we hunkered in for the night, we resolved to make our ascent in the morning if the weather allowed. We had packed up for the climb and had all of our gear ready for an alpine start.
In typical middle-aged guy fashion, I woke at 12:30 a.m. to pee. Groggy, cold, and slightly freaked out (as I usually am in the middle of the woods at night) I left the coziness of the tent for my ersatz bathroom. Returning my water to the earth, I looked upward to find…a brilliant night sky. The moon and stars were out in force. This was our chance!
Excited, I returned to the tent with the weather report. Mark stated, “Up at three.” We settled back in for a couple more hours of rest.[3]Both of us were up before the alarm went off. I heated up some water in the Jetboil for coffee as we wolfed down Clif Bars and did a final gear check. By 3:25 a.m. we were on the trail. Actually, that’s not quite true: I first led us on an unplanned tour of Goblin’s Forest. It was dark; I was tired…what else can I say? Finally on the right track, we hit the main trail and headed up.
Our route to the summit of Long’s is the ever-popular East Long’s Peak Route, utilized by upwards of 10,000 hikers and hopeful summit-seekers each summer. Exceptionally well-maintained, the trail winds through the trees along an alpine brook until reaching the alpine zone at 11,500 feet. As the trail continues upwards to Mills Moraine, it splits south and east to Chasm Lake. Staying to the west and north around Mount Lady Washington, we finally come to Granite Pass. The entire hike to this point has been by headlamp, and we are blessed with countless stars and the lights of front-range cities Boulder and Denver before these give way to a brilliant sunrise and clear skies. Surprisingly, both Mark and I are feeling stronger as we go. The trail is arduous, but the scenery and general excitement are overwhelming. Reaching Granite Pass, we are greeted with the expanse of the Boulder Field, the distant Keyhole, and Long’s awe-inspiring east face, charmingly called The Diamond, bathed in orange early-morning light. We are elated.[4]
A Brief Excursis on Mountain Fashion.It is appropriate to say that one’s enjoyment in the mountains is largely determined by three factors: a) weather; b) fitness; and c) gear. You can’t do anything about the first, other than being flexible and patient. As to fitness, you do have control over the shape you are in; you have little control over how your body responds to altitude. The third factor, gear, is perhaps the most significant and certainly the most controllable factor. Attempting to scale a mountain like Long’s (or even one of the “easier” fourteeners) in flip-flops, cotton shorts, and t-shirt will lead to major discomfort, at best, and death, at worst. What you wear and what you pack matters. I am wearing mid-weight REI hiking socks, Garmont boots with Vibram sole, Columbia pants, Nike long sleeve base-layer, Patagonia Nano Puff vest, Marmot fleece jacket, bandana, Oakley Flak 2.0 sunglasses, Buff neckwarmer, 180 gloves, Garmin watch, Black Diamond headlamp, and Black Diamond Axis 33L filled with Arc’teryx Gore-tex shell, food, 3L Camelback bladder, Klomperdell trekking poles, helmet, and survival gear (lighter, firestarter, emergency blanket, first aid kit, etc.). Mark is equally well-appointed.
We gingerly make our way through the Boulder Field, stopping to admire and utilize the solar-powered toilets which, despite the spectacular views, afford no greater success in alleviating general gastric distress. [5]
As we sit perched quite vulnerably at the Keyhole considering our sins and future well-being, we strike up a conversation with a nice young man who we had leap-frogged earlier on the trail. A seasoned hiker, he was deferring on a summit bid, concerned as he was by the appearance of the trail. It did indeed look dark. We were joined in conversation by Ralph and his grandson, Nick, from Maryland. Ralph was a reasonable man, and not about to continue on with the very likely outcome of death appearing imminent. Finally, a very mountain-y looking guy was also in retreat. He claimed it was a “shoe issue” (he was wearing trail runners, not hiking boots), but I could see the fear in his eyes. The real issue was hail on the smooth granite ledges. In this space, a slip would be followed by an extended movement in a downward direction. AKA a free-fall hundreds of feet into the brutally beautiful gorge. The route was just hideously intimidating.
At this point, it was 3 parties against, 0 parties for forward movement. The hail from last night’s storm had simply left the trail too slippery and too dangerous. A final pair of climbers came back in retreat, having made it a mere fifty yards through the ledges. “Too dangerous. We can’t risk it.” 4-0. Mark and I have a decision to make. We say what 99% of mountain disaster victims are quoted as saying in such moments: “We made it this far. Might as well give it a shot!” We choke down our trail mix, tighten our packs, gird up our loins (the flatulence now beginning in earnest), and set out. Three steps in, the hail rock hard and slippery as…ice on smooth granite (which is precisely what it is), we look at each other with eyes that say, “I don’t think our wives would approve.”
A Brief Excursis on Climbing Partners. A climbing partner should be a) brave; b) reliable; c) and strong. Mark is afraid of heights, and yet he was willing to go on. That is bravery. Mark is reliable. I would trust the man with my life, and at no point did he prove anything less than completely dependable in the toughest of situations. Mark is strong. The dude kept going, gutting through fatigue, fear, and sincere oxygen deprivation to set the pace for us and lift us when I began to sincerely flag.[6]
Quite seriously, we were concerned. Are we being stupid? Should we keep going? I have long said that anything worth doing is probably going to be difficult. We can do hard things. Part of the joy in mountain climbing is battling through fear and adversity. This would surely provide ample experience in support (or not) of this credo.
We decided to proceed with the qualifier that, if it got too sketchy, we would retreat. The ledges were indeed slippery, and a nifty move around a boulder with little margin for error solidified both the reality of the situation—this was a serious mountain—and our resolve to forge ahead.
After the initial shock and awe wore off, we found that we were having…fun. It was a blast scrambling over rocks, choosing a line, struggling ahead, and being singularly focused on getting to the next bullseye (the markers directing our route). It demanded strenuous physical exertion and intense mental concentration. Each step and hand-hold mattered.
Pressing on, we made it to the Trough, a 500-foot vertical climb through boulders demanding the same physical and mental attention. The latter, especially, was tested in this area as the going was slow, tedious, and seemingly endless. Finally at the top of the Trough, we faced a final crux that would take us to the Narrows, a thin sidewalk with sheer cliffs on either side. Overcome with the beauty and awesomeness of our surrounding, I encouraged Mark to look up. Bad idea. Looking up or down was vertigo-inducing.
Only 150 yards in length, the Narrows was a bit of a reprieve, depositing us finally to the Homestretch. At this point, I was just about spent. We had been hiking/climbing for over five hours. What loomed ahead of us was 100 yards of granite slabs at a 75% pitch that would allegedly bring us to the summit. By sight, said summit appeared to be a longway away. The rock was cold, wet, slippery, and any loss of grip by hand or foot would result in an uncomfortable slide to a ledge far below that would then launch one into a breath-taking freefall hundreds of feet below thatand sure death.
A Brief Excursis on Marriage, Fatherhood, and Death.Neither Mark nor I have a death wish. We don’t wantto die. We are happily married men with children who love and depend on us. We are also middle-aged over-achievers for whom life worth living must include some degree of adventure and danger. I believe that is a part, however small, of why our wives love us. We both take marriage and fatherhood seriously, and don’t want to be flippant about the risks of mountain climbing. All of this crystallized in the moment: hugging a wet slab of granite at 14,000 feet with nowhere to go but up. That said, this was it. In the middle of God’s glorious creation; using the strength and resolve God has given us; sweating and bleeding for the sake of the goal; not worried about a mortgage or college tuition or stresses from work, but rather being in the moment. Being truly alive.
God, give us strong legs, strong lungs, strong hearts, and strong minds. That was my prayer throughout the morning. As we neared the top and my mental and physical energy waned, my prayer turned simply to a mantra: “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.” Hand, hand; foot, foot. Three points of contact. Ever upward. Choose a line and go. We went. In a moment, I was within yards, surprised at how fast I got up. Two guys stood at the edge, encouraging people on. “Just a few more yards and you got this!” Hand, hand; foot, foot. I was at the top. I slowly stretched out my body, looked up, and let out a “Woo-hoo!” Exultation.
Mark was right on my heels. Thankfully, I was able to take a short video of him rising over the lip of the Homestretch. Victory. His first words: “That was the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life.” Truth. To make it official, we walked another 100 feet to the official summit: 14,255 feet. We were on top of RMNP. Pictures, smiles, food, drink, and sun. It was gorgeous. In fact, it was my most wonderful fourteener summit experience: the sun was bright, the wind was a whisper, the mood was light, and the scenery was unparalleled. We took our time, called our wives, and talked with others. It was a joy. Perhaps my most vivid memory was simply sitting on our perch on the southeast edge of the summit eating lunch. We could make out the imposing Indian Peaks just south, and farther southwest the majestic Gray’s and Torreys, Evan’s and Bierstadt. Farther still we could make out the Sawatch and Elk ranges. Colorado was laid out before us.
After thirty minutes on the top, we decided it was time to head down. The sharp reality of mountain climbing is that the summit marks only the midway point. The idea is to get downthe mountain alive. We were both a little anxious: the slippery rock and irrefutable law of gravity would be a challenge in the opposite direction, as well. We set out. The Homestretch was a bobsled course. My pants were soaked with running water as I slid on my butt and did my best to arrest speed with hands and, mostly, feet. To the Narrows, we pressed on to the dangerous crux that would open to the Trough. I froze midway down: too far to fall; too steep to slide; too far to turn back. What now? I swallowed and let go. Thankfully, I hit solid ground and didn’t keep sliding. A guide from New Hampshire and his two British clients were right behind us, and they decided to rope up. Mark wisely accepted their invitation.
We blasted through the Trough—it was a grind now, pressed on by the desire to get down and get to the tree-line before afternoon storms rolled in. Anyplace beyond the Keyhole would be a horribleplace to get caught in a storm. Finally, the Keyhole came into view. We were close. The smooth granite ledges were by this time mercifully dry. Picking up our trekking poles that we had stashed in a crevice, we made our way up and over the nifty (and earlier terrifying) boulder without much of a thought. We were close to relative safety. With one last look into Glacier Gorge, we scrambled through the Keyhole, the Boulder Field bathed in sun stretching out before us with campers, hikers, and workers. Hallelujah. We were out of the danger zone.
We skipped through the Boulder Field and slowly made our way to Granite Pass. There, we got out our trekking poles and settled in to a steady march down. Our early departure, two nights of little sleep, too few calories, anxiety, exertion and sun were quickly catching up: it became a long slog through the alpine zone to the Chasm Lake junction, Mills Moraine, and finally the treeline. I was out of water by this time (lesson: bring fourliters of water next time), but Mark graciously shared his. The sun beat down; the march continued on tired legs and sore feet.
At 3:25 p.m. we finally reached the trail marker for Goblin’s Forest. We were home. We ditched our packs, filled our water bottles, and settled in for a short rest in hammocks. It was a gorgeous afternoon. We were tired, but we did it. Two forty-something Iowans bagged the notoriously difficult Long’s Peak within twenty-four hours of arriving at altitude. Badass.
We rested for all of 15 minutes. How can you sit still in such a beautiful area? We made some dinner—tuna teriyaki noodles, water, and a bar of dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt for dessert—and cleaned up a bit. Refreshed, Mark suggested we hit a waterfall farther up the trail. We marched up and spent the next hour resting in the beauty of truly glorious surroundings: an alpine brook, wild flowers, towering pine trees, and a brilliant blue sky. I dozed on a large boulder on the side of the stream. Few people were coming down, as it was already late in the day. Anyone up on the mountain at this point would likely be camping at the Boulder Field. It was the perfect way to end a wonderful day.
I was in bed by 8:30 p.m. Rest came pretty easy. Up at 4:00 a.m. Wednesday, we tore down camp, hiked 1.5 miles down the trail to the trailhead, ditched our gear in the truck, changed clothes, and returned to Estes. Fueled up and bear canister returned, we hit Starbucks for coffee and breakfast sandwiches before heading east. Just like the drive on Monday, our trek back home went surprisingly fast. (It would have been two hours faster if not for a flat tire outside of North Platte.) 60 hours after departing, we were back in my driveway. Planning for next year’s trip is already underway.
[1]Cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes at Wendy’s was probably not the bestidea, as will become clear later on in this report.
[2]This was in fact my fourth bathroom visit of the morning, attributed to nerves and, alas, our lunch at Wendy’s.
[3]In the mountains, it would be inaccurate to call what I do at night “sleep.” Seldom do I enter deep REM sleep. Between an overactive bladder, concern over bears, falling trees, or UFO-landings, and the general discomfiture of living like a wealthy homeless person, sleep is an elusive commodity when camping. Let’s call it “rest.”
[4]The moment the Keyhole comes into view, I am immediately transported to July 1987 when, much to our climbing party’s disappointment, I am puking over a rock and unable to go any further, beset with a serious case of AMS just short of the Boulder Field. (This miserable experience, however, did seem to have inoculated me against any further altitude issues, so there’s that.) This specific high school-era failure was now being undone, a mere 31 years later.
[5]Thus begins what would appear to the casual observer as a competition between Mark and I to see who can pass the most noxious gas over the next six hours. In truth, it is by no means deliberate, and while attributed to the suspicious French fries from Wendy’s, is in all actuality the inadvertent bodily response to high physical, emotional, and spiritual terror. In other words, the poisonous odor we emit is the smell of fear.
[6]I would also add the following sub-attributes: humility; good humor; having a screw loose; and married to a generous spouse.
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