“We are turning left in two miles.” “Okay, thanks.”
We returned to our individual reverence of the pitch black outside the car. Three in the morning wasn’t the time for small talk and we were both content in our own thoughts, together.
Outside of the 400 feet of county road illuminated by our high beams, there was nothing but darkness until the horizon, when suddenly the pitch black was interrupted by thousands of stars. It was a perfectly clear night and nothing around us for miles meant all the stars were out to play. I love the crisp cold of deep winter nights, it feels like the stars are intensified. Along the horizon line, the jagged peaks of the nearby mountains cut against the starry sky.
I had an overwhelming sense of gratitude as I took in this view. That I got to witness this expanse of untouched night that allowed the naked eye to see every constellation in the sky perfectly was emotional. That it was only a two hour drive from our house felt indescribably special.
A small light in the distance broke my revere. A streetlight illuminated a handful of buildings and what I assumed was our turn. Looking down at the map on my phone confirmed it.
“Is that it?” Drew asked and I affirmed. As we approached, we both noticed the “Do Not Enter” signs designating the oncoming lane. Then we were past the little group of buildings.
“What are you doing?” I giggled. We had driven past the turn. Luckily, three a.m. isn’t the busiest time on these back roads and Drew said “I have no idea” as he easily turned the car around and successfully executed our turn the second time around. That led to quite the fit of laughter from both of us. These moments are why I love tackling crazy adventures with Drew. Who else would leave the house at one in the morning on New Years Day to see the first sunrise of the year atop a fourteener and laugh until our cheeks hurt about something so silly along the way?
The laughter plus the heaters being full blast had us too warm, and we had to turn the heat down. Hiking in the cold is an ever changing balance of finding just the right temperature to avoid being miserable that starts before you even get to the trail. We were already in many layers and didn’t want to get sweaty before beginning our hike in the negative temperatures. Moisture is the enemy of warmth and starting a winter hike sweaty meant an early turn around. With only about 30 minutes to go, we needed to start cooling down and fueling up. We unwrapped breakfast burritos Drew had made before leaving the house and cracked open our energy drinks. An honorary “cheers” later, the comfortable quiet returned as we ate and focused our gazes outside the car again.
Thirty minutes and no more missed turns later, we made it to the lower trailhead of the Mount Elbert South Trail. We were surprised how small the parking lot was and ended up driving all the way through it only to circle back again. During our lap, we noticed the road to the upper trailhead was fairly clear and even seemed to have tire tracks. We had had an unusually small amount of snow so far this year and thought that might be to our advantage for this adventure. We decided to try to get to the upper trailhead and cut off about 4 miles from our round trip mileage.
About half a mile in, we realized that wasn’t going to happen when we got pretty stuck on a particularly steep uphill portion of the road. A moment of panic hit me. 3:30 a.m. stuck on a snow covered back road wasn’t exactly the best way to start the new year. Who knew when or if anyone would be able to pull us out. I was afraid our adventure was over before it even started. Either Drew wasn’t worried or he hid it very well as he calmly shifted between first gear and reverse until he got us back down the road to a summer-time camping spot with an area we could park off the road. I wasn’t convinced we were in the clear, unsure if we would be able to get back out of the snow that was deeper than half of our tires. Apparently, that was for future us to worry about.
Drew threw the car into park and turned off the engine. Turning to face me with his biggest smile and eyes shining with excitement, he declared it was time to get ready.
We donned our beanies with built-in headlamps, a recent gift from my mother just for this occasion, and began the formidable task of adding layers on our bodies and to our packs in the dark. It didn’t take long for both of us to start shivering in the freezing cold. The forecast told us we would be starting our hike in negative nine degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill of negative twenty five. Luckily, our makeshift parking lot was protected from the wind, so it was probably around the negative nine degrees forecasted as we prepared for the hike.
This is the worst part of winter hiking for me - the preparation stage before you actually get moving. You want to be uncomfortably cold before you start your hike because you don’t want to get sweaty when you are exerting energy. With that uncomfortable goal achieved, getting into all the layers and then the snowshoes was slow going and hard to accomplish with trembling hands that would barely move. It took us about thirty minutes until we were finally ready to hit the trail. Once we were hiking however, it made all of the discomfort and struggle of getting started worth it.
Hiking in the pitch black is a kind of euphoria that changes the environment around you. When you can only see as far as your headlamp illuminates, it changes your perspective of the trail. No longer does the looming steep section of trail intimidate you - you can’t see it coming. Just put one foot in front of the other and go where the ten feet of trail immediately in front of you goes. You can’t see the sweeping views that make these high altitude hikes so breathtaking, but you do notice each detail directly around you in significantly more depth. The thick skinned berries of the barberry plant still present despite the freezing cold, the rough bark of the fir trees highlighted by deep shadows in their crevices, the intense sparkle of everything caused by the extreme cold. It is like the color has left the world, leaving everything in stark shimmering black and white. The silence is otherworldly in the snow, when the crunch of snowshoes quiets during breaks. Snow is an insulator that swallows sound before it can reach your ears. Even stilling your breath to catch any sound outside the glow of the headlamp is met with silence. While I was not worried about animals in these temperatures (they are all smartly hunkered down, using their energy to preserve their body temperature, not move about in the deep snow), the quiet of snow hiking is simultaneously therapeutic and heart fluttering. And when you pause in an open clearing to turn off headlights and gaze up to the sky? It escapes words. The mountain peaks and forests around you swallow all unnatural light, leaving only the view of thousands of stars, intense against the complete darkness. In winter in Colorado, the milky way stays below the horizon, allowing an endless black expanse dotted by individual stars. It makes me love the stories of the constellations that much more - knowing people have looked up at this view for millennia, felt the magic and magnitude of it, and tried as best they could to create stories to convey that feeling. To feel so intensely small is to feel so incredibly connected to people from across time in this natural space.
While breaks are a soul-filling occasion, they are also brief. The extreme cold and (hopefully perfect) amount of clothing dictate the need to keep moving to stay comfortable.
I quickly found out I had too many layers on. Within the first 20 minutes of hiking (remember that really steep part the car got stuck?) I could feel myself just starting to sweat. Desperately wanting to stay dry, our first break came way too early. As quickly as I possibly could, I dropped my pack, shed my gloves and coat, and pulled off my fleece. I shoved it unceremoniously into my pack, letting the cold bring down the temperature of my overheated body rather quickly before pulling my coat, gloves, and pack back on. I knew Drew was not as warm as I was and wanted to get moving again as quickly as possible. When I turned to him to indicate I was ready to go, I was momentarily awe struck by the frost that had accumulated on his hat, pack, and jacket. We hadn’t even been outside of the car for an hour, but Drew had a layer of frost thick enough to see spikes forming. It glittered in the light of my headlamp, mesmerizing. Man, It was really cold.
We followed tracks up the road to the summer parking lot. It looked like a few people had come up the trail on telemark skis, and their tracks turned off the road and disappeared down a particularly steep portion of the hill about three quarters of the way to the upper trailhead. Past their exit, we followed a single file trail trenched by snowshoers and a pup. It looked to be a couple days old, but was easy to follow. It took us around an hour and a half to get to the upper trailhead, covering about a mile and a half and just under 1,000 feet of elevation gain. When hiking in the snow, it is expected to travel about a mile an hour. So, we were content with our pace to this point. This was also about the time I started to come to terms with potentially not summiting this day.
Drew and I are both incredibly motivated and also (perhaps overly) competitive people. It’s one of the many reasons we work so well together. We understand each other in ways others do not. We push past our limits in an effort to achieve the goals we set for ourselves. It is one of the reasons I am so drawn to Drew. It was also a source of concern for me this day. I so desperately wanted to get to the top of this particular mountain and I knew Drew did too. It was our first winter 14er and we had told everyone we were doing it. It felt like a test to our skill and worthiness to instruct others in extreme conditions. It felt like we were showcasing our abilities and we were going to be scored on how well we did. So, of course, I wanted to be the best.
At the upper trailhead, I started to come to terms with the idea that our best might not get us to the top of this mountain this day. I started to redefine what a successful trip looked like. Instead of getting to the summit, I wanted to be okay with listening to our bodies when it was time to turn around. Instead of pushing ourselves in fear of what others would think if we didn’t make it, I wanted to enjoy the hike no matter where we got to. I wanted to practice the kind of compassion and encouragement we planned to give participants of GeesExpeditions trips on our selves. And I did.
I stopped worrying about our pace, our timing, and pushing ourselves to the breaking point. I started checking in with my body and asking Drew how he was doing. I found that I was actually very comfortable. Having shed my fleece layer, I had found my sweet spot for staying at the right temperature while exerting myself, but just barely uncomfortably cold when we stopped for a break. We listened to our bodies when we needed breaks and spent the time reveling in the feat of what we were actively accomplishing instead of worrying about if we would achieve the original goal. We took water breaks (having to pull our bottles out because our hoses froze as expected) and appreciated the beauty around us. We took in the consistently changing views as the first light touched the sky and then grew toward sunrise with a recurring discussion if we should change out our dying headlamps or just keep going by the slowly growing light of the sky.
About 30 minutes before sunrise, we were approaching tree line. The timing was actually quite perfect. The forest we were trekking through began to thin and trees became more dispersed as the sky turned first grey with a strip of light yellow along the horizon before the show stopping light pinks and purples of the early sunrise. A thin layer of clouds had moved in while we were under the canopy of spruce trees. Now, they added to the incredible sunrise, reflecting the colors of the sky and adding new colors of their own. Before long, the frozen lakes in the valley below us were illuminated, palely reflecting the colors in the sky. I was in complete awe. It was the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen.
I was struck by the overwhelming sense that this was actually why we were there. It didn’t matter if we got to the top of the mountain. It didn’t even matter what others thought of our expedition. We were at 12,000 feet above sea level on the first day of the year to see this incredible first sunrise of the year. I had been saying all along that we were climbing this mountain to start the new year on a high note, literally. Wow had I under estimated what I meant. Standing at that elevation and watching the most beautiful sunrise continue to grow more vivid and spectacular, I realized this is what I had wanted. The adventure of snowshoeing to high elevations in extreme colds to witness this most incredible sight was what we were chasing. And I felt so full. Full of joy of achieving this incredible feat. Full of pride in myself and Drew for being able to do something like this in the first place. Full of excitement for the year to come. Full of understanding of myself. This is what I wanted to be doing. This is who I wanted to be.
We only stopped occasionally to take a picture here and there, since taking a hand out of its glove to snap a picture was only bearable for seconds at a time. We paused in the last outcroppings of trees to shelter us from the wind for a hearty snack before leaving the trees all together. By the end of our 5 minute break, we were so ready to be moving again. I could feel the shivers just a couple degrees away and I was ready to bring my body temperature back up.
At the edge of the trees, the trail ended. It looked like the snowshoers from a few days prior had decided this was far enough and turned around. We decided we weren’t quite ready to go back yet, though, and pushed on.
What a different experience it is to trench your own path through the snow! The wind had picked up significantly this high up with nothing to break it up, causing some portions of snow to be hard. All of a sudden, one step would find a spot that hadn’t been hardened for whatever reason and we would sink all the way to the hip. Walking with snowshoes on is difficult, the added weight and increased footprint make for a slight wobble and slow pace. Pulling that snowshoe out of waist deep snow while standing on the other foot on a surface with uncertain durability can only be described as an extreme workout. Sometimes the snow would hold under the other foot, but sometimes it would sink just as deep to now have two snowshoed feet to pull out of deep snow.
We took turns leading, digging the trench, while the other followed more easily in the pre-dug path. Each turn leading got shorter and shorter as we fatigued, our breathing and heart rates accelerated. Soon we were moving at a glacial pace of three steps for every break, usually because the third step sunk us to the hip yet again. We managed a mile in this way. Asking every three steps if we should continue. Usually met with “let’s go just a little further”, “let’s just get to the next trail marker”, “let’s just take a look over the next ridge”, and the like.
All the while, the sky continued its spectacular show. Deep pinks and purples turned to orange and then the most spectacular gold. The mountainous scenery around us was straight out of a movie.
At the end of the arduous mile, Drew finally confided that he could no longer feel his fingers or toes and I admitted I was close to the same condition. The wind had been continuously buffeting us the entire mile and showed no sign of stopping any time soon. We paused, both fully on top of the snow for the first time in what felt like the entire mile since tree line, to appreciate how far we had come.
The view was breathtaking. We were about 500 feet higher and an hour and a half further than when the sun had originally crested the surrounding mountain tops. The frozen lakes were tiny from this vantage point, and there were more of them than we originally saw. The surrounding peaks were also covered in glistening snow that was occasionally picked up by their own gusts of wind, sending sparkling flurries through the air.
As we stood there taking in the view, an exceptionally strong gust picked up the top layer of snow around us and sent it into the air. It completely blocked sight of everything further than a few feet in front of us. The golden sunlight filtering through glittering snow flakes was nothing short of magical. It transformed the world from a cold white tundra to a golden wonderland impossible to truly capture on film or in words. Despite the complete and total miserable cold, we were both transfixed for several minutes in the absolute beauty of the moment. We alternated between dumb struck awe of the golden view, and beaming smiles at each other full of wonder and appreciation to be there.
As soon as the flurry settled back down, the extreme misery of our current state flooded back in and we began to retrace our steps. My almost frozen toes smashing into the front of my boots on the downhill trek was akin to torture, but my soul was just so full from what we had accomplished and continued to be surrounded by that it wasn’t difficult to push through. At least we didn’t have to trench any more of the path, instead just following back along the trail we had already made. Or so we thought.
As we crested the closest hill we had just passed over, we witnessed the power of the wind. Our trail to this point was just barely visible, all but erased from the landscape in the hour of near constant wind. We were immediately grateful we turned around when we had, otherwise we would have been trenching an all new path to get back to tree line. We followed our barely-there path, thankfully only sinking a handful of times each instead of every third step. By the time we made it to the shelter of the trees and our original snack place, we were grateful to have the opportunity to take a break out of the wind.
As all breaks go in these conditions, it was quick due to the need to keep moving to maintain a comfortable temperature, or try to return to one, in our case. Not far into the trees we ran into another couple following our footsteps. They were older, maybe in their early sixties, and absolutely some of the nicest people. They were so impressed and grateful that we had gotten up the mountain so early and made their trip all the easier by packing the snow down for them. It was another moment of a spectacular day and a glimpse into what we hoped the future had in store for us.
The trip back down the mountain was a whole new experience. The trail in the daylight was a completely different trail than the one we came up, even though we were retracing our steps. Birds flitted between the trees, singing their songs, and it was easier to take note of the different microenvironments we passed through. A bustling spruce forest, dense with tightly packed trees, followed by sparse aspen groves, devoid of leaves or much life, but full of movement as the dappled sunlight swayed on the ground in time with the wind in the branches.
As we passed back through this new environment, we discussed all the typical new year topics: what had gone well over the past year, what hadn’t; what goals we have for the upcoming year, what we wanted to leave behind in the previous year. We talked about how our relationship had grown and where we would like to see growth this upcoming year. We confirmed the love we still have for one another, ever growing, and that we definitely wanted to stay together (especially if we continued to prioritize experiences like this!). We dreamed about where GeesE would be this time the following year.
Eventually, we hiked over 5 miles and into the 9:00 hour. The hunger hit hard and I could feel the hanger at the edge of the conversation. Drew grew quiet and I knew he was feeling it too. We made it to the point in the trail where the Mount Elbert Trail joined the Colorado Trail surrounded by a grove of aspens. With the warmth of the sun shining on us, we shucked off our packs and unpacked our lunches. Nothing beats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a mountain, which we greedily wolfed down, followed by cheese sticks. One of the perks of hiking in such extreme temperatures is bringing dairy. I’m a cheese girl through and through and any opportunity to eat cheese is the right time. We shared an energy drink I had slyly put in my pack that morning, knowing it would make Drew’s day. His love of energy drinks rivals (but doesn’t quite beat) my love of cheese. The drink was slushy from the cold and we enjoyed it very much. Removing the weight of my pack was heavenly and I was in no rush to put it back on. That plus the warmth of the sun (I believe we finally warmed to zero degrees Fahrenheit) persuaded a longer break, and we reveled in a filled, light state for about thirty minutes before getting cold enough to get moving again.
Right at the upper trailhead, there is a rather impressive bridge crossing a creek. On the way up, we quickly passed it, noting our typical “bitches love bridges” which is true and no one can convince me otherwise. On the way down, however, we stopped on the bridge to truly appreciate it and the creek still flowing beneath it. There was the thinnest layer of ice covering the flowing water underneath with the most intricate crystalline structures decorating its surface. The geometric design, plus the purely musical tinkle and whorl of the water underneath was mesmerizing and captured our attention for several minutes.
We passed the upper trail head and continued the slog back down the summer road to where we left the car. By this time, everything hurt and we both noted how glad we were to have turned around when we did. Had we continued to push our physical limits further at the top of the mountain, getting back to the car might have been impossible. Despite this gratitude in our own knowledge of our bodies, the last mile and a half was pure misery. I hate to admit that I let Drew know as much. Loud and often. Though I did still make sure to appreciate the beauty of my surroundings and notice the details missed in the dead of the night. I began to dream of laying down next to the car and told Drew so.
Luckily, downhill hiking isn’t very exertive, and with the warmer temperatures, our clothing still seemed to be the perfect amount of layers. The feeling had returned to all of our fingers and toes, mine faster than Drew’s.
Each time we descended a steeper section of the trail and rounded a corner, I was sure we were going to see the car. Each time we descended a steeper section of the trail and rounded a corner and did not see the car, I got more tired and frustrated. Finally, after hours and hours of downhill walking from the trailhead that was actually about an hour and a half, we managed to see the best view any hiker has ever seen: the car! After hiking 8.1 miles with 2,126 feet of elevation gain in 6 hours and 36 minutes, we had finally made it back to the start.
The second I was off the road and behind the car, I was laying in the snow. The relief of my pack off my shoulders and my weight off my feet was enough to make me cry. The frustration and tiredness dissipated as I relaxed into my bed of snow. Then I really did cry. I cried for the accomplishment we had just achieved. I cried for the gratitude that my body was able to take me on such an extreme and incredible adventure. I cried for the appreciation that I had someone in my life who would not only go on adventures like this with me, but who actively sought them out for us. And I cried for the complete mind shift I was able to accomplish mid hike. Drew laughed as I lay on the ground, doing exactly what I told him I was going to do and I laughed with him.
What an incredible way to start the year.
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