Fourth of July Mine, Colorado

Several times this last weekend, I felt the backpack on my shoulders and looked down at the shapeless mishmash of clothing that has become my hiking “uniform” and looked up at the trees stretching overhead and the mountains in the near distance, and I asked myself, “Who are you, and what have you done with Alana?” Not that it has been a bad change, but changes of all kinds beget contemplation; a few Sundays ago, the only hiking I’d be doing would be in the mall, but here I was, at the Indian Peaks Wilderness, dressed like a bag lady, tramping up a mountain wearing a 23-pound backpack.

Glenn and I began at the Fourth of July trailhead on Sunday, the Fourth of July, a coincidence which delighted me, but which Glenn says was completely unintentional. We stopped in Nederland on the way to pick up a pass; I only mention this because there are still irises and lilacs blooming in Nederland. I wonder if the spring growing season is longer there, or if it is just correspondingly later. Anyway, the plan was to hike the Arapaho Pass from the Fourth of July trailhead, camp for the night at Lake Dorothy, climb Mounts Neva and Jasper, and loop back around to Fourth of July. But we started late, the weather got bad, and we ended up bedding down early near the Fourth of July mine.

I haven’t been in a tent in fifteen years. As soon as I was old enough to start arguing with my parents, I protested against my father’s efforts to take me camping (sorry, dad); but even way back then, “camping” was never quite camping. My mother brought a space heater and refused to camp anywhere where there wasn’t a real bathroom nearby. So it was trial-by-fire to try to sleep on the ground in Glenn’s floorless tent - so much so, that I didn’t do much of it. I spent a miserably cold, lonely, scary night trying to remember song lyrics and poems to distract myself from the thunder.

Glenn’s wind-up alarm clock rang at four; I was cold, exhausted, headachey, and nauseated. Glenn was very sweet and let me sleep some more, which I did, on and off, for another six hours; he said that conditions weren’t right for the climbs anyway, which I’m not convinced isn’t just something he made up to make me feel less guilty for wrecking his weekend plans. He sported the dourest look all morning, excepting the one bright spot where he got to eat something.

It was practically afternoon by the time we got started, and all we did was hike back to the trailhead. Glenn did take us off the trail (“bushwhacking"), and we encountered some wrecked mines, as well as an old mineshaft with the most intriguing ice sculpture in it. My poor friend was visibly cheered getting to explore a cave, and I really enjoy clambering over rocks, so we both were in better moods as the day went on. My biggest achievement: I hit my stride carrying the backpack, which had been a huge burden the day before; my pack wasn’t that heavy and we didn’t go that far, but I am proud of how well I did that second day. I also got the opportunity to observe Glenn in his element, now that I wasn’t trudging head down thirty feet behind him as he marched doggedly up a switchback. He really thrives in this kind of environment; the sheer joy there is something rare to behold.