Spring Creek Pass to Hwy 114: June 28th

* Day 1: After enough watermelon and brownies in Lake City, we talked with the minister of the Presbyterian Church on our way out of the hiker center. He offered to find us a ride if we couldn't hitchhike within an hour. What a kind bunch of folks. We were supposed to stop at the store for sunscreen but after a few minutes of walking down the road a blue Subaru Crosstrek pulled over in front of us; the driver got out and shouted us over as she began rearranging luggage and the dog to make space for us. A hitch without even asking? Can't pass that up! So we climbed on in, sunscreen be damned. The driver and her friend were in Lake City for a stargazing festival, eagerly awaiting nightfall, when the observatory would open. She had some thru-hikers in her life, so was very friendly to us. Insisted we take some plums because "I know you aren't eating any fruit". Dropped back off at Spring Creek Pass about eight hours after leaving. Packs are heavy with... a kind of unknown-days-worth of food. We weren't super careful at the grocery store and this section is getting kind of confusing. But time to grind 3 miles uphill to Snow Mesa to camp for the night. We didn't have a bad forecast, but dark clouds swirled forward and behind during our steady plod. By the time we reached the top of the plateau a cold wind spit rain from the side while bits of blue sky popped in and out. The alpine tundra that sprawled ahead left us feeling a little vulnerable, but by the time we reached the campsite the clouds were clearing in golden rays of sunset. Sausage tacos for dinner. Got cold quick.

Evening rainbow over Snow Mesa

Hiking into uncertain weather

...and our forecast said it wouldn't rain today

I will call you "King Cairn"

* Day 2: Big day today. Our last day of mostly favorable weather before things start getting stormy. So we plan to hike a little more than 16 miles, over the next 5 passes, to get out of the high country. I duck-taped my shoes inside and out last night because with every step they're threatening to bust apart at the toes. The first part seems to take forever, rolling up-and-down for miles over the green mesa fields. Up to a saddle, and then finally crest a high ridge at the far eastern end of Snow Mesa. I do my best to touch up the duck tape on the outside of my shoes, fighting a battle that the miles will surely win. Down and around and past the sheer east face of just another unnamed peak. Mineral Creek, a steep up, a steep down, then East Mineral Creek. And here we have a proper climb, 1,200 feet that start steep, drag in the middle, and finish steep - Susan and I are getting tuckered out. Spend too long talking with a family doing a section of the Colorado Trail, like a water-cooler conversation with a too-chatty co-worker while a lengthy to-do list smolders in the back of your brain. On the way up we exchange succinct remarks with a Texan on the steepness of the trail and the beauty of the country. He's the 9th CT hiker we've seen today - getting crowded out here. Pass 3 kicks our butts, but along the way we passed the densest group of pikas I've ever seen, which is to say like 5. Typically they're quite shy but these stayed out until we were a few feet away, then darted back into the boulder field, elegantly weaving through the labyrinth of gaps and tunnels between the jumbled rocks. After we crest the top of this saddle, San Luis Peak, a 14'er, finally comes into view, a hugely voluminous pyramid of barren red-grey rubble. Looks boring to climb but fun to ski. We tell ourselves pass 4 will be easier because it's shorter, but it's still steep and we're still tired. Take a nice hour-long water break, and Susan starts up again while I have a 5 minute power nap in the sun. Wind along, inching upwards, until the trail finally brings us to the shoulder of San Luis. Some clouds darken and thicken but no hints of a real storm. We're at about 12,800 feet, the last time we'll be above twelve for the next several days. At this point the trail drops down and properly follows a valley; here's a bit of a last-hurrah for the San Juans, a last chance to contemplate the mountains who so graciously allowed us to trace their ridges, climb their shoulders, and sleep in their arms over the last 2+ weeks. But also my feet hurt. So down we go, setting up camp in the liminal space where clumps of alder intersperse with stands of pine depending on ancient forces I don't totally understand. We're tired. But honestly it's not too late yet, and the sun still shines intermittent through dense grey clouds, and we have time to wash our feet. Who knew having clean feet could make the rest of my body feel so much better? Cheesy mashed potatoes with sausage and bacon bits for dinner. It's pretty dang good. Downhill tomorrow.

Going around steep mountain faces

Morning on Snow Mesa

Duct tape shoes 🙃

A pika munches on flowers

Ben at the final pass, under San Luis

San Luis Peak appears in the distance

Susan coming up one of the passes

* Day 3: Get going late because the yellow warmth of sun creeping down the hill towards us tempts more strongly than the vague fear of being in a thunderstorm later in the afternoon. I've finally figured out that it gets so cold because the clouds clear overnight and the Earth releases the warmth it spent all day accumulating; easy-come, easy-go. We cruise down along Cochetopa Creek as streams from the sides of the basin tumble down to join in its steady slide out of the mountains. The miles go by quickly and soon we're at the wilderness boundary and a well-manicured vault-toilet. Chat with CDT hiker Œuf, who recently rejoined the Red Line after taking the Creede Cutoff. Thunder rumbles out of the peaks behind us and the clouds glower to our west and north. It's a good day to be in a valley. We half-joke about hiding in the toilet building if the storm wallops too hard. But we set off down the trail and somehow walk a dry corridor while the rumbling clouds skirt by the sides. Get below even 10,000 feet, where the air feels thick with oxygen and the aspen leaves rustle in answer to the call of the creek. Start to notice and admire all the beaver dams along Cochetopa, creating nice tranquil pools where the fish jump so freely it seems you could just reach out and catch one. Brown troughs of bare dirt leading up the hillside betray where the beavers harvest their aspens and drag them down to the water. The sun is back out and hot and the day is young so when we see Œuf laying off the trail near a particularly alluring pond, we decide to pull over, have dinner, and even take a dip and clean up a bit. My shirt feels gross to put back on so I know I must be at least a little cleaner. Walking back after collecting water, as the sun burned the crisp, cold water off my skin, I couldn't help but think that life outside is mighty fine at times. But then the rain started to spit and we repacked in a flurry. A false alarm - a few more miles of dry hiking. Come across another CDT couple, hiking north after taking the Creede Cutoff, and I'm shocked when the guy pulls out a drone to scout for water. Seen a whole bunch more CT hikers today as well. Join a dirt road and have to finally hike uphill today, carrying extra water to camp with, which makes for a slow grind as thunder again rumbles around. Tight forests of tall aspens provide shelter from the drizzle, and then as a field opens we see a mighty pine that could not be more-perfectly sculpted for shelter. Bingo. Get the tent up and we can hardly even tell it's raining. But as the storm brushes past the wind picks up and a few gusts start to deform the tent. Better add some guylines. Susan's rainfly isn't even down, though, because the tree provides all the vestibule she needs. Things calm down by sunset and the skies are clear again. I'd be worried about cold but we're camped below 10,000 feet; probably the first time that's happened since before Chama.

Hiking downhill, at last

A perfect fit for a tent

Looking back to the tall peaks - so long!

Susan at the wilderness boundary

Beaver pond on Cochetopa Creek

Beaver chutes lead down the hillside, a chewed aspen in waiting

Hiking through a pleasant aspen grove

* Day 4: Well, it's still cold overnight. Damp too in the morning; little globes of water perch on the tips of grass blades and my shoes moisten and darken with every step. This should be our last day of hiking before reaching the highway, the last full day on these shoes, so I forgo the duck tape and hope my toes don't start breaking out too badly. The peaks of the San Juan Mountains have gently subsided into the Cochetopa Hills; I couldn't tell you exactly when it happened, since nature paints such a fine gradient, but now we find ourselves surrounded by terrain that reminds me of the high plains: brown and crunchy grass dotted with sage, groves of squat limber pines, and cinquefoil popping with small, cheery yellow flowers. We hear from several southbound CT hikers about how dry the next miles are, but Susan repeatedly finds running water throughout the day. Sometimes we literally cross the running water. Thru-hikers aren't always the most observant bunch. Near the water grow deep green reeds and grasses and lilies, some of which still hang on to their purple blossoms. I spy new primrose flowers, with broad white petals that I mistake for toilet paper from a distance. Mostly walking on dirt/gravel/forest roads today. The road gradually winds uphill back to ponderosa and aspen forest. The hot afternoon sun has brewed the roiling clouds into dark blue-grey thunderheads behind and in front of us, but somehow the rain misses for a while. But by the time we reach the highway we're in rain jackets and the backpacks are all covered up. Susan led us on several shortcuts of varying quality (cow swamp - less good; spacious forest - much better), and we get to highway 114 just north of Cochetopa Pass by 3:45 PM. At this point we're supposed to hitchhike to Saguache and rendez-vous with Susan's family, although not until tomorrow... But the day is young, so why not try? We put out our thumbs and literally the third car pulls over - a gentleman in a big Ford F-250 towing a sweet 1970 VW Carmen Gia. He lives in Abiquiu - we could probably see his house during the very first section of our hike! He ran out of gas the other day and had to hitchhike himself, so now he's paying it forward. Down to Saguache by 4:30 PM, and Susan's folks will be by to round us up at about 6:30... Plenty of time to go get a meal from the Oasis restaurant. A stuffed sopapilla and patty melt hit the spot after actually coming in ahead of schedule. We chill at a table under a gargantuan cottonwood tree, and as the wind picks up from the storms battering the mountains all around us we realize one of the three mammoth limbs spreading out from the base is literally propped up by a piece of timber. I think of that night a big cottonwood branch fell on the roof at Scott's house. But soon enough the familiar white Subaru Forester pulls up, we exchange hugs with Susan's parents, and they graciously drive us an hour and a half back to their rented cabin in Twin Lakes. An excellent second dinner, shower, and the nieces tell us all about every exhibit in the Denver Children's museum. They could probably write an overly-detailed and needlessly-verbose blog post about it. Very much looking forward to now *3* whole days of relaxing and vacation from our vacation.