Michael,

For her 23rd birthday, Beth & I promised Katie a horseback ride in the Boulder area. So when Katie dropped into Denver from her latest Americorps projects, we brought her back up to Boulder and made a call to our friendly cowboy Fred. Fred has given up mountain climbing to be a part-time cowboy. He owns one horse and stables it with 3 others owned by a would-be horseman named Matt. Matt would like to be a cowboy himself, but he needs instruction, and Fred has taught him everything he knows about horses.

Anyway, Fred wangled a free ride on 2 of Matt’s horses. Katie got to ride Scooter, a big, spritely, brown gelding, and I got to ride old Gypsy, a white, spotted, gentle mare. After loading all the saddles on and tacking us all up, Fred hopped aboard his own horse, Skywalker, a young blue-eyed black and white gelding. The sun was shining bright when we started, and I was glad to have my straw cowboy hat, but I had to hold it on tight in the occasional gusts of wind we were riding into.

Our ride went west towards the foothills in the South Boulder Creek drainage. We crossed through several unused ranches, opening and closing gates as we went. The buffalo grass was high and golden, concealing the purple gayfeather and yellow gumweed flowers. Rainclouds blew towards us from the hills ahead and we pulled out our rain jackets for the coming showers. While a gusty wind blew big rain drops into our faces, we rode our horses towards the forested hills. The shower stopped after a few minutes, bur somehow I lost my hat in a wind gust. Fred kicked Skywalker into a trot. This was something I wasn’t familiar with, but Katie kicked Scooter into a trot too, and without my urging, Gypsy started trotting. It was all I could do but hang onto the pommel and try to move with my horse. I’d never been in a trot before.

Skywalker wanted to canter, and Fred urged him on. Katie kicked Scooter into a canter, and naturally, Gypsy started into a canter. Unprepared for that gait, I nearly fell off. Trotting is OK, but cantering is not, so I pulled hard on her reins and got Gypsy back into a trot. Meanwhile, about half a mile ahead, the two real riders waited patiently for me at the edge of the woods.

We rode up into the ponderosas, which smelled sweetly aromatic after the shower. The trail led upwards towards the Devils Thumb, which projects from the skyline above the minor flatirons. I had been hiking with Chuck last week in that area and speculated whether Katie’s horse ride might soon be in that area. My second sight was right. I pointed out the various formations to Katie. Besides Devil’s thumb, there was the Maiden and the Matron, and the whimsical Fatiron.

Fred took us off trail, and it was all I could do to keep Gypsy from walking under low hanging branches. At one point she got her rein wrapped around a limb, and I pretty near lost control. But she patiently waited for me to lean over her head and untangle the rein. Meanwhile, Fred was leading us into some steep rocks. I wondered if our horses could handle the terrain, but these horses were familiar with rough country. We had no problems until Fred decided to go straight up the hill. He hopped off his saddle, and led Skywalker on foot, so we had to do the same. We reached the crest of a hill, and led the horses down into a more level area.

Out of the forest we rode, into the gayfeathery buffalo grass again. We all trotted cross-country down to the trails below, and while Fred & Katie cantered their horses, I restrained Gypsy with difficulty. Our horses really loved the “lope” (western hoss lingo for “canter”), but I didn’t. By the time we got back to the corral, our horses were sweating, and hungry. I was feeling muscles I’ve never felt before, agreed with Katie that it was a terrific ride. It was not only a great present for her, but one for me, too.

Photo Abum

–rakkity

Robby and Goose painted our barn (all that remains is some white trim) and they’re painting Robby’s barn too. The color? Tomato Red. Got a house that needs painting? They (including Matt)  are  all home Columbus Day weekend.

In between brush strokes they stacked our two cords of firewood.

Mike,

It’s been quite a while since I climbed a “real” mountain (i.e. one over 13,000 ft high) and I wanted to know if I could still do it in my late middle age. So I looked up at the Indian Peaks from 75th St, and thought about which one I hadn’t climbed. Navajo! It’s the one that looks like an inverted ice cream cone.

That pointy one right in the middle.

A call to hard-man Chuck found me a partner. When “legs” Joe heard about the hike, he wanted into it too. That was fine with both of us. Chuck recommended a 5:30 am start from Boulder. I blinked, but didn’t gulp. He said, ‘We’ve got to get on top of the mountain before noon to avoid the thunderstorms.” Thinking back the last few weeks, I recalled the plentitude of afternoon thunderstorms right here in Boulder, and agreed whole-heartedly. I had no desire to be dodging thunderbolts up above timberline.

Two mornings later at 5:30 am, Chuck and I were waiting in his living room for Joe. At about 5:45, about the time we expected him to show up (according to the Joe clock), Joe rolled up in his car outside. He headed straight for Chuck’s basement, where he stores his climbing stuff. At 6:05 we were headed down the street in Joe’s car, when he remarked casually, “We have to make one little stop.” Chuck & I looked at each other anxiously. Joe was famous for being late, but this was a new one. “I forget if I left my garage door open or not. I’ve got to check.” Our eyes rolled, but we agreed on this further delay. Finally we got out of town, having confirmed that Joe had actually shut his garage door, and we were on our way to the Indian Peaks Wilderness.

Brainard Lake to Timberline

The sun was just rising over the plains behind us as we started hiking the Isabel Lake trail from Brainard Lake. Striding easily along the forest trail, we passed Long Lake, then Isabel Lake, and then a small tarn surrounded by alpine meadows. The forest had now become scattered clumps oftwisted and beaten firs bordering fields of tall grass and willows, all watered by a gurgling creek.An obvious cirque, drained by waterfalls, stood a couple hundred feet above us. We followed the vestiges of an old trail to Isabel Glacier. The path twisted circuitously upwards around the waterfalls through marmot and pika country into the boulder field of the cirque. The trees and the last wildflowers fell further below us.

At about 10:00, 5 miles above Brainard Lake, we entered the arctic zone where only lichens and spiders wreak out a precarious existence on the rocks. And above us there hung Navajo Peak, a tough customer, it seemed to me.

Airplane Gully

Sometime in the 1950s a small passenger airplane tried to cross the continental divide just south ofNavajo Peak. Due to clouds and a faulty altimeter, they hit the gully just a few 10s of feet below the pass. Pieces of the plane are scattered over the gully from the bottom of the cirque right up to near the 13,000 foot level, less than a hundred feet from safe passage. This is the least pleasant part of the climb. Not only are all these aluminum reminders of death and destruction everywhere you look, but the gully boulders are unstable and often roll beneath your feet. You are at risk of tripping, or jamming your foot in a hole, or having a big rock roll over your feet, and anyone below you is likely to get hit by a rolling, bounding rock. So we wore our climbing/bicycle helmets and climbed carefully.

Final Pitches

By the time we reached the top of the gully at Navajo Pass it was 11:15, and the final ascent lay just above us. There were wonderful views of the Continental Divide to the north and the south. Arapahoe Mountain, its dwindling glacier, and a few of its once major snowfields were now visible to the south. Longs Peak lay off to the north, bordered by its lesser satellites in Rocky Mountain National Park. The western mountains of Colorado lay specked with light and shadows cast by the overlying, fast-changing clouds. It was a worthy spot to rest.

Joe was tuckered out from fighting the gully, and decided to stay there at the pass and wait for us, if Chuck & I wanted to continue. He’s no “peak-bagger”, but I am, and so is Chuck. I stared up at the final 500 feet of climbing. It looked like a trail led up to the rim rock, below the top, but how do we get around that? Chuck was ready to go on. He had climbed this peak 5 or 6 times by 3 or 4 different routes, and he knew the way. He told Joe it would take about half an hour to reach the top (he was right), and probably less to descend to Joe. The anvil clouds were gathering in the west, and in the very far distance to the north, there were signs of lightning. So without delay we headed up.

There were no loose rocks on the ascent, and the trail was much easier than Airplane Gully. Still, both Chuck and I had to breathe deeply, and take in as much of the thin air as we could. The high rim rock that wraps around the summit grew closer as we climbed, and Chuck pointed out a huge crack in the rim. “That’s a chimney route that’s fun to climb.” At my questioning look, he said, “But we’re going to go an easier way.” Sure enough, we found a passage traversing the rim to the left and winding up onto a narrow ridge. Chuck tossed down his trekking pole, “We won’t need these now.” He climbed up onto a house-sized boulder, and led us on an airy, but simple, rock climb that led to the summit. The drop-offs to the north were insane. That was the glacier route, climbable only with crampons and ice-axes in late spring, when the gullies were choked with snow. A few more yards of scambling on lichen-covered boulders, and we were at the obvious compact summit.

Down in all directions!

Descent to the plains

Descending Airplane Gully took about twice as long as the ascent. But when we reached the flat boulder field below it, we breathed a sigh of relief. Only horizontal boulder-hopping now.

A short way onward, Chuck noticed a ptarmigan. It was initially invisible, but then it twitched and became visible. As we walked toward it, the bird walked slowly away. He never flew, but watched us carefully, confident in his camoflage. He was pretty sure we couldn’t see him. So there was, indeed, more life than spiders and licens in those boulders!

Slowly, slowly, slowly, we walked back into the meadows below the cirque, into the wildflower zone, past the lakes, through the woods to the car, to civilization and beer!

–rakkity

8/27/07

I have one more (short) thing to send you this week– “Cantering through the gayfeathers with Katie”

Joe’s shrimp dish.

We returned to Cuba Libre last night and the food was just as good as our last visit. Our pretty red-headed waitress recited the specials, which all sounded to-die-for, and when she got to a description of the eggplant appetizer we stopped her in mid-sentence to order it. When the dish arrived, it was unrecognizable. Sure, there might have been small eggplant cubes mixed in, but what was most prominent were many itty bitty octopi. Matt said, “Over my dead body,” which was what I was thinking before I accidentally forked what I’d thought was a garnish but turned out to be a head without the tentacles. Diane and Joe, however, attacked those creatures with gusto.

If you wade through the link above you’ll also see photos of Matt’s dorm taken last year. It’s appropriately named The Edge. It looks edgy and it sits on the border between the campus and the neighborhood where you best not be walking around at night talking on your cellphone to La Chica.

This morning at 7 AM, Matt, Joe, Diane and I piled into BirdBrain’s van (Better seats for Diane’s back) and drove the five and half hours to Philly, stopping only once for gas and breakfast sandwiches at DD’s. In contrast to last year, moving Matt and his pile of belongings into his dorm room was…can I say, fun? Not only were there no lines at the elevators, but it was a cool day and we had Joe’s help.

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Joe, Jordan and Matt.

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Dorm room window view. Remember all of last year’s contributions?

I take some solace in knowing I’m not the only one who sees this and thinks ‘Less than three.’

I take some solace in knowing I’m not the only one who sees this and thinks ‘Less than three.’

Tonight’s moon.

My Idylwilde flower photo of the week.

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Pesky Godson is leaving tomorrow for Iran

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Hil brought and cooked breakfast for us this morning. She expected the  modest Miller family plus Susan, but instead she served nine.

The usual.

The usual.

Diane’s labored for three years to entice humming birds to her feeders, and this summer she’s finally been rewarded. The photos are grainy at an iso of 1600.  If I don’t shoot fast the feeder looks good, but the bird is a blur.  And, like Adam and Tricia’s, the damn thing flits away when they detect human movement.