Friday, October 02, 2020

Shades of the apocalypse

I was quarantined for four days but it felt like weeks — sleeping alone, jogging along empty dirt roads, and ruminating on doomsday until I felt genuine gratitude for 2020, because "these are probably still the good times." During these darkening autumn days still singed with record heat and wildfire smoke, I decided that should health prevail, I was going to finish up the summer endurance projects I mapped out at the beginning of the season. I wanted to run the Pawnee-Buchanan loop, ride to the top of Mount Evans from home, and finally connect Devil's Thumb Pass to the elusive Caribou Pass on a loop I called "Big Lonesome." 

Big Lonesome was the most interesting and also arguably the easiest endeavor on my list — 28 miles with 7,200 feet of climbing, but all on trail and topping out just above 12,000 feet. Compared to the endless block talus, chunder gullies, steep ridges, and relentless high altitude of our recent mountain traverses, Big Lonesome would be a piece of cake. "We can even run some of it," I said to Beat, as though actual runnable terrain was the most compelling part of all. 

Monday's forecast called for real cold. A high of 37 at 9,000 feet, which would mean if the wind was cranking at 12,000 feet, it was going to be brrrrr. I speculated as much to Beat — "remember Niwot Ridge in January?" and packed insulated shorts and a balaclava on top of my usual mountain layers. Beat still wore his thin bib shorts, insisting that "my legs rarely get cold." Let me just state for the record that this argument baffles me. Legs are part of the same vascular system as everything else in the body. Cold wind on exposed skin will cool blood rapidly, and that cold blood is going to end up in your core. Where does this reasoning from shorts enthusiasts even come from? 

The temperature for our 7:15 a.m. start was 24 degrees, causing Beat to scrunch up his face as soon as we stepped out of the car. I thought it felt amazing. The crispest of crisp autumn mornings — the kind where I'm cozy in my pants and vest, but when a breeze brushes my face, I can almost taste a sharp infusion of energy. This exhilaration was almost immediately followed by sadness. I recently spent far too much alone time reading about climate change research, which shows how even mild cold will become increasingly rare  — confined to higher latitudes, deeper winter, and unpredictable shifts in the Arctic Vortex. Whenever I think about change, I feel a preemptive sense of loss. But I refused to stifle the frosty zing of mountain air with dull heartache. Not today. One lesson 2020 has taught me is to not pin anything on an uncertain future. All we have is now.

This cold and stunningly clear morning was more than enough. The summer crowds have largely faded, and we only passed one other couple near Hessie townsite during our blitz to Devil's Thumb Pass. Fall colors in the region are muted this year, with only patches of gold amid the faded green of aspen groves. The tundra is now copper and beige. As we crested the Continental Divide, I remembered the way this ridge used to burst with life, when it was a thick carpet of green speckled with wildflowers, just three months ago. Change is swift, here and everywhere. 

The breeze was already brisk at 9 a.m., and my water hose froze. After criticizing Beat's shorts, I ended up feeling underdressed myself. I had plenty of layers in my backpack, but I felt a strange reluctance to stop for the jacket and balaclava that dominated my thoughts. Why? Beat was marching, and I wanted to keep up. The wind was cranking, and I didn't want to stop moving. Beat noted that he could smell smoke, but my sinuses were so clogged that I no longer bothered trying to breathe through my nose. I just put my head down and marched, and hoped the wind would relent soon.

"We're heading back down into the trees," Beat reasoned when I asked whether he planned to put on a jacket. 

"All downhill from here," I quipped. I appreciated that this mountain adventure only briefly tagged the frigid alpine zones. I looked forward to easy trail miles as opposed to an arduous ridge traverse. My legs felt peppy and my feet more nimble than usual. I was able to dance around rocks and pick up speed as we descended toward the valley. Running! In the mountains! There's no better feeling. If I had been looking at something besides the ground, I might have noticed the bigger picture — a ripple of flattened trees, perhaps, or the ominous haze darkening the horizon. Living in the moment is exhilarating, but in hindsight, some forward-thinking can prevent a lot of misery. 


We soon dropped below treeline and almost immediately encountered piles of uprooted trees strewn across the trail. Deadfall is a frequent obstacle in these pine beetle-ravaged forests, so I didn't think much of it. But within a half-mile, we found ourselves climbing over fallen giants, wending around 15-foot-high walls of roots and dirt, and groping for weaknesses amid impenetrable tangles of branches. 

"This is dangerous," Beat argued. The deadfall pile continued down-canyon as far as we could see. Massive tree trunks had snapped and splintered into treacherous blades. Some trees were suspended more than six feet off the ground, propped up by still-healthy limbs. Going over or under these precariously suspended widowmakers seemed like, well, a death wish.

"It has to be avalanche debris," I reasoned, imagining a spring slide driving concrete-like blocks of snow and ice down from Devil's Thumb Pass. Wet slides can be destructive but they don't travel far, usually. I felt confident that if we could find a way around the pile, we'd be free of the tangle and back to running easy on the trail. 

"This trail is part of the CDT," I reasoned. "It's a major trail." 

We picked our way to the edge of the canyon, climbed until the slope became too steep to support solid footing, then descended back to the slightly more stable ground only to encounter yet more impenetrable deadfall. The trail itself was entirely buried. I could trace the track on my GPS, but from 200 feet away, all I could see was mayhem, as though someone dropped a bomb here. Deadfall wasn't confined to the creekbed; it extended hundreds of feet up the mountainside. Evidence was mounting that this was not the work of an avalanche, but I'd created such a convincing story in my mind that it was difficult to see past it. 

"We just need to get lower in the valley," I reasoned. "There's this road on the map; it's not far."

Beat reminded me that at our pace — crawling up and down sideslopes at a half-mile per hour — any distance was far. Maybe the road was buried as well. Maybe the mayhem went on for miles. How could we know? 

I blustered back that such a scenario was so unlikely. "I was here just three years ago, with Leslie when she hiked the CDT. It was an easy cruiser trail then. How could it possibly change so much in three years?"

We continued along the sideslope, balancing precariously across a loose rockslide before dropping back to the bomb blast. It was only getting worse. The road marked on my GPS was nowhere to be found. I vocally conceded defeat, but then Beat suggested climbing to the top of the ridge to seek cleaner ground. From there, we looked down on an open swamp that looked not terribly far away, and I knew this was where the trail turned north and climbed out of this godforsaken drainage. It had to get better from there. Still, it was clear the ridge dropped precipitously from where we stood, and it seemed unlikely we'd find a way down it without getting cliffed out. 

"I don't want to go back through what we've been through, but ..." Beat hesitated.

"Neither do I," I replied. "But ... what is it they call this?" I scoured my fatigued brain for the term. "Sunk cost fallacy! You know, when you've invested so much, and you don't want to lose what you've invested because you're convinced you're so close to your reward, so you invest just a little bit more. But all this leads to is more loss."

"Let's see if there's a way down," Beat suggested. "And set a turnaround time."

The descent off the ridge wasn't as bad as we were expecting, although there was one more unstable rockslide where Beat nearly gave in and I urged him forward. We reconnected with the trail, which brought vocal rejoicing. But within a hundred yards we were hopping matchsticks again, and then huge tree trunks, and then we were back in an expansive mire of destruction. We picked our way to both sides of the valley and found no way around. Here, I was the one to concede defeat. "I'm out of ideas. Let's turn around." I need to state for the record that at this crucial junction, it was Beat's idea to try to crawl over the deadfall pile. Both of us ripped pants and skewered limbs during the battle, and my knees came out badly bruised. But we didn't want to go back. We really didn't want to go back. 

We found our way back to the trail just as it began to veer uphill, and I felt a wave of relief. Finally, we were free of the drainage of doom. This freedom, sadly, was extremely short-lived. The trail dropped into another drainage and ran parallel to the creek. Trees were down everywhere. 

"This isn't an avalanche," Beat said.

"No," I mumbled. "No, it's just wind. It must be. But I've never seen anything like it."

At this point, nearly six hours and only four miles had passed since we dropped off of Devil's Thumb Pass. It felt like time had ended, like we were experiencing a world after the end of the world, after the forests had fallen and humans were no longer around to sweep up the damage. This idea replaced the misguided avalanche story that had been looping through my head. After that, I saw only a macabre dreamscape —splintered wood and dried grass drenched in the eerie light of a smoke-shrouded sky.

"It's terrible, but beautiful in its own way," I thought.

I wish I could say that conditions improved shortly after that, but they did not. Beat's prediction of miles of mayhem is what came true, and he was not happy about it. There was much swearing, more skewering, slogging through swamps, and route-finding through a maze of 15-foot-high slash piles. I abhor bushwhacking and have been known to complain loudly after just a few minutes of it. But in this case, I kept my mouth shut, acknowledging my fault in the matter while quietly marveling that my "easy trail run" had somehow become more of a scramble than I could have ever imagined. 

"I really have hiked this trail before," I mumbled. "Something isn't right. Did we pick up an abandoned trail? How does something become so destroyed in just three years?"

We discussed what we'd do if we couldn't get through to Caribou Pass. If we had to spend a night out in the 20-degree weather. I thought hunkering down or descending Meadow Creek Road to Tabernash would be safer than trying to return the way we came, bashing through the mayhem in the dark. It would be miles to town, though, likely 10 to 15. Beat speculated that the road could be in as terrible shape as the trail, and I couldn't disagree with him. I'd been wrong about everything else. Did Tabernash even still exist? I couldn't be sure. 


Early evening light had saturated the sky by the time we turned off the High Lonesome Trail/CDT onto Caribou Pass Trail. Here we saw evidence of trail work — fresh sawdust sprinkled over the dirt — and we were able to walk more than a hundred yards without hopping over a downed tree or snagging torn pants on a tangle of branches. About a mile later, we encountered a crew of four young forest service employees hauling an enormous crosscut saw, along with other hand tools. We stopped a woman in the crew and asked her about the trail ahead. As we expected, they hadn't worked much beyond where we were standing, but she guessed we'd only have to negotiate a couple more miles of deadfall before we climbed above treeline. 

"This is all from that storm earlier this month," she said. "Thousands of trees came down."

Suddenly, all of my disjointed stories finally clicked together. I couldn't fathom how an entire forest could come down in just three years. But a single storm, three weeks ago — that made sense.

We told her about our descent along the High Lonesome Trail. She wasn't even aware of the damage to that trail. They'd only assessed and worked on a few miles of the most popular day hikes around Grand County. They were trying to clear as much as they could before winter, but expected to only reach a fraction. Most of this forest is designated wilderness. Power tools are prohibited, and that includes chainsaws. I got a little teary-eyed as I thanked the woman for the crew's hard work.

"I'll never take trail work for granted, ever again," I said.

She shrugged. "Hey. It's job security." 

The following day, I'd spend more than two hours digging around for information about what happened here. Surprisingly, I found little. No trail closures were listed on the U.S. Forest Service web sites, and the Continental Divide Trail Coalition included only a vague warning about trail damage in Grand County. This storm happened more than three weeks ago. It was the same strong front that dropped nearly a foot of snow on Boulder and blasted Salt Lake City with 110 mph winds. I'd heard strong winds also hit Winter Park and Steamboat Springs, but again, there was little in the way of official reporting. Finally, that same day — Sept. 29 — 9News aired a report about the damage. The report included enlightening footage and quotes from district rangers:

"What we've seen so far is tens of thousands of trees that have blown down."

"It was such a violent wind coming from the east, it laid everything down, similar to a nuclear blast."

"Where chainsaws are not allowed, it could be several summers before this is cleared out."

All information that would have been nice to know yesterday. We had berated ourselves for not researching trail conditions before embarking on our loop, but much of this information wasn't even public before we set out. How many others were caught out unaware? Out of curiosity I did some Strava stalking and was only able to find one other person who had definitely been through since the storm. He titled his run "Through the blowdown to Monarch Lake" and took more than 12 hours to travel 17 miles. 

The trail worker's assessment proved true, and we did have to climb over and under trees all the way to treeline. From there, we still had to negotiate steep and rocky terrain as a hard wind drove the chill into frigid depths. When I planned this loop, the segment I'd fretted about the most was the final traverse to Caribou Pass, which wraps around cliffs over precipitous and loose dropoffs. Twice in the past, I've tried to get through and have been stopped by snowfields. I knew if any snow lingered from the Sept. 8 storm, it would be frozen to hard ice and a definite no-go. With this knowledge, I planned the loop in this direction anyway, because I figured we could find some way over and around if the trail proved impassable. But I wasn't sure. Wouldn't it be funny if, after all that, we couldn't get through to Caribou Pass and had to turn around anyway? Luckily the snow was gone, and the traverse, while a bit spicy, was a nonissue. 

From there, it truly was just down and down and down. We could finally breathe sighs of relief, fairly certain that the popular Arapaho Pass Trail remained passable. It was a lot later than we'd planned, and eerily quiet. If we hadn't run into that trail crew, I would have probably become more convinced that my end-of-the-world daydream was, perhaps, reality.


Our loop wrapped up with four miles on Fourth of July Road. We'd both dreaded this part since it was a road slog, but in this context, I found it pleasantly enjoyable — just to shut my brain off and jog effortlessly with no obstacles in the way. Never mind that my knees ached and my legs were so tired after ten miles of climbing and crawling through a jungle maze — mostly downhill — that I was only able to boost them to 14-minute miles. We'd had an adventure, that was for sure. And that was all we could ask for in the end. 

Sunday, September 27, 2020

Love on a mountain

Photo by Betsy Williford

On the 19th day of September 2020, Beat and I "did join in matrimony in accordance with the laws of the state of Colorado at _______." (What follows "at?" We had to look it up on Google. Oh, the place where we did the whole ceremony thing?) "at Bear Peak, Boulder County." With the marriage license and what turned out to be a nearly dry ballpoint pen, we scrambled to gather the signatures of our officiant and four witnesses while I dug through my pack for five working headlamps out of a dozen or so that were of questionable usage ... the whole thing went later than expected. But it was a beautiful moment — as beautiful as I could have imagined, way back when I was a teenager, and promised my mother that *if* I ever got married, as unlikely as it seemed at the time, it would definitely happen on a mountaintop. 

 
Yes, Beat and I got married. Our ceremony happened more than a week ago. I started uploading these photos last Tuesday, but I haven't been able to write about it since. Beat and I were enjoying our first week of "being legal," and I was planning an Idaho Hot Springs bikepacking trip (camping and distanced) with friends that I was intensely excited about — leaving the state feels like such an exotic novelty right now. I was packed and ready to head out the next morning when I received a call from the salon I visited right before the ceremony on Saturday — also a first for me during the pandemic — that my hairstylist tested positive for COVID-19. So instead of riding bikes or even spending my first week of wedded bliss with Beat, I scheduled a COVID test, isolated in a different part of the house, and only went out one hour per day to run along empty rural roads near my house. 

I've been wracked with guilt and shame, on top of the sudden loneliness. Although my potential exposure to COVID was mere hours before the ceremony, a timeline in which there is almost zero chance for enough virus to replicate and spread, the notion that my selfish actions could have potentially exposed friends and family has haunted me. I already knew we were taking a risk, that I was one of "those people" who held a wedding during a pandemic. Suddenly the one good thing to come out of 2020 did not seem good. 
 
This morning, I received the results of my test. Negative. It's what I was expecting since I've had no symptoms, and since the salon had a strict mask and sanitization policy. I was greatly relieved, but it doesn't change the shadow that falls over even the good things about 2020. It doesn't change the anger I feel about the outbreak currently burning through my community, ignited by the return of students to CU Boulder. It doesn't change the despair I feel about my country and our apparent zeal to achieve "herd immunity," which not only isn't going to happen, it's likely to take all of us down with it — either by way of economic disaster, mental and physical health declines, or actual death. The heat returned this week and Colorado wildfires flared up dramatically, bringing back to the Front Range some of the worst air quality in the world. I chose to use my isolated, cloistered time to read and ruminate on climate change, which led to nihilistic thoughts such as "maybe the universe will take mercy on me, and I'll kick it from COVID before November 3." Of course, I don't really believe this. Even if things become as bad as I fear, I still want to be around, to witness the great story that is Life on Earth. Love and beauty still surmount despair but a large margin. Still, my head hasn't been in a great place since Wednesday, and it was just too difficult to write about the wedding. 

Photo by Betsy Williford

Now I'm re-emerging into the realm of the living, and I remember that just over a week ago, there was this beautiful evening when all I felt was joy. Beat and I have been together for a decade now — in fact, the ten-year anniversary of our first "date" at the Bear 100 was September 24. For more than nine years we've enjoyed the spoils of a domestic partnership, which afforded us many of the benefits of marriage along with a streak of independence that I think both of us appreciated. But amid the health uncertainties of the pandemic and increasingly political uncertainties in the U.S., we decided a legal union would be preferable. We became officially engaged in July, and my excitement about this was both surprising and genuine. As it turned out, the official commitment did matter to me. Beat seemed excited as well. He joked with friends that "we need to get Jill started on her Swiss citizenship as soon as possible" — which isn't wholly a joke, but it is a nice excuse to solidify our bond. 

Photo by Lisa Cannon

We were going to wrap it up neat, tidy, and socially distanced at a courthouse, but then my parents expressed a desire to attend as witnesses. My sisters wanted to join us as well. Then I caught a whiff of romance and wanted to put together something a little more interesting. Maybe, as I had always threatened to do when I was a defiant Mormon teenager, I could get married on top of a mountain. Here in Colorado, Bear Peak is "our" mountain. It was the first peak Beat and I visited in Boulder, during our relocation investigation in 2015. As we stood on its summit for the first time, we looked west toward the Continental Divide and down to a ribbon of dirt roads dotting the hills and said, "we want to live there." Now we can see this pyramid summit from our bedroom window. Bear Peak is likely the mountain I've visited most of any mountain in the world. I thought I was getting close to 100 summits, so I checked my Strava stats — the tally is 104. Black Mountain outside Los Altos, California, might still hold more summits for me — I don't have all the data I need to figure this out — but certainly Bear will surpass this soon enough if it hasn't already.

Admittedly, Beat initially wasn't too keen on holding a ceremony on top of Bear Peak. For starters, it's a narrow and rocky summit — difficult to find the space needed to socially distance a dozen or so people. It's popular, so it was unlikely we'd find privacy. It's also hard to access from any aspect. We chose to climb the west ridge from a trailhead close to our house, so it would only be three miles round trip with about 1,200 feet of climbing. But most of that elevation must be gained in the last half mile, which is especially rocky and steep. My youngest sister is five months pregnant, my other sister is a working nurse with four children and little time for cardio, my mother has had knee problems in recent years, and my father had severe limitations on his mobility due to a herniated disc. As it all became clear just how difficult this was going to be for everyone, I tried to backpedal on my plans. But my family insisted that this was a unique opportunity, and they wanted to make it happen. 

My sisters and mother had no issues with the steep terrain. But I didn't even realize how much of a challenge this would be for my dad. I've just gotten used to him being a stronger hiker than me, even well into his sixties. Since he retired he's been more active than ever, and as recently as August was climbing mountains in the Wasatch that I still find too intimidating to attempt. But this back injury took its toll, clamping down on his sciatic nerve until he was hobbled and in constant pain. Again, when I realized how bad it had become, I tried to move the ceremony to a nice meadow near our house, but he begged me not to change anything. I know my dad, and I knew how much this would hurt his sense of pride and duty. In his place, I would probably be just as stubborn. But I sure felt conflicted, anxious, and stressed about juggling all of the logistics and contingency plans. Which I suppose is how most brides feel on their wedding day. Which is why I never really understood the appeal of weddings. Which is why I always vowed to get married on a mountaintop, far away from everything. And so the cycle never ends.

Photo by Betsy Williford

It was wonderful to see everyone in my family again. The weather was surprisingly perfect. We had that week of snow, but then temperatures roared back into the 80s. Thick haze had returned by the time my family arrived in Colorado. The views were muted and air quality was bad enough to leave me with a sore throat after Beat and I did our Bear Peak scouting hike on Thursday. Then on Saturday, the smoke cleared out for one day and temperatures fell to that not-too-hot, not-too-cold range that let everyone hike comfortably and sit comfortably as evening arrived. 

Photo by Betsy Williford
Also joining us were four good friends from the area, one friend's spouse, and a charismatic officiant that my friend Wendy helped me find at the very last minute. To accommodate everyone, I found an open, private spot just below the west side of the summit, where there was enough room for the group to perch on rocks and listen from a reasonable distance. The sunset views were incredible, but it did mean standing right next to a ledge for the ceremony. I admit that I got a little woozy amid all of the social energy and stumbled once, luckily plunging into a bush rather than off the side of the mountain. Of course, I thought, if anyone had to be carted away from my wedding in a search and rescue helicopter, odds are it would be me. 

Photo by Betsy Williford
Beat wanted to wait for Daniel, his defacto best man who had a prior engagement. So he showed up 15 minutes late after literally sprinting up the mountain, soaked in sweat and out of breath. For the hike, Beat wore his race shirt from the Bear 100, a homage to our first date in 2010, and also to draw a parallel between our first adventure (Bear 100) and the starting line for our next adventure (Bear Peak.) He changed into his best wool Iditarod Trail Invitational shirt for the ceremony, drawing the line that connects so many of our adventures in between. 

Photo by Lisa Cannon

I was seriously going to do the race shirt thing as well, but then found this cute hiking dress from prAna. The flowers were my mother's idea. The thought hadn't even occurred to me, but she coaxed me to pick some out on Saturday, so of course I went with the lovely autumn-hued blooms that didn't really match my dress, nor did either match the lucky pink socks that even Beat protested. Then there's the black mask I'm either wearing or holding in all of the photos my sisters and friends captured on their phones. Looking or acting normal has just never been my forte, but Beat (and my mother) seem to love me anyway. 

Photo by Sara Large
The ceremony itself was short and sweet. David, the officiant, gave a humorous speech about some of the lessons he's learned in 42 years of marriage as well as in ultramarathons that he's run. Beat and I read vows that recounted a favorite adventure before making a few promises. I promised love and appreciation, and may or may not have mentioned fixing bikes and taping bruised knees. Beat became emotional, which of course got my waterworks going. 

Photo by Sara Large
It was an incredible moment. The literal and metaphorical mountains we all had to summit to arrive at this place made it all the more meaningful.

I wasn't going to be truly happy until everyone was off the mountain. Beat and Daniel sprinted back down to pick up takeout for an informal outdoor dinner afterward, my friends and sisters made their way down in the waning light, and Mom, Dad and I picked our way down in full darkness. Admittedly, this was quite harrowing. Dad seemed to struggle as he took care not to slip. I gave night-hiking tips to Mom, who never before had to scramble down boulders by headlamp, or understood the way such light flattens the appearance of obstacles on a trail. Phew. After the whole thing was over, I was more exhausted than I've been yet this summer. Even our Mummy Madness traverse was nothing compared to this one ascent of a mountain I've been up a hundred-plus times. But it was beautiful, meaningful, and even amid all of the challenges that 2020 has thrown our way, worth it. 
Monday, September 14, 2020

A breath of fresh snow

We were so lucky last Tuesday. While family in Utah endured an "inland hurricane" with 100 mph winds, friends in San Francisco walked beneath pumpkin-orange skies, and friends in Oregon couldn't even venture outside for groceries as their air quality index spiked to off-the-charts 700s, we were hit by a September snowstorm. It was Boulder's earliest first snow on record. The storm was a boon for our neighborhood — between 8 and 10 inches of heavy snow wafted through the smoke-clogged air and fell on the thirsty ground. I walked outside on a 28-degree morning and took a deep, gratifying breath. After weeks of smoke and heat and altitude, it felt like the first time I could breathe properly this summer. And it was still summer. A summer snowstorm. The most beautiful anomaly. 

I took a progression of landscape photos from our balcony to illustrate the wild swings in the weather this week — starting with the record heat and apocalyptic air on Monday: 
 

12:57 p.m. Monday, September 7. 88 degrees and smoky.

8:41 a.m. Tuesday, September 8. 26 degrees with 8-10" of new snow. 

4:26 p.m. Wednesday, September 9. 38 degrees with spots of sunshine that really highlight the green leaves on the cottonwood trees below.

6:47 p.m. Wednesday, September 9. 34 degrees and clearing.

8:33 a.m. Thursday, September 10. 31 degrees and foggy with snow flurries.

6:45 a.m. Friday, September 11. 34 degrees and breezy. 

6:40 p.m. Friday, September 11. 57 degrees and calm after a windy day filled with lenticular clouds. So nice.

8:02 a.m. Sunday, September 13. 68 degrees and clear. It hit 81 later in the day. 

Summer is back. But that snowfall sure was a nice respite. This week, I mostly played catch-up after our many long mountain adventures. So the adventures weren't as grand, but I have a few more photos I wanted to post.

The fuschia sun sinking into a thick shroud of smoke on Monday night. Our local wildfire, the Cameron Peak Fire, had an explosive weekend and more than tripled in size in just two days. Tuesday's snow was possibly the only saving grace between us and an Oregon-level tragedy that had the potential to threaten larger communities such as Estes Park. Still, a whopping 14 inches of snow only dampened the fire, which has destroyed 54 structures and torched 102,000 acres. It's still only 4 percent contained. But at least the spread slowed for a week, and firefighters were able to work in some of the more remote sections.

Beat and I enjoyed a few short, sweet and snowy outings on our local trails. 

On Sunday, we joined our friend Betsy for a 45-mile ride from Rollinsville to the Divide at Rollins Pass. Betsy and I hoped to go bikepacking near Buena Vista on Friday-Saturday, but the snowstorm threw a wrench in those plans. I was fine with this, actually, as I'm experiencing a bit of a late-summer lull and more inclined to sit by a wood stove and relax rather than hustle toward another adventure. By Sunday the weather was summer-like again, so Betsy rallied to load up her bike and camp at Jenny Lake. Beat and I were lightly loaded for the day trip. 

Even after several days of normal late-summer temperatures, patches of snow still clung to the hillsides. Rollins is a lovely ride, even if the road is a minefield of babyheads. I even took my fat bike this time, complete with its 4.8" tires and Lauf fork, thinking I could just steamroll over the rocks. But my leg is still sore from falls on Hague and Mummy mountains, and my winter wrist injury has been acting up as well. So I was inclined to baby my tender bruises and annoyed that the Rollins rocks were still doling out their usual beating. 

We hiked the bikes over Needle Eye Tunnel and rounded the steep north slope guarded by unnervingly rickety Turn-of-the-Century trestles. 

Deep snow drifts already blocked the rest of the road. Along this wet-feet slog, we encountered several other cyclists who said they were part of a race called The Rollins Ramble. Their route took them 75 miles up and over the pass to Winter Park, then back. I looked up the results and they only list those from 2019 — 15 starters and only three finishers, with the winner making the trip in just under eight hours. Beat teased me about whether I would have entered this race if I knew about it, and I replied with a flat out, "No, I don't like racing bikes anymore." But then he reminded me that I relented to both the Winter and Summer Bear races in Steamboat Springs in 2019, and had a great time at both. And then I remembered that I also finished reasonably well at those races. Whereas I'm a terrible trail runner by Colorado standards, and would probably have to battle cutoffs at the local 50K (Golden Gate Dirty Thirty), I could definitely finish a Rollins Ramble. I swore off "regular" bike racing back in 2013, after I crashed out of the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow. But it would be fun to challenge something like that again, and maybe I should rethink my "bikes are only for fun and maybe the occasional grueling Iditarod expedition or White Mountains 100 or Tour Divide" policy. I do miss racing. I wonder if they even hold 24-hour races anymore?

This was a nice afternoon to pedal a relaxed pace to the pass, enjoy a leisurely snack at the top, and head back. We'd rambled slowly enough that the shadows were growing long, and Beat and I realized we'd have to hustle somewhat to make it back by dark. We left Betsy at Jenny Lake and bounced our way downhill.

Yes, this week was a much-needed breath of fresh air. It's highly likely we have more smoke in our near future, and I wake up every morning feeling a sense of dread that the flames will find us, too. (This summer dread has mostly replaced my spring dread surrounding COVID-fallout, which will surely soon be usurped by autumn election dread, so I recognize that this is a personality quirk I need to continue to address with a therapist.) 

Still, for a few days it was winter, and all felt peaceful and right.