​Sometimes, running alone on a forest trail, you see things. 

Hearing things is pretty common: grey and brown song sparrows flitting through the scrub oak, tiny chipmunks startling in the dry foliage and making enough racket you’d think a bear was in there. I love the solitude and the silent background to the birdsong and chipmunk drama. Though I’m mostly focused on the trail so I don’t trip over a root knob and eat dirt, I scan my surroundings so I don’t run into a bear, or more likely a moose, eating breakfast and oblivious to my presence.

But sometimes, you see strange things. One day while descending, I came around a bend on Orton Trail and caught a glimpse of a dark figure ahead of me. Except - there was nothing there but the short, dark and dead trunk of a tree, rough and bulging wide at the center - with a face! His one blue-grey eye stared at me inquisitively, nose and mustachioed mouth questioning “who are you?”  This tree sprite put a grin on my face. 

After that, I made sure my route included my friend. Each time I ran up Emerald I would say “Hi” as he gave me a look of encouragement, and each time I ran down his nod of “nice job” would always make me smile. I’d even tap the trunk in hello. What a stalwart supporter for each and every training run all last fall. 

In early summer this year I finally made my way back to run on Emerald. As I’ve written in There’s No Place Like Emerald Mountain, these trails are my favorite place to be. It truly is the wonderland of trail running - at least for me. The way Eye-to-Eye twists back onto itself repeatedly so that I’m almost seeing myself run by in the opposite direction. The thickening of the trees on Hudson near where the old Hudson car is, the trail dark and eerie, despite the sunshine elsewhere. The way the gnome has a way of hiding in the foliage at the Blackmere entrance to Larry’s. I’m not a fan of magical thinking - but the stories and experiences and community contribution to Emerald Mountain have created a place in nature that is both magic and whimsy.

So as I ran up Emerald in June after six months away, I was excitedly anticipating greeting my friend the tree sprite. As I approached my smile and hello tap were ready…but the face was gone. All that was left was one little screw.

For the rest of the run I shifted between sadness and anger. Did someone steal the face? Did they have so little understanding and regard for the Emerald vibe, were they that clueless? I cursed them through my disappointment. And really, it was beyond disappointment. I felt bereft, desolate - something precious had been taken.

I didn’t run up there again. 
Until this past Saturday. I decided it was time to head up Emerald. The first climb usually gets my heart rate into the red in about ten yards, and it felt good to be back. I even passed a cyclist climbing Blackmere - which was something, considering my pace was slo-mo. Approaching the tree of my old friend, the sprite, I was prepared for the sadness of his expressionless trunk…but lo and behold, he was back!!! New face, comical expression…and somehow Emerald felt complete again.

That face in the forest is a friend, and more. The sprite is a wink to the quirkiness and fun, a testament to the friendliness and camaraderie, a nod to the spirit of the unknown…the enchantment of a face in the forest.

​There’s a photograph near my dining table. My dad snapped this pic on a summer day, in a lush green city park. There are four behatted subjects: my grandmother, my mom, my one-year-old daughter, and me. My two favorite things about this picture are the suspicious glare with which my daughter is regarding her grandfather, and that we are four generations and the span of time that represents.

The photo is like a time-traveling window. I look through it and am in that day. I feel the hot July air on my skin, playground sand rough on my ankles, the slide scorching fingers and bum. I hear the high-pitched squeak of the swing chains being pushed to the max, the squeals of children playing tag. I see squirrels racing around and up the trunks of huge shade trees, bees buzzing amongst the red and pink blooms of roses a short distance away. 
* * * * *
The above photo of Dali’s bronze sculpture La Noblesse du temps (Nobility of time) was placed in its current location in Andorra in 2010. The soft clock face is draped over a sturdy tree. Dali used the crown on the top edge of the clock to signify time’s dominion over humans. I am resistant to this idea of time lording it over us. 

We can’t stop time, can’t stop the aging of our bodies and faculties. But stepping deeply into our recollections allows us to play with time. In that action of engaging with memories, we are time travelers. 

Most of us can choose a snapshot from our childhood - a physical picture or a picture held in our mind’s eye. We can focus on the details of that memory and allow the sensations of that day to burst into our mind like popcorn popping. The smell of the wet earth after a hard rain. The feel of a cold dog nose pushing into the palm of your hand. The sound of a train horn moving down the track slicing through the still night. The taste of your favorite cookie, hot out of the oven, melting across your tongue. Each sensation gives way to others, a long hallway of memory doors opening one after another, until you are right back in that space and time. You have traveled there. 
* * * * *
On the day of that four-generation picture of my family, I am a mom still new to her job. Slathering sunblock on little pudgy arms, tying the sunhat back on for the 81st time. In the picture, my hand is holding my daughter’s chest - holding her heart. A couple years later, we’d use our hands over our hearts at morning preschool drop-off. She’d be at the goodbye window (the crying window), and as she watched me walk to my car, we both knew I was in her heart and she was in mine all day long. 

My daughter is now 17. Today we are adventuring - exploring colleges on a 3000-mile road trip.  We are many many days down the line from that July park outing almost 16 years ago. I would not agree that the “time has flown,” or that “it goes so fast.” More than a few days of those growing up years were mighty long ones. I am blessed to have clarity of detail and feeling in myriad moments with my daughter. The more I recall, the more memories come in. The way you look at the night sky, and the longer you gaze, the more bright stars show themselves - until there are so many stars the sky is filled with light.

Originally published June, 2023

It's 5:00am. I switch on my light, wrap myself in my fleece-lined flannel while still under the warm covers, and reluctantly get out of bed. While my tea water boils I look out the window to determine my clothing choices - the snow is blowing sideways and there’s plenty on the ground. Shortly after 5:30 I head out the door, swathed in layers from head to toe, headlamp beaming into the dark, my Salomon spiked running shoes biting into the icy snow.

By the time I make it back, around 8:30, I’ve done battle with Mr. Grumpy in an old work truck outfitted with a plow up on Fish Creek Falls Road, avoided SUVs filled with eager families racing down Steamboat Boulevard to the ski mountain, and, though I’ve been snacking and sipping from my running vest, I’m hungry, tired, and ready for some hot coffee, even if it is decaf.

That was my Saturday morning routine last winter. I was training for the Run Through Time trail half-marathon in Salida last March, and my daughter and I compared notes on training all winter since she was doing it too. Most of my Saturday long runs involved some version of a blizzard, although there were a few clear mornings that were so frigid I got colder as the hours went by. That’s winter training.

I would not say that I looked forward to those long run days - and most especially I dreaded the run-ins with the foul-tempered snowplow driver. But I was highly motivated to get the miles in, wanting to be as prepared as possible for Salida.

This year is different. My daughter and I are doing the full trail marathon in Salida this coming March. After a decade away from trail running (with the sole exception of the half-marathon last March), I started training on Emerald Mountain in August. But instead of my long runs being something to be gotten through, I’ve discovered that running Emerald Mountain is my favorite thing to do. 

I’ve written about some of the things that make Emerald special (There’s No Place Like Emerald Mountain Part 1 of 3, and Emerald Mountain - More Than A Gem Part 2 of 3). But I’m also aware that it is running specifically that makes my time there so fulfilling. There is something singularly satisfying when trotting along those trails. Ducking under gnarled and blackened tree boughs on Eye to Eye’s crazy maze-like switchbacks. Climbing the steep Stairway to Heaven, knowing that it is getting me to the top as quickly as it can. Hudson alternating between sunny clearings and patches of woods ominous and dark from trees tightly packed. The quiet peace and long views to the west on Wild Rose, delicately sprinkled with a touch of white. Of course this could all be experienced at a walk. But it is the running, where even at my slow pace, there is a brief moment when both feet are off the ground. With each and every stride, I am flying, just that little bit. 

It could also be the endorphins. I’m up there long enough for the endorphins to come and go, and return again. The trail marathon, with its 4000 feet of climbing, might take me over 7 hours to complete. Although my longest run to date is only 4.5 hours, that is still tons of endorphin-marination for my body and brain.

But the other morning, I realized one of the key reasons that running on Emerald is my happy place. I headed up in a soft rain, which was pleasant until the build-up of heavy clay mud rendered my trotting to a slip-slide-squelch. With a bit more elevation the raindrops became snowflakes, the mud firmed up and gave way to snow. When I reached the top I paused before heading back down. All was hushed. The dark trees stood, eerie in the misty fog, their witches’ brooms prominent. The trail, carpeted in thick white, beckoned as it disappeared around a bend. 

Eager to accept the trail’s invitation, I headed down. I made my way towards Blackmere (the main dirt/gravel road up to the Quarry), aiming to hit it towards the bottom to avoid the worst of the muck I’d come through on the way up. Thus, I exchanged one trail for another all the way down - a mountain do-si-do: Stairway to Prayer Flag, a quick side step to Hudson, back to Prayer Flag, then Blair Witch to Larry’s. Navigating roots and rocks, up and around curvy switchbacks, pushing the pace on firm ground, tip-toeing through slushy puddles. 

In the midst of all this, it came to me: play. Yes - play - that was why I loved it up here - I was having a great time! I remembered how much fun Charlotte and I had one morning, even though we got separated, because we were always just missing each other on the trails, always nearby but not close enough to see one another. It was like playing a game of tag with the mountain as our playground. 

I think Emerald is wise to this. It welcomes the sense of play, and the love of its stories and its history. Emerald Mountain is aware of the fact that there are silly humans like me running around its generous flanks, reveling at the way the icicles drip from horizontal branches as the sun rises, at the glimpse of a chestnut fox darting across a meadow, or a chocolate brown moose tranquilly chewing breakfast. Or the way the Tree Sprite gives me a wink at the end of every run. 

​There’s running trails, and there’s running on Emerald Mountain. 

Yes, Emerald really is that special, for many different reasons.

First off, its history. The first known inhabitants were the Yampa (also Yamparika or Yampatika)  Band of the Ute People, for which Emerald Mountain and Steamboat Springs were summer hunting grounds. The Ute People call themselves Nuuchu, which means “the human” or “the Ute.” The Utes stewarded the land, the plants and the animals in the Rocky Mountains until they were forcibly relocated to reservations in Utah and Southern Colorado, where they aim to continue their traditions, language and ceremonies and ancestral heritage. 

After white settlers arrived, the mountain was known as Quarry Mountain and Onyx Mountain. The quarry itself, as I understand, was instrumental in Carl Howelsen’s staying in Steamboat long enough to hold the first Winter Carnival and to start what is now known as the Winter Sports Club. The Flying Norwegian was ready to move on, but James Crawford made sure that Howelsen, a stone mason by trade, had plenty of work using stone mined from the quarry. There are still buildings on Lincoln in which Howelsen’s work can be seen. At some point in the decades that followed, the mountain became known as Emerald and that is the name that stuck.

Fast-forward to the early 90’s. Gretchen Sehler, a ski instructor and avid mountain biker, had the vision of a network of recreational mountain bike trails on Emerald. As it turned out, Gretchen also had the gumption, persistence, know-how and relationship-building to make that vision a reality. That reality is truly a gift to all of us in the Yampa Valley.

It was Larry Johnson who first introduced the Sehlers to Lyman Orton, who owned much of the land on Emerald Mountain. An enthusiastic biker himself, he was supportive of the trails being built, and sold the land to the City - for the same amount he paid for it, $300,000.

Gretchen and her late husband Marc Sehler took trail building courses through the International Mountain Bike Association (IMBA) in order to have a solid understanding of how to build a good trail: sustainable and fun to ride. They would design, walk and meticulously flag each trail, following a formula which allows a ratio of grade to flat so that rainwater and meltoff can be absorbed or dispersed naturally, without the use of waterbars. Trails designed this way are built to last, as erosion created by rapidly moving runoff are minimized. As a runner, the bonus of trails built this way is that I’m never climbing or descending straight up or down for a long period of time - there is an undulation that creates a rhythm and relative ease to my effort. 

Gretchen also formed relationships with the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and United States Forest Service (USFS), as well as with the City of Steamboat Springs and with Routt County Riders (RCR). The RCR worked closely with the City, who secured grant money needed for the trails project. Though several entities were involved, the glue was Gretchen. She realized the crucial role of relationships, and nurtured them to create win-win outcomes. Sometimes this required serious patience, for example waiting out a change in leadership to move forward, but Gretchen’s tenacity produced results that continue to benefit Routt County residents and visitors.

Gretchen and Marc held volunteer work days to actually build the trails they’d so carefully laid out. Some days, so many folks showed up to help that people were turned away because there were no more tools available. This was truly a community effort from beginning to end.

So maybe that is a part of what I feel when I’m up there trotting around. That sense of local engagement, caring and respect. Gretchen has even overheard kids speaking up to protect “their” trail to an unaware mountain biker: “hey, knock that off, I helped build this trail!” 

What pulls all these factors together and pushes the Emerald experience over the top are the trail monikers and iconic treasures that have popped up over time to mark them. Rather than arbitrarily assigning trail names, Gretchen says the trails earned them - there’s a story behind each name.

• MGM: Mica, Gretchen and Marc. Mica was a dear four-legged friend who spent many hours assisting Gretchen and Marc.
• Eye to Eye: originally a pirated trail, this was rebuilt to be more sustainable. The narrow trail switchbacks onto itself like a side-winder’s S-shaped curves. Passing someone going in the opposite direction, you are both eye to eye.
• Abby’s: Another four-legged family member of Gretchen and Marc’s. Abby always liked to go that way, though Gretchen was saying, “no, this way!” Abby was persistent, and that way became her trail.
• Hudson: Hudson cars were built in from 1909 until 1957. In 1919 Hudson broke the record for the fastest climb up Pike’s Peak. (Detroit Historical Society: Hudson Motors). Just off the trail called Hudson, you’ll find a corroded Hudson shell, probably driven up there and abandoned in the midst of some long-ago revelry. There’s a little car adorning one of the Hudson trail signs.
• Root Canal: this trail makes all the others seem butter-smooth - it is teeming with enough roots to make your teeth rattle. The trail sign has a pair of wind-up “chattering teeth” attached.
• Angry Grouse: grouse aren’t known for planning ahead. They tend to wait until you are right upon them before creating a dramatic getaway - so ridiculously unstrategic it is a wonder they are not extinct. However, they also have tempers. One evening Gretchen was minding her own trail business when a grouse flew at her ankles, pecking away, and wouldn’t ease up on its attack. Gretchen finally gave in and left. Now that was one angry grouse.
• No Mo’ Blues: originally this was another pirated trail, called Blues Bridges. Gretchen and Marc fixed it, and dubbed it No Mo’ Blues to indicate Blues Bridges was no more.
• Orton Trail: honoring Lyman Orton, without whose gift of land this project wouldn’t exist. Orton Trail treats you to a little golden meadow time, and a little time switchbacking through copses of trees. When I’m on my way down after a long run, Orton feels like home.
• Larry’s: honoring Larry Johnson. There is a red-hatted gnome that watches over the Larry’s trail sign, and the gnome is thought to be connected to John Kole, the late owner of One Stop Ski Shop. I’m hoping to learn the full story at some point.
• Wild Rose: so-named for the homestead that once sat on the lower west flank of Emerald.
• Blair Witch: a narrow trail through tight trees reminiscent of the 1999 Blockbuster film, The Blair Witch Project. There’s a spider web adorning the trail sign - perhaps a gift from the Blair Witch herself…
• Beall Trail: named for Ben Beall Senior, Routt County Commissioner from 1993-2000, who arranged the land swap to make that trail possible.
• Morning Gloria: named for Gloria Gossard who also donated a parcel of land to the Emerald trail system. 

*****
Every time I run, lope, walk and stumble around the trails of Emerald, the stories of the people who made this place possible are with me. There is a sense of awe whether I’m gazing at a jaw-dropping vista, deep in the evergreens, breathing in that sharp yet earthy scent, or running on a carpet of golden aspen leaves as the sun lights them up.


Sources
​A very special thanks to Gretchen Sehler, for her vision, her decades of trail work, and her willingness to share some of the stories with me.

Tread of Pioneers: Background on Ute People
City of Steamboat Springs: Indigenous Peoples of Yampa Valley Recognized
Steamboat Pilot: What’s in a Name?

Hallowed: from the Old English halgian "to make holy, sanctify; to honor as holy, consecrate, ordain." (Etymology Online: Hallow)

October is spooky month, when ghosts, witches, skeletons and tombstones are a common front-yard sight. October 31 is Halloween, All Hallows Eve, the night where the separation between living and dead is said to be less defined, more ethereal. In the eerie dark hours, we might imagine the spirits rising from their graves to swirl about, misty figures performing their haunted dance.


​And what of those places where we find graves? Graveyards, cemeteries, memorial parks, burial grounds - what distinguishes one from another? 





​Burial ground is a more general term referring to an area for the burying of dead bodies, an area set apart from the living and a means to honor the dead. It has been thought that Neanderthals and Homo sapiens, with their larger brain case, were the first to have the cognitive ability to see the dead as in a different state, engaging in what is known as “funerary behavior,” where rites and burials are performed. Earlier hominin were thought to exhibit  “mortuary behavior,” also displayed by elephants and chimps, where the living try to interact with the dead, as if the dead are not separate. Relatively recent finds in the Rising Star cave system in South Africa have led paleoanthropologists to believe that Homo naledi, with their much smaller brain case, did indeed exhibit funerary behavior by dropping the dead through a narrow opening called “The Chute.” The bones found are dated to 335,000 to 241,000 years ago, pre-dating by more than 100,000 years the prior earliest known burial.  National Geographic: Earliest Human Burial

The word graveyard is from the proto-Germanic words “graban” (to dig) and “gardan” (an enclosed area of land). In the Middle Ages, graveyards, or churchyards, were the areas adjacent to churches for the more common folk to be interred, while the wealthy and influential were often buried in crypts under the church itself. As populations increased, these graveyards became crowded - sometimes layers of burials deep. When many died from disease, graveyards were a centralizing place for the disease, making these places problematic, and actually horrific when floods caused coffins to surface and bodies to spill out. 

Enter the concept of a cemetery, from the Greek word “koimeterion” meaning “resting place.” Cemeteries developed in the U.S. in the 1830’s, and were on neutral ground rather than affiliated with specific churches. They were often located away from city centers, addressing the problem of available space. They tended to have large entrance gates or arches, signifying the separation between the living and the dead. Cemeteries were similar to parks at one point, as public gardens and parks were not yet mainstream. People would visit, picnic and enjoy the day amongst the beautiful grounds and ornate sculpture. Years ago, a couple of my dear clients, a loving husband and wife, told me that their first date was a picnic dinner at a cemetery. It definitely worked for them!

Memorial parks take the concept of distance a step further, often with grave markers flush to the ground for ease of maintenance. Rather than a place to stay awhile, they can be impersonal places with their immaculate lawns devoid of unique headstone decoration.

Personally I’ve always been a fan of graveyards and cemeteries. The more moss on the headstones and the older they were, the better. When I’d visit my grandparents over the summer in Maryland, they indulged my fascination and took me to many a graveyard. The little churchyards, stones marked with just names and dates, told simply and starkly of the deaths of young children or entire families. Some graves were adorned with elaborate sculpture, others with humble headstones, broken and crumbling. There was an occasional (and strange) upheaval of the ground from beneath a marker.

What drew me to these places most of all was a certain feeling. A stalwart oak, with massive trunk and forest-green canopy looming above, offering shade and solace. The permeating silence despite a soft breeze. Below my feet the body of someone who’d once lived, perhaps walked in this same place, a very long time ago. The rough surface of the stone on my fingertips as I’d trace the markings, wondering about their life. The feeling of a distant past touching the present moment, territory both mysterious and sacred. Hallowed ground. 

Sources

• YouTube Video: The Fascinating History of Cemeteries
• Huff Post: Here’s The Difference Between a Cemetery And A Graveyard
• National Geographic: Earliest Human Burial
• The Atlantic: Our First Public Parks: The Forgotten History of Cemeteries

Originally published October 24, 2024

​Grateful for the clouds dialing down the sun’s heat, I hoist myself and my 35-pound pack one more step up Hope Pass. We’ve gained close to 3500’ of elevation in just a few short miles, and though we’ve encountered a few hikers and several groups of runners, it is now silent but for the cool breeze across the alpine tundra. My trekking poles are the only things keeping me from falling over at this point. When I stop to take a look around, I revel in the view of the valley we’ve just climbed out of: dark green conifers surrounding the navy lake in the far distance. I bring my gaze to the beauty right at my feet - wildflowers, so many varieties and hues: blues and purples, yellows, reds, whites and oranges.

Turning back to the narrow dirt trail, I count one - two - three - four, one - two - three - four, one step at a time towards the next of several more switchbacks. I don’t even hope for the summit until I’m standing on it. 

It is the first full day of our CT adventure, my 19-year-old daughter Charlotte and I. We started out last night from Twin Lakes, just south of Leadville, and hiked in a couple miles to set up camp by headlamp. It was a lighthearted evening and this morning it was a lark to set off on the trail. The lapping of waves on the lakeshore seemed a good omen, as did the beaver out for its morning swim. 

Our plan is to do 60 miles of what’s known as the Collegiate West. In its entirety, the Collegiate West is 80+ miles, starting at Twin Lakes and ending at Monarch Pass. This is only a portion of the entire Colorado Trail, which begins at Waterton Canyon in Denver and ends in Durango, a total of 567 miles. That’s 567 if you do the full Collegiate Loop, which consists of East and West branches. If you do just (!) the Collegiate East you do an entirety of 486 miles for a through-hike of the CT, and if you do just Collegiate West you do 491 miles. A “through-hike” is an end-to-end completion of a trail. What Charlotte and I are doing is “segment” or “section” hiking, where we are hiking specific portions of the trail. 

We make it to the summit of Hope Pass and pause to gaze at the expanse of peaks in every direction. We chat with a young woman who is a solo through-hiker. I’m impressed - not just that she’s taking this on, but taking it on alone. Descending the south side of the pass, the terrain is rocky and steep, and my quads cramp, making my unreliable legs slow to a snail’s pace - and this no longer feels like a lark. I’m laboriously picking my way across a talus field when a runner heading north gives us a smile and says “And this is why they call it the Rocky Mountains!” This makes me giggle and brings a little lightness to my step. A genuine and well-timed remark on the trail can literally turn a person’s day completely around. 

We’ve got a ways to go and my pace has slowed to the point that my patient and encouraging daughter looks at her watch and says nicely, but worriedly, “Mom, we’ve only gone one mile in the last hour!”  She takes some of the weight from my pack, I power up with a snack and some fluid, having burned through lunch some time ago, and she leads the way, me focusing on keeping her strong agile self in sight. The last couple of miles are pleasant, travelling rolling terrain through the woods, and we make it to camp before dark. We have some fun hanging out at the creek where we filter water, and after a beyond-delicious dinner prepared by gourmet Charlotte (gluten-free mac and cheese with rehydrated spinach, yellow squash and tofu) we turn in. We’ve clocked 15 miles for the day, and I’m feeling it, but think that surely the following days will not be as difficult as this one was.

Day Two and we’re off to an earlier start, hurriedly slurping our cold, uncooked oatmeal - just add water to the quick oats and dried fruit and choke it down as best you can. There are more passes to climb, and we get a view of the glacial turquoise of Lake Ann. The wildflower-laden alpine tundra continues to amaze us both.  We get just enough rain to put the rain covers on the packs, but as soon as we’ve zipped our rain jackets up, no more drops from the sky. 

I start looking forward to lunch roughly fifteen minutes after breakfast. Today, like most days, lunch is a packet of tuna (albacore or skip jack - variety is important!) - and let me tell you, the tuna juice in that packet is delicious when you’re on the trail all day. A gluten-free spinach tortilla with almond butter rounds out the two-course meal. This is actually scrumdiddlyumptious. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. Post-lunch, the afternoon starts to drag, the day feels very long. Though the camp spots we come to late afternoon are tempting, we decide to push on a couple more miles more in order to get a jump on tomorrow’s climbs. 

In a very few minutes I’m silently cursing whoever built this section - obviously sadistic mountaineers who did not believe in switchbacks. We climb, climb some more, and I look ahead through the trees to see that we climb more. I am viscerally longing for flat terrain. At one point, I seriously fear that I will not be able to do this. I wonder how I’d get out of there if my body collapsed - helicopter? Since we don't have cell service I guess I’d just lay on the side of the trail for a few days. This is a strange feeling, because usually my unrelenting mind decides on a goal and my body gets us there. This evening, though, I’ve dug so deep into my physical reserves it feels like I’ve dug through my well and out the other side. I wonder if I’m doing permanent damage. I’m also worried about how slow I am, and that we won’t make it to camp “on time.” Charlotte tells me not to be concerned about when we make camp, and we agree to take frequent mini-breaks. I relax a bit, focus on one step at a time, and we pull into camp with plenty of light left in the sky.

As we eat dinner (Charlotte having prepared a magnificent meal yet again with rehydrated veggies, salmon and quinoa pasta) we see a mama moose and her young one taking a sunset snack stroll through the meadow just below our camp. It is a beautiful evening and I’m thankful and happy to be out here with Charlotte. Yet I can’t keep my fears about the next day out of my mind: will I be able to make it? 

Read: The Colorado Trail Part II: Botany and Apothecary on the CT

​​Last August my daughter joined some friends for the final 75+ miles of the Colorado Trail from Molas Pass (near Silverton) to Durango. You can read about that in my post The Million Dollar Highway. Her friends completed the entire length of the trail, 567 miles, over several weeks. At the time, I hadn’t realized that the Colorado Trail, or CT, wasn’t completed until 1987. Though its conception was in 1974, the project languished due to lack of interest and funding until Governor Dick Lamm in 1985 pushed for its finish. Golden spike ceremonies in September 1987 marked the completion of the CT.

This July I’m trekking a few miles of the CT with my adventure-loving daughter. We’re planning five nights on-trail, covering about 60 miles. To be clear, Charlotte could do the 60 miles in three days. I’m feeling very lucky that she’s willing to meander next to me, barely breaking a sweat, while I huff and puff up and down the climbs. 

I’m not sure about you, but I tend to get a wee bit anxious with a trip like this. So I’m taking my training seriously. Dumbbells in my daypack give my legs and back that extra challenge as I hoof it up Mt. Werner or Emerald Mountain. I climbed Emerald twice last Sunday, and messaged Charlotte in a panic on Monday that my sore muscles might not be up to the task at hand on the CT - multiple 12-mile days. She calmly explained that no, you don’t get up in the morning with a spring in your step feeling like a million bucks. You are sore, tired, and use duct tape on your blisters. This is life on the trail.

When I asked a friend of Charlotte’s who is doing a portion of the Continental Divide Trail, also in July, what she’s doing for her training, she told me, very kindly, that well, at her age she really didn’t need to train. Ah, yes. Youth and its many benefits.

But training has its benefits too. I notice that hiking with my weighted pack, though challenging, has actually helped my legs feel better - stronger and more balanced with the need to recruit every one of those leg muscle fibers not only on the climbs, but stability on the descents as well.
I can feel my back getting stronger. And my home strength training is supercharged with the new goal of being as strong as possible for the trail.

On my way up Lane of Pain near the top of Emerald the other day, I was counting my steps, a little trick when I’m tired to get me to the top of a climb. In my tuckered-out state, I was moving pretty slowly through a shaded area and caught a lovely whiff - of the wild pink roses blooming all along the trailside. There were dozens of small orange butterflies taking delight in the almost imperceptible moisture on the ground. Were it not for my training and heavy pack, I might have missed this little piece of paradise.

Learn More
Colorado Trail Foundation: Key Events in the History of The Colorado Trail

Important note: Hiking Hahns Peak is a unique adventure held in many hearts. At this moment, Hahns Peak is in jeopardy, as it is included in the 14.3 million acres of Colorado public lands (250-300 million acres nationwide) that would be for sale under the current Budget Reconciliation Bill. 
Learn more in this Yampa Valley Bugle article.
See map of lands for sale and take action here.
​
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June Jaunt Up Hahns Peak
Early one Thursday morning in late June, my daughter and I turned onto the dirt road directly across the highway from the Columbine General Store. The reviews we’d read didn’t exaggerate about the deeply rutted road. Jolting and jouncing, we at last catapulted over a steep rise and into the small parking area. I was grateful that my SUV earned its title on that trek. Compared with the approach, the trailhead parking was luxurious - a peaceful and empty patch surrounded by evergreens. More importantly, it was flat. 

We headed up the lovely alpine trail, with plenty of gorgeous views - nothing but mountains to the west as far as the eye could see. Once we hit the talus field on the ridge at the top, my acrophobia kicked in. My go-to in these fear-of-height situations is to drop down to a pseudo-crawl and speak words of encouragement to myself. Works well for getting to the top, and is pure hilarity for my daughter - I heard her quietly snickering and turned to see her taking a stealth video of her nutty mom. 

The Hahns Peak Lookout is such a cool structure. The view of Steamboat Lake and the 360’ surrounding mountains was fabulous. It was especially lovely to see Pearl Lake from here. The rest of this summer, while on my Pearl Lake paddles, I’ve gazed at the Hahns Peak Lookout lit up by the sunrise, and think of the fun we had that morning.

Hahns Peak Specs

• Elevation is 10,839’ above sea level (the 1972 US Geological Survey says “about 10,840 feet” and in a Google search several different elevations were listed, which I found both interesting and strange). 
• The mountain is an extinct volcano.
• Was known by trappers back in the day as “Old Baldy.”

A Little History
What is now known as Routt County was the summer hunting grounds for the Indigenous Ute Tribes, and possibly the Cheyenne and Eastern Shoshone as well (Interactive Map Native Land Digital: maps Indigenous territories, treaties, and languages - you can type in your address to determine which Indigenous Peoples originally lived there.)

Eventually trappers, explorers and gold miners made their way to the region. That’s where Joseph Hahn comes in - he found gold in the vicinity of present-day Hahns Peak.

The story is that three men, Hahn, Doyle and Way, were prospecting and winter set in. Way was dispatched to get supplies and return - he left, taking with him all the gold in camp, and was not heard from again. After surviving until April, Doyle and Hahn set out on snowshoes. They made it to the banks of the Muddy Creek on April 30, 1867, near Kremmling. The two men sat down for a rest, and this is where Hahn collapsed and died.  
Steamboat Pilot Article Sidebar: Mysterious Fate of Joseph Hahn
Colorado Historic Newspapers Collection: Hahns Peak Monument to Man Who Perished After Gold Discovery

Hahns Peak Lookout
The Hahns Peak Lookout started as a stone shelter when in 1908 it was commissioned by the Forest Service as a fire lookout. Between 1908 and 1912 people and horses packed up concrete, local stone and timber to construct the building. (Colorado Preservation: Hahns Peak Lookout)

The lookout was decommissioned in the 1940s or 1950s, and fell into disrepair. In 2014 it was listed as one of Colorado Preservation’s “Colorado’s Most Endangered Places.” Between 2014 and 2017 the lookout was restored as part of a joint project with Historic Routt County, USDA Forest Service, Historicorps and Rocky Mountain Youth Corps. (Historic Routt County Hahns Peak Lookout)

Hahns Peak Village
Hahns Peak Village began as a gold mining camp, and had the first post office in Routt County. It is the oldest permanent settlement in Routt County, and served as the county seat from 1877-1912. The schoolhouse, opened in 1912, held its last class in 1943.
Hahns Peak Area Historical Society
Northwest Colorado Cultural Heritage Travel: Hahns Peak


​Originally published August 2023

The main entrance of the J. Marriott Library catches your attention not with books but with a bill-board sized group picture of students in their Utah-red polo shirts next to equally gigantic letters: U BELONG. And having spent the better part of the last two days here, I definitely feel that spirit of welcome and friendliness, from the individual students themselves to the man in the white button-down checking in with folks in the dorm dining hall to be sure they understand how to order their food online, to the residence assistant Trinity hanging out at the entrance door to the dorm tower. I learned from Trinity where to get a mallet (to raise Charlotte’s bed to a bunk), and where the very coldest water-filling station was (a relief in the very hot temps). 

In a previous post I wrote about the waterfall in front of the library - constructed from light earthy-colored tiles nestled around a small grove of conifers. But I did not yet write about the library’s glass pyramids, reminiscent of the Louvre, set at the east edge of the large open plaza that fronts the library doors.

The University of Utah Library is almost as old as I am, opening its doors in 1968. The dedication, in May of that year, was by Wallace Stegner, Pulitzer prize winning author, environmental activist, and professor at University of Utah. Among his students: Wendall Berry, Raymond Carver, and one of my all-time favorites, Edward Abbey. Stegner wrote The Wilderness Letter in 1960, a letter that urges government protection for wild lands. In 1964 this letter was used to introduce the bill to establish the National Wilderness Preservation System. This brief Stegner bio includes an excerpt of the letter. It is an appeal, both spiritual and physical: wilderness is vital, and it is imperative to protect those places. Looking to the nearby mountains, and even to the nods around campus to wild spaces via  sizeable shade trees, vibrant blooming flowers, and open expanses of grass, Stegner’s words resonate. 

Fittingly, Wallace Stegner’s papers are housed in the library, though it was rededicated in 1969 as the J. Willard Marriott Library after J. Willard Marriott, Sr. contributed $1 million for library collections. Several renovations and expansions later, the library is now five floors and 516,000 square feet. The main entrance enters the third floor; floors one and two, and the bulk of the library's square footage, is underground. The open plaza I mentioned above (and in the foreground of the photo) is actually the roof of the lower two library floors!

According to the librarian who spoke with me over the phone, since the major part of the building is below ground, emergency exits are key. The glass pyramids seen in the plaza function as skylights, letting light into the lower floors, and are a part of the emergency exit system. And, according to one post I found, those skylit areas deep in the library are great study spots. 

Despite quite a bit of time searching for more information on the skylights, like when the pyramids were constructed, why that structure was selected, who designed them, I found nothing except the study spot post. I was curious if pyramids have any significance in Utah, and found this article on the Summum Pyramid tucked in the middle of a suburban Salt Lake City neighborhood that was constructed in 1979. There doesn’t seem to be a link to the library pyramids.

Not finding connections from other sources, I consider the possibilities. There are the pyramid shaped glass skylights that offer a lovely and mysterious aesthetic. The structures are a mimicry of their mountain backdrop. And there is the symbolism of allowing light to shine into the depths of a building which houses vast amounts of documented knowledge and actively pursued learning.

Source/Learn More
University of Utah: Library History

Between the towns of Ouray and Silverton in southwest Colorado is a portion of Highway 550 known as the “Million Dollar Highway.” You might guess that it gets the name from the stunning vistas of verdant valleys rising to 13,000-foot peaks, including scarlet iron-ore slopes of Red Mountain, and perhaps you’d be right. There are a number of possible explanations for the name Million Dollar Highway, and my curiosity was piqued after a recent trip over the highway.

Last Saturday I drove my daughter and a friend of hers to Molas Pass, just south of Silverton, so that the two of them could rendezvous with friends on the Colorado Trail. That group of three had been on the trail about a month since starting in Denver. We were to meet up with them and from there the united group of five would finish by hiking the rest of the trail into Durango together, about 75 miles as the boots hike from Molas Pass. 

Along Highway 550 I was stealing glimpses of scenery that was literally breathtaking. The lookout point just outside of Ouray is called “The Switzerland of America” for good reason. Once we got to the Million Dollar section south of Ouray though, I was oblivious to the views. There is virtually no shoulder, the road curves around what looked to my height-frightened eye to be 10,000-foot drop-offs, and, contributing to my nausea, there are no guardrails. 

No guardrails? This makes it easier for snowplows to push the snow off the road. 
Snow? Ice? And they keep it open? Yep. The road is open year-round, but drivers are strongly urged to check weather conditions before driving the highway. Good idea. If I spied a snowflake within ten miles of that road, I wouldn’t drive that highway for a million dollars! And that is precisely another theory as to how the road got its name.

Other possible explanations for the name Million Dollar Highway have to do with the rumored cost of $1 million in gold and silver to build it and the expensive tolls that were charged - $5 per wagon or the equivalent of $150 today. Originally conceived and constructed by Civil War Veteran Otto Mears in the late 1800’s, the idea was to connect remote mining towns in the area. Wanting a more direct route to transport goods, in 1882 Mears purchased a controlling interest in a toll road company and the road was completed in 1883. The pricey charge to use the route cost Mears the road; in 1887 the state of Colorado took ownership of the Million Dollar Highway as a result of complaints from miners and merchants unhappy with the high tolls.

When we reached Silverton I was feeling relieved and a bit accomplished: we hadn’t died. We drove up to the Molas Pass overlook in hopes of intersecting with our intrepid hikers. They were not there. We took a spin through the Molas Lake Campground - no dice. We drove up and down Molas Pass, trying to find that sweet spot of internet connection long enough to communicate. In a last-ditch effort we were headed down to the Silverton Visitor’s Center when a text squeaked through that the Three Musketeers were indeed at the Molas Lake Campground - apparently we’d missed them when we drove through earlier. We high-tailed it there to find them googly-eyed over the food in the tiny campground store. 

When the last of the three made it out of the store with a happy grin and a hot burrito, everyone and their gear piled into my car. We looked like the Beverly Hillbillies. And smelled like the Beverly Hillbillies’ goats. The three that had been on the trail were ripe. So ripe in fact that we had to keep the windows completely rolled down as we headed back to Silverton to re-supply. 

After the shopping expedition it was back up to the campground. Once I’d dropped off the smelly, smiling and awesome crew, and given my daughter 83 hugs, kisses and “I love you’s,” I headed home. I was driving over the Million Dollar Highway one more time. 

Sources/Learn More
Ouray Film Festival article on The Million Dollar Highway
Action Tour Guide: History of the Million Dollar Highway