Honestly, I had no idea what I was doing, or what I should expect. All I knew was that after a year of wishing and dreaming, I wanted to get out there and just do it. My gear list was a bit lacking, to say the least. I did not have, nor could I afford at the time, a tent or a sleeping bag. I had in my possession my pack, my hammock, shoes, a bear canister I bought for the trip, a stove and fuel, a heavy, space-hogging pot, and some Mountain House meals I picked up from REI.
I borrowed a very heavy sleeping bag that was in no way meant for backpacking. I mean, it wouldn't even compress down. I had to roll it up and tie both ends, and shove it under the top flap of my pack in order to secure it. This alone made the pack incredibly top heavy. As for the lack of tent situation, I didn't see any harm in hammock camping for a few nights. This was July, after all, so there shouldn't be a problem, right? I did, however, realize that I was hosed if it should rain. Since those hammock tarps cost more than I could spend at that time, I went to Wal-Mart and picked up one of those huge gray tarps and some rope. I figured I could finagel a tarp shelter if need be, but honestly had no idea how to make it work should the need actually arise. But I felt better having it - all several pounds of it.
On the morning of July 4, 2016, I hit the trail just excited as could be (notice that colossal blue sleeping bag tucked under the top of the pack).
I knew I was gunning for West Maroon Pass - the first big pass of the Four Pass Loop. Why the idea of FOUR passes on a THREE day trip didn't dawn on me sooner, I'll never know. But West Maroon Pass was a real struggle. It was muddy, slippery, steep, and scary. A little snowfield covered the path, so I had to find my own way up. I likely did not choose the best route, but I got there. Below is a photo of the valley I climbed through to reach West Maroon Pass.
By the time I got to the top of the pass and started descending, it was about 5:30pm. I saw trees and a trail in the valley below, and had every intention and heading down that way to camp for the night.
But, the trail had other ideas. I realized at 6:00pm that my path was not heading that way. It had taken a turn to the right, and was heading for the next pass, Frigid Air Pass. I had a moment. I looked at my watch, looked at the sun's position in the sky, looked at the ridge, looked at those trees below me.... I took a deep breath, and decided the only way to do this was to keep pushing. I thought, if I could just get over that ridge before dark, I'd be okay.
Well, I did get over the pass by dark. I even made it back down the ridge, which is a miracle. I was basically walk-running (what Nicholas and I refer to as "squaddling") to the shelter of the trees below Frigid Air Pass as the sky grew darker. The mountain spirits were looking out for me that night, because just as I reached the tree line at about 9:00pm, I spotted the most perfect hammock campsite you've ever seen, with a babbling brook just out of sight for an easy water source. I hung my hammock for the first time and threw my super heavy sleeping bag into it, and camp was pitched.
I wish I could say it was a restful night, given how tired I was, but I awoke about every half hour because I was freezing cold. Also, fun fact, my ridiculous sleeping bag was constantly falling out of the hammock, threatening to take me with it. I woke up several times hanging halfway out of the hammock. My main problem, however, was my face and feet. My face was exposed, and my feet were higher than the rest of my body, so both were constantly cold. I finally curled up in a tight ball, pulled the sleeping bag over my head, and slept pretty soundly for the last couple hours.
The next morning, I was relieved to find that I had not been eaten by a bear, and neither had my food. I was sore, but I was in high spirits. If I could make it through yesterday, I could do anything! The sky was clear, and the mountains looming over me as I emerged from the wooded camping area were absolutely gorgeous. I knew today posed some tough challenges. My little trail guide thing (which I apparently failed to read all the way through on day 1 - a mistake I would not make again) told me I would be climbing 1,000 ft in one mile. I really didn't know what that meant, having no point of reference, but I found out real quick. It translates loosely to "really effing steep." But still, nothing I couldn't handle. I just took it slow. I learned that tiny little steps at a snail's pace was better than charging forward at normal speed and then stopping to rest for an equal amount of time. I passed a lot of hikers with my embarrassingly tiny footstep method that day.
Eventually, I started to get out of the valley into more exposed terrain, and WOW those views were amazing. Honestly, the part between climbing 1,000 ft in one mile and Trail Rider Pass is tied with Buckskin Pass (the next day) for my favorite part of the trip. This was my view from the top of Trail Rider Pass (first), and my view looking over into the next valley down to Snowmass Lake, where I planned to camp my second night (second):
I knew for sure this time that there were no more passes for the day. As I said, I planned to get down to Snowmass Lake and camp there, and I had made relatively decent time getting up Trailrider Pass, for how epically steep it was. I figured I would be in camp in a matter of hours, and would actually get to relax, cook dinner, and read the book I'd brought, "The Call of the Wild" by Jack London.
The descent was pretty sketchy, with large expanses of snow covering the steep trail at several places. I could see where hikers before me had kicked footprints into the snow, but it was pretty clear that one slip from these established footprints meant a very hefty fall down a very vertical mountain face. At one point, I stopped and took stock of how many more snow patches there were, and weighed the pros and cons of sliding down one said snow patch on my butt. Sliding down won, and I rejoined the trail several switchbacks below.
At this point, I was mighty proud of myself. I was leading the whole group of hikers that had left our camping area from that morning, and I had every reason to believe I would just waltz into camp around 4:00pm, pick out the best campsite, and watch the other hikers roll in.
That is not what happened.
At about 3:30pm, I encountered an unexpected rockslide over the trail. This may not have been so bad, except for the fact that the far side of the rockslide, where the trail became clear again, was completely covered in snow. At this point in the afternoon, the snow was rotten and melting, and was by no means safe to cross, especially since unpredictable boulders lie beneath it, and stepping through the snow into a gaping hole between boulders would for sure mean a broken leg or worse.
As I stood assessing the situation, the rest of the hikers caught up to me. There were probably about eight or nine of us standing there like... "Well. Shit." But I felt better that I wasn't alone. Several of them started to scramble up the rockslide, and I had the pleasure of saying "That way is a dead end." Some turned around, and some didn't believe me, only to find out I was right and turn around later. Two hikers with weirdly specific gear for a July hike made it across the snow, but the majority of us were not about to try it. Instead, we tried to find a lower route, nearer to Snowmass Lake, where we knew we were eventually heading.
Remember how I said that my pack was intensely top heavy because of my sleeping bag? This is where that really came into play. Where the other hikers had no problem balancing themselves and their packs on this unchartered terrain, I had a real struggle of a time. I eventually got left behind by their little trail-finding expedition group, and was left to my own devices, and this is where things got hairy.
Essentially, the run off from the snow above us had resulted in a seasonal waterfall down this steep mountain side with no trail. I knew the trail was about 200 feet above me, and that it was unreachable. I either had to hike down to the lake, or fall with style. I did a weird combination of both. At one point, my pack was too much of a liability with the balance issue, so I ended up taking it off and either pushing it ahead of me or pulling it after me, while clinging to trees and other vegetation that could keep me from falling. For the most part, it was a relatively controlled mud-glissade, but some parts got pretty terrifyingly out of control. After a good final tumble, I ended up on the banks of Snowmass Lake, which (again, thank you, mountain spirits), had a faint trail leading all the way around it. I was able to follow this trail around to the campsite, which by this time was full. I have no idea what path those guys found, but it was clearly better than mine, and I got some "Hey, glad you made it's," as I rolled into camp about two and a half hours later than I had planned, scraped, bruised, and covered in mud. I'm sure I was quite a sight to behold.
My campsite that night was not near as glorious as the night before, given that it was slim pickin's by the time I arrived. I did, however, make the effort to cook dinner that night. I made ramen noodles with cheese and eggs that I brought, and it was probably the best thing I'd ever tasted. Didn't even touch my Mountain House meals because I wasn't familiar with them and just wanted something I knew I couldn't screw up. That night, I wore my thermals and my clean, dry socks, along with my jacket, and I slept much better!
Day three found me incredibly sore and stiff, with some hella blisters to boot. The blister patches I had brought were completely garbage, so I didn't even deal with it. I took three ibuprofen, got dressed, rolled up my gigantic sleeping bag, and got on the trail. Just one more pass left, Buckskin. Hopefully it wouldn't be a life-threatening one.
I was lucky to have completely clear, gorgeous skies for the third day in a row, and the trek up to Buckskin Pass was just as breath taking as Trail Rider had been (in the good and bad way). The cool thing about Buckskin Pass was that it was approached by a gentle saddle, which is literally the coolest quarter mile I have ever hiked in my life. I had never felt so on top of the world as I did standing on top of Buckskin Pass (pictures below):
The valley I climbed up to Buckskin Pass
The saddle leading to Buckskin Pass
The view of the other side of Buckskin Pass
With my last pass behind me, all that was left was a trek back to the bottom. Most of the snow was behind me too, thank goodness. I only had to go off-trail once on the descent, and was able to pick a safe path with rocks sticking out from the mountain side for footholds. It was a longer hike down to the bottom than I had imagined, but I finally made it. On the way out, the day hiker crowd was thick, and several people approached me (probably because of my painfully obvious pack) to ask about my backpacking experience. I hadn't processed the trip yet, myself, so I don't even remember what I said, but I remember that their responses were all like "Wow, that's so inspiring, we really want to do something like that someday!"
When I made it back to Maroon Lake, and the trail head I had started out on three days and two nights ago, a fellow Four Pass Loop hiker and I took turns taking pictures of one another.
When I got back to my car, I cried. I can't even tell you why, exactly, but I cried. It might sound corny, but I had just experienced the most intense hiking of my life, by far. The amount I learned about backpacking, camping, hiking, and myself on this trip was staggering to me. As I drove home, I was already scheming up another backpacking adventure, and couldn't wait to get back on the trail. Oh, and I never used that ~3lb tarp once. 😂
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