Absent With Leaf

Readers: it has been about a year since I last created an entry without Tyler here to weave the post’s intricate tapestry of words. I’ve had to dust off the cobwebs around the writing parts of my brain, so please bear with me!

Anxiety gnawed the recesses of my mind as my hiking boots hit the trail dirt: was I fixing to bite off more than I could chew? The sun had yet to rise, and the brisk autumn air hovered under 40 degrees. Signage at the trailhead read, “12.5 miles R/T…”, “…3,400′ Elevation Gain”; an outline of the day to come, with my sights set on North Crestone Lake in the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness.

This last summer had been one of travel, open bars at weddings, my sedentary nine-to-five, and, recently, overeating at grandma’s house; I’m simply not in the same shape I was when Tyler and I first started making these blogs together back in college. I treated myself the night before the hike with a stay in a small hotel in Crestone as a means to combat my doughy physique, a move that cut my drive time from bed to trailhead from 3.5 hours down to 10 minutes.

The first few miles of the trek consisted of relentless yet forgiving uphill through mixed forest.

The trail remained in the shadows as the sun slowly climbed out of view on the eastern side of the Sangres. Views looking back toward the San Luis Valley opened up as I gradually climbed higher.

A wooden sign 2.5 miles in marked my formal entry to the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness.

I forded a stream shortly after passing the wilderness sign and came to a trail junction where I continued right.

Feeling parched, I continued and crossed another stream, keeping my peepers out for the perfect spot to take my first snack/water break.

I found a picturesque backcountry backpacking spot shortly after the trail began to lead through large groves of colorful aspen. I took my sweet time to refuel. The sun continued to rise, dappling the gorgeous scenery.

The trail steepened somewhat after my break, but I hardly noticed, enraptured by autumn’s dazzle.

After another mile, the forest opened up and the trail meandered through a series of subalpine meadows.

It wasn’t long until I started to encounter snow along the periphery of the trail, a crystalline foreshadowing of the chilly months to come.

I surprised myself by maintaining a strong pace all morning and a false, naïve sense of security comforted me when my GPS reported 5.4 miles of distance having elapsed. Surely, I thought, the lake has to be just up ahead! A closer study of the hike’s elevation profile before departure would have scuttled this unearned comfort before it began: 600’ of brutal uphill remained in the short distance I had left.

My pace slowed to a crawl as I gradually approached the boundary of timberline. On the plus side, having to stop to catch my breath every 100 steps spared me ample time to take in the scenery!

Immediately overhead rose the northwest slopes of Mt. Adams, a centennial 13er.

A phenomenal view of the valley I ascended through opened up as the trail briefly jogged south. The final quarter-to-half mile entailed occasionally hiking atop thin and slippery ice through a rocky chute.

I crested the last few feet of up before North Crestone Lake came into view. Relief washed over what felt like the permanent grimace the previous mile had carved into my face, and I almost immediately sat down and took time to relax.

I spent twenty minutes taking in the views and resting my aforementioned doughy physique. It was just before noon that I gathered my things and began my descent.

Midday sun painted the exact scenery I had witnessed earlier in the day with completely fresh light and color.

As I’ve learned to expect, my pace increased dramatically during the descent, not having to negotiate much uphill; I was slowed only by taking pictures of my spectacular surroundings.