Colorado 2011 Day 6: Grays and Torreys peaks

Day 6: Grays Peak (14,270) and Torreys Peak (14,267)

           

Miles hiked: 8.3

It’s really easy to get all the information you need to hike Colorado’s 54 14ers. (Of course, hiking them is a bit trickier.) There’s a website, 14ers.com, that was built by a dot.com millionaire and has turned into the official source for hike descriptions, pictures, maps, and forums about everything from the most difficult routes, to parking updates, to the ethics of sharing water on the trail, to organizing group hikes.

The site breaks down the 14ers into four categories: Easiest, moderate, more difficult and very difficult. There are 37 peaks in the first two categories, whose trails are mostly considered Class 1 or 2 hiking, meaning they have established trails to their peaks.

Grays Peak (14,270) and Torreys Peak (14,267) are in the easiest category. They also happen to be the closest peaks to Boulder besides Longs Peak, which is in the More Difficult category (we weren’t tackling that!).

So I wasn’t too worried about being able to handle an 8.25-mile hike, even though I would be climbing 1,000 feet higher than I’ve ever been. Eliot had never climbed anything close to a 14er, but he was ready for the challenge, too.

As it turned out, the scariest moment of the trip came on the drive to the trailhead. From descriptions and updates on 14ers.com, we knew there was a 3-mile drive up a pretty rough dirt road to the base of the trail. Sedans vehicles with low bases were not encouraged to make the drive, especially considering there was a huge pothole or crevice in the road about half way up.

From all accounts, though, trucks, SUVs and even Subarus had been just fine. When we reached the spot, it did look pretty intimidating, but Eliot accelerated over its right side and steadied the Lexus. We were safe.

Everything from there was a piece of cake.

We knew from reading the website, word of mouth, and “Halfway to Heaven” that especially on 14ers, it’s not a good idea to be on the severely exposed peaks in the afternoon. So after waking at 5 to make the drive, we were on the trail at 7:37 a.m.

Our goal was to be off the second summit and having hiked 4.5 miles by noon.

With the trailhead at about 11,200 feet and the sun just beginning to warm the trail, it was 43 degrees when we set out. I immediately put my pants and fleece on. It was just warm enough hiking to stick with the baseball cap instead of the winter hat, but I kept it in my Camelbak’s outside pocket.

It was windy, but not too fierce — maybe blowing at 15-20 mph — which made for a pleasant ascent.

From the hike’s outset, the surrounding scenery was astounding. To our left loomed a long, horizontal red-clay wall of rock that provided a cool, canyon-like feel as we began to walk on a wide, well-marked rock path. Just ahead of us to the right rose a triangular, verdant ridge that we would make sure to include in all our pictures looking down from the mountains.

By the half-mile mark, as we passed a few slower groups, Grays and Torreys appeared directly before us in the distance, Gray’s rounded top to the left, the mile-long saddle dropping 500 feet and then climbing another 500 to Torreys’ pointy, rocky summit.

Torreys looked much taller even though it’s the shorter peak. I surmised this was because it was closer. It wasn’t until we reached Torreys’ summit that we gained a perspective demonstrating Grays’ miniscule height advantage.

We had read reports of hundreds of people making the hike on weekends, and I was wondering if we’d be immersed in crowds for the majority of the hike. Doing it on a Friday, though, definitely made a difference, and while we were never entirely alone on the trail, we had separation from the other small groups and dogs making the ascent.

The first couple miles were pretty moderate, as we headed straight at the saddle between the two peaks. Then we began the true ascent of Grays, turning to the left and following several long switchbacks slowly up the mountain.

I made the comment to Eliot that I felt I was getting closer to Grays’ summit a lot quicker than I had come within Audubon’s the previous day.

However, we weren’t going to gain the top easily. Every minute or so, I stopped momentarily to catch my breath. We were getting up there. The air was getting thinner.

And while the switchbacks were nice in making the slope of the trail more moderate, they also made it way longer, as we zigzagged our way up the talus slope.

But then, kind of suddenly, I noticed that only one switchback above us, a person was sitting next to a sign. And I shouted to Eliot, “We’re almost there, man!” I don’t like to joke around when it comes to gaining summits — we really were on the brink of our first 14er.

A minute, and a few deep breaths, later, we were standing on top of Grays Peak, 14,270 feet, scribbling our names on the official summit scroll, a notebook of paper tucked into a tube tied to a rock by a cable.

We were on the peak of a Colorado 14er, not to mention the tallest point on the U.S. portion of the Continental Divide.

Despite the relative ease of the hike, the accomplishment and the feeling couldn’t be diminished. It was pretty damn cool. It wasn’t too windy, either, and, amazingly, I hadn’t made a single change to my outfit the entire hike and felt comfortable.

Perfect day.

Still, we were well aware of how quickly a white, puffy cloud could turn into a dark, ominous one, so we didn’t linger long. After the obligatory photo shoot, we scooted down the loose rock saddle with Torreys Peak on our minds.

The approach up Torreys was completely different from the trail up Grays. It was direct. It was mostly straight. And it was steep.

We enjoyed the change. While the going was difficult and the breaths were short, before we could say “No. 2!,” we were standing on top of our second 14er. It wasn’t yet 11:30.

We rested for over 20 minutes, we took photos, and we admired the view of the zigzagging trail up Grays and were able to retrace our route almost all the way to its starting point.

The view to the distance, of course, was as spectacular as we expected and stretched for hundreds of miles. We could make out Longs Peak way to the north. Other 14ers in the Front Range, including Mt. Bierstadt and Mt. Evans, loomed nearby. I wished I had a map, but because of the tremendously detailed description on 14ers.com and an already dwindling budget, I didn’t have one for the area.

As noon crept up on us, we knew it was time to descend the saddle then take a left on a path that connected to the Grays trail well below its summit. For all we knew, a thunderstorm could be imminent.

Apparently, others hiking the mountain(s) had no idea, because as we descended, we passed several groups heading in the opposite direction who probably still had more than an hour of hiking to reach either summit. We saw people with just T-shirts and short. We saw others in regular sneakers.

In the right conditions — as was the case on that particular day — they were fine. But the scene demonstrated to me why, most likely, a lot of accidents happen among Colorado’s highest peaks. At its easiest, Grays and Torreys is a hike anyone can do in just about any clothing with minimal supplies.

At its worst, however, things could be drastically different. Unfortunately, for many people, this isn’t realized until they’re caught in the storm.

As for the descent, it was one we simply didn’t want to end. The sun was shining, the summits were framed perfectly in front of a partly cloudy sky with small patches of crystal-clear blue peaking through. The trail was gouged between two of the coolest, most picturesque ridges you’ll ever see.

We stopped at a stream a few hundred yards above the trailhead and soaked our feet in ice-cold water (our guess: about 50 degrees). I could only take it for about a minute. Then, finally, we hiked down the final stretch, completing the hike at 2:17 p.m. — 6 hours and 40 minutes after beginning it — and hopped in the Lexus for the most difficult part of the trip Part II.

All in all, it was a memorable day. As I learned, you don’t need any crazy experiences, any animal sightings, and definitely not any thunder to make these hikes one of a kind.

Simply hiking a 14er, or two, on a sunny, perfect day is recipe for pure bliss.

Two down. Only 54 to go!

I’ll be back, Colorado, I’ll be back.

Colorado 2011 Day 5: Mt. Audubon

Day 5: Mt. Audubon (13,233 feet), Long Lake, Indian Peaks Wilderness

Miles hiked: 8.0

As of Wednesday afternoon, I wasn’t sure of my Thursday hiking plan. I knew I wanted to visit the Indian Peaks Wilderness, an area due west of Boulder that features a series of high-elevation lakes surrounded by jagged, rocky mountains. I just wasn’t certain of how much I wanted to hike.

The reason? Eliot and I had Friday pegged as 14er day. We had cemented our plan to hike Grays and Torreys peaks, two of Colorado’s 54 tallest peaks.

Did I want to take things easy the day before and just hike the flat 2 miles into Lake Isabelle, which, supposedly, provides incredible views of the peaks towering above its waters?

Or should I be more ambitious and hike up Mt. Audubon, which at 13,233 feet would be mark my highest point achieved hiking to date — just taller than Yosemite’s Mount Dana, which I ascended at the beginning of July.

By Wednesday evening, my mind was made up. I can’t recall exactly what influenced me to do the more ambitious, taxing climb, but I’m pretty sure it was a combination of my realization during Wednesday’s Boulder hike that the end result makes every hike worth doing and continually being inspired by “Halfway to Heaven.”

Whatever the reason, I got up early Thursday morning excited to visit a new area of Colorado’s vast wilderness, ready to embark on a new adventure.

The winding, hilly drive took me less than an hour, and pretty soon I was out of the Lexus SUV, past the sign warning of recent mountain lion activity, and on a series of switchbacks at the base of Audubon.

From the hike’s beginning, the wind made its presence felt, and when I emerged from the trees a mere mile into the trek, I didn’t waste much time before layering up.

My journey was spread out before me like a satellite map. I faced a long, winding, gradual ascent on a rocky path to reach the north side of the mountain, from where I would, as my book described, climb steeply to gain the exposed summit.

I’ve always felt that it’s easier to do a hike when out in the open with visibility, however on this particular hike, the mountain didn’t seem to be getting closer despite my efforts. My pace was slowed, a bit, by biting 40-50 mph winds that were gusting at me. And with the high elevation, breathing was more difficult.

Still, it was impossible not to enjoy the scenery. Against the backdrop of clear skies, dozens of snow-crested peaks, including Longs Peak highlighting Rocky Mountain National Park, spread out to the north and northwest.

Then, moving left, there was the rounded Audubon.

And just to the southwest of my destination were the jagged, pointy mountains that highlighted the Indian Peaks Wilderness.

Eventually I reached the northern side of the summit cone and then slowly climbed steeply over rocks of all sizes, following cairns, to gain the summit. The wind hadn’t died down at all, but on top there were little rock dugouts that were perfect for sitting in to gain relief from the gusts.

I spent a half hour on the summit, admiring the expansive views, eating a typically delicious mountain lunch of cheese and rice crackers, and chatting with a hiker, probably in his 60s, who did most of the talking (I wasn’t stopping him).

The friendly fellow gave me a breakdown of the 14ers, told me that Grays Peak — one of Friday’s summits — was his favorite 14er, and, generally, exuded a tremendous enthusiasm for the mountains that I found was the case with almost all the hikers I met on this trip.

When I told him Grays and Torreys peaks would be my first 14ers, he asked me how long I was in the area for, and said that since I had a day after that hike, I should go knock off one or two more on Saturday!

While that wasn’t in the plans, I appreciated and admired the man’s ambition. Colorado is just swarming with outdoors enthusiasts who extend the limits of what flatlanders like myself think the body is capable of accomplishing. It’s refreshing to be around such people.

For the skies being clear, I was a bit surprised I only saw the man and one other hiking party on the mountain. But I wasn’t complaining. It’s pretty special to have such an incredible place basically all to yourself.

After a quick descent, I visited Long Lake in the afternoon, soaking my feet in the ice-cold water, observing some fly fisherman, and staring out at the pointy peaks in the distance. It was the ideal way to unwind from the hike, refresh the legs, and get prepared for the biggest hiking day.

14ers day.

Colorado 2011 Day 4: Bear and South Boulder peaks

Day 4: Bear Peak (8,461 feet) and South Boulder Peak (8,549)

Miles biked: 14.5

Miles hiked: 7.8

On Wednesday, Eliot needed his car for work, so I had two choices: 1) Rent a car for the day (which, after research, I learned would be pretty pricey on such short notice); or 2) Rent a bike for the day, at a cheaper rate, and find a local hike to do.

I went with, you guessed it, option No. 2.

The plan was to rent a cruiser from downtown Boulder and bike to the trailhead for the Boulder Range’s two highest peaks, Bear Peak (8,461) and South Boulder Peak (8,549).

From looking at a map, the trailhead for the Towhee Trail didn’t seem too far from town. I guessed it was maybe 5 miles from the downtown drag of Pearl Street where the bike store was. I wasn’t too concerned about renting a cheap cruiser.

I severely underestimated the ride.

I ended up battling 90-degree temperatures, a bright, scorching sun, and a fierce head wind for more than 7 miles. The only positive was that Boulder is the most biker-friendly city I’ve ever spent time in, so I was traveling on bike paths and back roads the entire way.

Still, my legs were burning, my lips were parched and my tongue was dry by the time I reached the trailhead. Now I just needed to hike 8 miles. No biggie!

The trail didn’t offer any relief from the heat or sun. For more than 2 miles, I walked through dried-out grass and shrubs, constantly looking out for bears — who, the trail description warned, enjoy the area because of its array of berries.

I didn’t allow myself to stop until I finally reached the Shadow Canyon Trail and a bend that offered a small window of shade/relief. I ingested an energy bar and water and continued on.

I also knew from the trail description that once I entered the woods and, thankfully, more shade, I would face 1,600 feet of elevation gain within a mile. Just another challenge on a day full of them.

But I actually got a good rhythm going on the ascent and while the going was rough, it didn’t take too long to emerge from the woods and the intersection for the two peaks. First, I headed right for a quick 0.4-mile jaunt up to the pile of rocks known as Bear Peak.

After a bit of rock-to-rock scrambling, I reached the summit and searched for any flat rocks that might serve as a good resting spot. I had 360-degree views, but things were a bit hazy, so it wasn’t great picture-taking weather.

I had brought my book for the trip, “Halfway to Heaven,” which is an entertaining, informative and easy read about a man’s sudden quest, while out of shape and in his 40s, to hike all 54 of Colorado’s 14ers. It was the perfect book to read on this trip.

Unfortunately, as cool as Bear Peak was, it was also infested with annoying, unrelenting flies and bees that didn’t allow me much peace. I forced my way through a chapter about another of the author’s audacious, adventurous climbs, then descended back to the intersection and made the short, easy, 0.3-mile ascent of Boulder’s highest peak.

My hiking book hadn’t mentioned anything about South Boulder Peak and friends from the area hadn’t mentioned it when recommending Bear Peak, but I enjoyed the top of the less-traveled, less well-known summit more than Bear.

For one, the bugs weren’t quite as bad. And secondly, the summit was large and offered several spots looking out in all directions. Compared to Bear Peak’s small, jagged zenith, South Boulder Peak provided a football field’s worth of places to relax.

As I sat on a rock reading, my feet swinging over a drop-off, I took a respite from the book to think about how my day had progressed.

Just a few hours earlier, as I struggled to bike against the wind, I had wondered to myself if I even wanted to do this hike. I could bike a little more and call it a day, right? Take a day off lying by the pool. Was this worth it?

And then, as I hiked under the bright sun, not gaining any elevation or, seemingly, getting closer to my destination, I had thought, Why, really, am I doing this hike?

Now though, of course, as is the case with every hike I’ve ever done, I knew that it was worth it. Being on top of everything, having such expansive views, hearing nothing but the sounds of nature — the feeling never gets old and remains my favorite thing in the world.

I hustled down the steep trail and jogged the level part, reaching the parking lot in less than a hour in time to begin my bike ride back to town as a thunder storm threatened — but didn’t materialize.

For my efforts, I rewarded myself with some homemade Glacier ice cream, black cherry, while sitting in a grassy park downtown , doing some serious relaxing later during the afternoon.  

Colorado 2011 Day 3: Flattop Mountain, Hallet Peak, Ridge Road

Day 3: Flattop Mountain (12,324) and Hallet Peak (12,713), Rocky Mountain National Park

Miles hiked: 9.8

So my first two days of acclimating to Colorado had included a hike to 8,100 feet followed by a hike to 10,600 feet. I had felt the elevation on both hikes, particularly when setting out, and had taken them fairly slowly.

Still, I hadn’t experienced any altitude sickness. No headaches, nausea or anything like that.

I was ready to continue building up to the week’s ultimate goal — hiking at least one of Colorado’s 14ers, as they’re known.

Day 3’s challenge was a hike up Flattop Mountain in Rocky Mountain National Park. The hike was 4.4 miles to the very flat — go figure — summit of the mountain at 12,324 feet and included close to 3,000 feet in elevation gain.

As it turned out, the tramp was almost a walk in the park. Winding around countless switchbacks, I emerged from the forest of pine trees after maybe 2 miles and then proceeded to hike one switchback after another, now in the open, until winding around the north ridge of the mountain.

The trek on the well-maintained, dirt and rock path seemed to take an eternity, mostly because what I originally thought might be the summit just turned out to be a random hill of rocks that obscured the nondescript peak that was way farther to the west (I should know about false peaks by now!).

Still, I could look back over my shoulder to a tremendous view of the park’s crown jewel and only 14er, Longs Peak (14,259 feet), whenever I so chose, and the very moderate climb proved to be pretty easy for me as I passed countless people.

The wind howled at probably 30 to 40 mph as I got higher, but since I was moving, I didn’t feel the need to put on more layers than my Polypro and shorts until I reached the summit, which was nothing more than a junction of the North Inlet and Tonahutu trails.

While the top of Flattop was about as interesting as a regular-season NBA game, I had noticed during the final ascent a steep mound of rocks — aka, a mountain — just to the south of my destination that people were ascending. It piqued my interest.

So after throwing on my nylon pants, a long-sleeved-fleece combo, and my winter hat, I took the clearly marked path south to get a better look at Hallet Peak, which rose above snowy, precipitous Tyndall Glacier.

A man passed me at Hallet’s base and mentioned that it “was a haul,” but worth doing. That was all I needed to hear.

Turns out, the hike wasn’t very tough or long. Most difficult was locating the next cairn to rock hop to, but before I could believe it, I emerged on top of Hallet, elevation 12,713 feet, and really felt like, for the first time, I was on a summit.

I found a flat rock overlooking the glacier and a small, unnamed lake and settled in for a snack of a cut-up apple (I had ingested a peanut butter sandwich after reaching Flattop’s “summit”).

My spot was also an escape from the winds I had experienced 400 feet below, giving me a real sense of calm. I could have stayed there for hours.

However, morning had turned into afternoon, and I knew what that could mean in the Rockies despite the mostly clear skies and innocuous-looking clouds. So I scrambled down Hallet, shot a few more pictures on the other side of the Continental Divide, which the Tonahutu Trail passes over, and then, seeing a suddenly-appearing dark cloud arise out of nowhere to the west, started hustling down the Flattop trail.

Around 2:40, I heard the first, distant thunder claps. I was still in the open, but moving swiftly. I started to feel a few drops around 3, as I finally reached the tree line. Minutes later, it was pouring and thundering as I navigated the easy switchbacks under the pine tree’s cover.

Wow, what a quick change in weather.

As I got close to the base of the trail, I passed a woman walking a huge donkey, who was carrying trail maintenance supplies. I must say, it was my first donkey encounter on a trail.

Of course, as I reached the parking lot around 4, the skies cleared and were mostly blue with a few innocent clouds scattered here and there. A typical afternoon in the Rockies, I learned.

I was not ready to head back to Boulder.

Driving on Bear Lake Road toward the park’s entrance to Trail Ridge Road, I noticed several cars pulled over. This could mean two things: 1. A lot of bathroom breaks coincidentally at the same time; 2. Spotted wildlife.

Thankfully, it was No. 2, as I noticed a huge elk maybe 30 yards off the road in the high grass minding its business. It was my first spotting of the national park’s most popular large, beautiful creature.

If only I had seen one just off the trail, it would have felt a little more special.

My late-afternoon plan involved driving the park’s version of Yosemite’s Tioga Road — Trail Ridge Road, which cuts across the northern section of the park from east to west.

It was incredible. As I navigated sharp turns, I quickly gained 9,000, 10,000, 11,000 and then 12,000 feet, reaching a high point of 12,183 feet. Almost the entire drive, the road offered uninhibited views of the national park’s peaks to the south and the large, widespread peaks of the Mummy Range to the north.

I stopped at several viewing areas to take in, absorb, memorize my surroundings and, of course, assist my memory with dozens of pictures. Longs Peak and its flat, boxy top stood out to the southeast (little would one know, from those views of it, that Longs is one of the most difficult 14ers to ascend).

It soon occurred to me that I had a special opportunity to witness a sunset overlooking the Rockies. With time to burn, I decided to drive the length of the road to the west and then return to a spot called Forest Canyon, where I could hike a trail about an eighth of a mile to a perfect spot to view the sun as it dropped below the peak-dominated horizon.

Of course, I would be chilly. On my drive up, the temperature had dropped, according to the Lexus, from 70 to 52 degrees. I had all my layers on.

As I began to descend the western section of the road, I noticed, once again, several cars pulled over. Sure enough, in the grassy meadow below the road was a large herd of elk.

I parked and then observed, along with several others, as the elk eventually made their way across the road to a higher grassy area. There were several calves that followed their parents, creating a small brigade of elk walking not more than 50 feet from me.

Pretty cool.

Minutes later, having driven the entire Trail Ridge Road, I noticed a group at an outlook peering through binoculars at a very distant hillside to the west. A lady handed me her binoculars, and I quickly spotted hundreds of moving dots — elk — on the green side of the mountain.

They’re all over the place. You just have to find them.

I enjoyed seeing the elk, but nothing from that drive matched the sunset. I made it back to my designated spot just as the blood-orange sun crested on top of a set of pointy peaks to the west, and I was in a state of awe for 20 minutes as I watched the sky transformed to a bright, glowing orange that can’t be done justice by words or pictures (I can only try).

I sat on a rock outcropping observing the scene until I was in the dark, and then shaking my head at the brilliance I had bore witness to, I slowly returned to the car for the long, winding drive back to Boulder.

Colorado 2011 Day 2: Mills and Black lakes

Day 2: Mills and Black lakes (10,656 max elevation), Rocky Mountain National Park

Miles hiked: 10.6

As enjoyable as my hiking experience was in Boulder on Sunday, I was anxious to get out of town and see the Rocky Mountains at their most extreme. Thankfully, I didn’t have to travel too far to experience that.

All it took was a trip of a little over an hour to Rocky Mountain National Park to the northwest of Boulder. Eliot, my host for the week, has an annual pass to the park, so I had a free ticket to explore as many of the hundreds of trails as I desired.

I continued my acclimation process by choosing a hike in Glacier Gorge that included only about 1,400 feet in elevation gain to roughly10,600 feet and included two beautiful lakes surrounded by cliffs.

The Glacier Gorge trail climbed very moderately in light tree cover, first passing Alberta Falls — a popular destination for the non-hiking crowd — and then, quickly, reaching several open rocks with astounding, sweeping views of 12,000- and 13,000-footers to the north.

I was amazed at just how quickly, and easily, I gained such incredible views. I’m so used to New Hampshire, where you usually have to hike a few miles and gain a couple thousand feet before being rewarded with such scenery for the eyes.

My Yosemite and Colorado trips have given me a vastly different perspective on this.

After about three miles, I reached the north end of Mills Lake and was rewarded with spectacular scenery — the long, vertical lake cast against a slew of rocky, pointy mountains to the south and a tall, never-ending wall of cliffs to the east and west.

I truly was in a gorge (definition: a deep narrow valley or gorge in the earth's surface worn by running water).

The sky had been a bit nebulous all morning and I had read all about the Rockies’ tendency to spout out unexpected, thunderous storms out of nowhere in the early afternoon. Still, it wasn’t noon yet, so I continued on another 2 miles to Black Lake.

The hike was pretty easy and incredibly scenic. Despite being at such a high elevation, I was walking up a path surrounded by lush, green grass and wildflowers all out in the open and bordering a trickling stream.

Black Lake was small and circular and at the base of several towering, sharp-looking cliffs that shot up thousands of feet into the sky as if to say, Don’t even think about climbing me.

Sweeping, constantly changing clouds made the scene seem eerie and also created plenty of great photo opportunities.

I hiked up the trail a few hundred feet above Black Lake and found a flat rock face upon which to sit and eat lunch, but only after I threw on three layers to deal with the suddenly fierce, chilly wind hitting me out in the open. From my spot, I could look to the distant, snow-capped peaks to the north, to Black Lake below me, and to a lineup of craggy mountains just to the east.

(Side note: Because of how many peaks there were, I didn’t spend a lot of time and effort trying to identify all of them like I usually do on such hikes; I just knew what the biggest mountains were.)

The 5.3-mile hike back to Eliot’s car at the Bear Lake parking area — the most popular trail head in the national park — was easy and relaxing, and I took a lap around the tourist destination of Bear Lake and soaked my feet in the cold lake before calling it an afternoon.

I’d be back to the same starting spot the next day. 

Colorado 2011 Day 1: Green Mountain

Day 1: Green Mountain (8,144 feet), Boulder, CO

Miles hiked: 5.5

Day 1 in Colorado was all about getting acclimated to the altitude. Sure, it would have been nice to walk out the door and hike a 14,000-footer, but that probably wouldn’t have been the wisest decision. Plus, I got a bit of a late start and I didn’t want to travel too far.

The great thing about Boulder — OK, one of many great things — is that it has easy access to a plethora of great, scenic trails just minutes away. In D.C., I can drive 10 minutes to the Capitol. In Boulder, I can drive 10 minutes to the trailhead for an 8,000-foot mountain.

I’ll take Boulder.

And on Day 1, I hiked up Green Mountain, which, at 8,144 feet, is one of the city’s three highest peaks. The first thing I noticed at the Gregory Canyon trailhead was a sign indicating that a bear had been sighted in the area just a week earlier. There was also an unavoidable sign at each trail intersection reminding hikers to keep their dogs on the leash.

I was officially in bear country!

(I would confirm this for myself on the hike’s descent when I passed by, in the middle of the trail, a neat pile of, yup, you guessed it.)

The hike climbed steadily but wasn’t overly difficult, as the trail was mostly dirt with just a few rocks. The most trying aspects of the hike were A) The heat; it must have been about 90; at least it was dry, a noticeable difference from DC’s unrelenting humidity and B) The elevation gain; I could feel it a little bit as I climbed, and I moved at a more moderate pace than I usually go in New Hampshire.

As I gained elevation and got within a mile of the summit, the pines started to open up a bit and I gained my first views of the snow-capped big boys to the west. A very light drizzle teased me, but never became consistent. The sky was overcast — very typical for an afternoon in the area – but calm. I was too low for the infamous thunderstorms that threaten the higher peaks almost every afternoon.

The summit of Green Mountain wasn’t completely clear, but I was able to gain views in almost all directions by walking to different spots. I took a minute to climb the large red rock on top of which sat the official summit cairn.

My first Colorado summit was in the books.

One view offered a look to the northwest of Rocky Mountain National Park, my destination later in the week. Another view offered nothing but flatlands. In the distance to the south, I could see Denver.

The general rule, I’ve learned, when observing the sights from Boulder: Mountains are to the west. Views in all other directions are pretty flat.

The people who shared the summit with me made up quite the eclectic group. There was a mid-20s laid-back guy, who offered me a joint (I declined, unsure how it would affect my acclimation process); there was a couple with nothing but water bottles around their waists who looked to be out for a run; and there was a family with a 2-year-old (age approximated).

What I learned from the hike, and what is obvious, of course, is that people in Colorado love to be active all the time. On my way down the Saddle Rock Trail, which offered numerous views of Boulder and the University of Colorado’s campus as well as a really cool, pointy rock formation high above me to the south, I passed a guy running up the trail, some high school students — at least they looked that age — out for a hike and several other young people.

It’s clear that if you live in Colorado, you grow up within this active, outdoorsy framework. Gosh, I love this place.

With the little guy down, it was time to go higher, and higher, and higher. 

New Hampshire 2011: Three-day Presidentials hike

Have you ever been sitting on your couch mindlessly watching a concert on TV? Maybe you’re studying as you half-watch fans of the band going absolutely crazy, their faces glowing, their eyes glued to the guitarist on stage as if they want to kidnap him and never let him go.

You might think, What’s the big deal? It’s just a concert. They can’t possibly be having that much fun.

An understandable thought.

But the truth is, you have to be there. In order to truly experience something amazing, something that makes you feel more alive, you must be present. A high-definition or 3D TV can only do so much.

For me, I receive a reminder of how incredible life can be every August when I visit New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Sitting at home in flat, balmy Washington, DC, it’s hard to imagine such a special place and, at times, it’s difficult to get really excited about life and the experiences it offers.

Then I head to the Whites.

This summer, more than most, demonstrated how otherworldly the place can be. This wasn’t more acute than on the three-day hut hike I went on with relatives (cousins J-bo and Pudds, J-bo’s wife Shanda, Aunt Sal and Dad). In spending two nights in the White Mountains’ one-of-a-kind Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) huts, we rekindled a tradition that had fallen off the past three years.

In a nutshell, the huts hike is incredible for the following reasons:

1) The eight fully maintained huts are located at high elevations and in cols between the most spectacular mountains that allow for tremendous views from their doorsteps and easy hikes to nearby peaks.

2) The “Croo’ at each hut serves a delectable, filling dinner each night at 6 p.m. and breakfast each morning at 7 a.m. which allow for light food packing (I only eat lunch and snacks because they taste so damn good up at 5,000 feet; I’m really not that hungry at 12 p.m. after a monster breakfast, which is saying something for me).

3) The huts are spaced out perfectly, allowing for hikes that can span multiple days without being too strenuous on even the novice hiker.

This year, our plan was a bit different from hikes of the past. Since Dad was mostly interested in photography and not doing too much of the rocky ridge hiking that the Presidential Range is famous for, and Sal felt the same way, they booked two nights at the Lakes of the Clouds hut on the western flank of Mt. Washington. Us young kids, meanwhile, would spend Night 1 at the newly renovated Madison Springs hut by Mt. Madison and then hike over to LOTC for Night 2.

The ascent up to the Madison hut was the most mundane part of the trip, so let me skip ahead. Heck, even the hike up Madison with Pudds, so she could bag the 4,000-footer, wasn’t all that memorable. We were enshrouded by clouds, not an uncommon fate in the Presidentials, and were more concerned about proper foot plants than taking in the 100-feet visibility.

But then came that first night, that first sunset.

The sky had begun to clear in the late afternoon, and after devouring a gigantic meal — both Croos were tremendous in catering to my ridiculous gluten- and corn-free regimen, even serving me more food than the average guest wound up taking from the family-style setup — I couldn’t wait to get outside, walk off the bulge in my stomach, and look around.

I followed a group a couple tenths of a mile toward a rocky slab where there was a talk on the area’s geology. Believe me when I say, I was interested. However, it was impossible not to be distracted by the scene around me.

To paint the picture: To the southwest, Adams was visible behind a thin layer of mist that gave off an ethereal mystique; moving east, the ridge of Mt. Washington played hide and seek with me, peeking out from beyond cloud cover one moment and then becoming completely invisible the next. At times I saw the summit; at times, I saw the eastern ridge; either way, the view was constantly changing; and due east and a bit north, I gazed in fascination at what I’d describe as a sea of white clouds above the valley connected, at the hip, it seemed, to the eastern ridge of Mt. Madison (whose rocky summit rose above it all).

I simply couldn’t pay much attention to the geology talk. I’d never seen anything like the landscape surrounding me.

I was in pure bliss. It was — and here’s that word again — otherworldly.

Day 2, Sunset part 2

The one thing I missed from those views during the geology discussion? The setting of the sun. The peak of Adams blocked most of the view to the west, and by the time I returned to the hut, it was gone from the horizon as darkness started to spread over the Presidentials.

I’d see that sunset on the second day.

The morning sure didn’t forecast it. Upon stepping outside of the hut for the first time, I was engulfed by clouds. I could see about 23 feet in front of me. The sun? Nowhere to be found.

As it turned out, the weather didn’t have too much of an effect on the views I took in during the day — at least not compared to how it affected the rest of the gang. Because I’d hiked the Gulfside ridge trail over Mts. Adams, Jefferson and Clay on many occasions, and because of my thirst for new adventures, I decided to split off and hike down into the Great Gulf way below all those peaks before making a ridiculous ascent of Mt. Washington.

The first mile going down the Buttress trail was arguably the most difficult, treacherous mile I’ve ever hiked. It was raining. The rocks were wet. Tree roots were wet and as slippery as ice. And I was descending a narrow path complicated by heavy brush.

I survived.

Pretty soon, I was in the Great Gulf and, thankfully, hiking on level terrain as I passed by several cascades. It started pouring. I wondered how the folks on top of the world were fairing. The rain didn’t affect me, besides from taking away my ability to snap photos. I kept going.

After a few miles on the Great Gulf trail, I emerged at Spaulding Lake. From the edge of the small lake — I’d say, it was just big enough to escape being labeled a pond — I had views, albeit clouded, of the ridges of Adams, Jefferson and Clay above me. It was pretty cool to see them from such a different perspective, and the whole scene made me realize just how massive and impressive the range is.

Then the ascent began. My trusted White Mountain guide had warned of an 0.8-mile ascent covering 1,600 feet, so I knew what I was getting into as I started making my way up what seemed like a small waterfall. I soon passed a woman descending the steep, slippery and often loose rocks. I was impressed — very impressed.

I wanted no part of such a descent.

The trickiest thing about the trail was, well, staying on it. Yellow blazes marked it, but there weren’t a lot of them, and they were often faded and, unusual for the White Mountains, not on the most obvious rocks. On several occasions, I would stop, gaze around for 20 seconds, and finally locate the next blaze.

Because I was moving pretty slowly, the heavy breathing never kicked in, and the eighth of a mile actually didn’t seem to take that long. It was a situation in which I gave so much respect to the mountain, nothing could seem too hard or difficult (those, in the Whites, are rare).

I’ll skip over the next part of the journey, because I’ve done it now seven times. (Reached the top of Washington; saw tourists in sandals; spent 3 minutes on the summit; got off it.) It was only mid-afternoon, so I had time to go on a little side adventure I’d been excited about since hiking Washington via the Huntington Ravine trail the previous summer.

Lion’s Head.

Parallel to the popular Tuckerman Ravine trail is the Lion’s Head trail, which got its name for a rocky outcropping outlook on the east flank of Washington. The “head” looked, from above, to be a pretty neat formation of rocks where views in all directions could be obtained

What I couldn’t see from a mile away was the Danger Rock — my name — that sat overlooking the ravine. But as soon as I reached Lion’s Head, I knew I had to go sit on it. There was a nice group of French Canadian college age students hanging out, so I asked them if they could snap my picture while sitting on my new favorite rock.

I told the guy I handed the camera too that it, and my Camelbak, were his if I fell to an undesirable fate.

As it turned out, the scramble down to the rock was easy and danger-free (unless you’re an idiot). Three of the French Canadians and then another boy, also French Canadian, followed my lead in the minutes following. (Side note: I’m not kidding when I’d say that maybe half of the hikers I encounter within the Presidential range are from Canada; meanwhile, anyone who drives up Mt. Washington is an American. No wonder we’re such an obese country!)

Sitting on the rock was one of those experiences you just can’t replicate, and one that never gets old, either. I dangled my legs over the edge while looking hundreds of feet down at Hermit Lake and the ravine. Just a month earlier, I had sat on several rocky and more precipitous ledges at Yosemite National Park, but in no way did they spoil this experience.

After retreating to the head and eating some gorp, I couldn’t help myself from going back to the rock for Part II. It was that enticing.

Now it’s time to, once again, skip ahead. The hike to LOTC was nice (I especially enjoyed the views of the always-photogenic Boot Spur, another path up Washington from the east; and the views of the lines of cairns looking south that really do make me feel like I’m living in an Ice Age of sort), and it was, well, nice to also reunite with Dad, soak my legs in one of the two ice-cold lakes — although they’re very pond-like in size — and get some warm, dry clothing on.

Oh, and dinner, as usual, was phenomenal and more than filling.

But, again, the highlight of the day came, for me, with a full stomach.

Following dessert, I stepped outside to join Dad by one of the lakes, which was nestled a short walk up Washington from the hut. As I joined him by the lake, which, when standing on the trail, is the foreground of a view to the west, I was blinded by the colors in the sky.

Reds. Oranges. Pinks. I kid you not.

And like the previous night, the sky was almost in a hurry to change, similar to a high school girl unable to decide on an outfit for the night. The dynamic of clouds and the colors created by the sun dipping below the horizon created a lights show that I’d put up against any other display of nighttime colors out there (full disclosure: I’ve never seen the Northern Lights).

We stood in spot for 10 minutes, unable to put our cameras down, completely awed and excited by our surroundings. I’m usually not a huge picture-taker, but each view, different from the one the moment before, turned me into one.

I walked a little farther up to the Crawford Path, gaining elevation until I found a smooth rock where I could sit and enjoy a different perspective of the clouds and colors blanketing the valley to the west and the sides of the Presidential mountains to the north. Huge, puffy clouds were illuminated by the sun, turned into cotton candy-looking shapes. Other clouds appeared to be giving off rays of light as if they were plugged in.

After awhile of admiring the new, changing view, I turned my gaze to the southwest, where a perfect portrait immediately framed itself in my head — the iconic, ragged shape of Mt. Monroe in the center, the bright moon in the upper left corner, and the lighted hut in the bottom right part of the frame, with those aforementioned colors behind it.

Snap. Wow. Amazing.

Sunsets, unfortunately, don’t last forever, but that one sure seemed to extend itself, as if to say, Enjoy me while I last. I’m not always this memorable.

Day 3: The incredible Mt. Monroe

While nothing would match the sunsets the rest of the trip, the third day had its own appeal. Having awoken early, I took a short walk a little before 6, admiring a much more subtle color created by the sunrise that glistened to the north. Turning my gaze to the west, banks of clouds at very low elevations gave off the air of white oceans dominating the valleys.

After two bowels of oatmeal, gluten-free pancakes and coffee, I was fueled for a hike on the Crawford Path, the oldest trail in the White Mountains. Hiking the Monroe-Franklin-Eisenhower-Pierce ridge is nothing compared to the rock-dominated Gulfside trail on the north side of Washington, but the views are just as good.

And as all the cousins agree, Monroe, with its photogenic summit and false summit just to the west, is the coolest Presidential mountain. (When you’ve hiked past the false Monroe peak, it’s always fun to peak behind you and see Mt. Washington framed by Monroe’s pair of humps.)

What I somehow hadn’t discovered on several previous ascents of Monroe is that there’s a smaller version of Danger Rock that overlooks the wooded terrain in the Dry River Wilderness to the south of the Presidentials. The cousins took turns sitting on the rock, feet dangling, gazing at the view of green mountains spanning dozens of miles.

I didn’t get to enjoy too much of the ridge, as I had to hike/run down the Crawford Path to catch the hiker shuttle in Crawford Notch and retrieve our one car, but in no way could my spirit be squashed.

This year’s three-day adventure will be a tough one to top. However, I’ve said that just about every year. That’s the thing about a place as special as the White Mountains: Even as it’s aging by the year, it never gets old.

You have to be there. 

New Hampshire 2011:Day hikes

When I arrived in Sandwich August 3, I was coming off two very eventful hiking days in Vermont’s Green Mountains. Still, I wasn’t about to take a day off. I began my hiking day by heading over to East Rattlesnake, which, to my surprise (and due to a poor memory), tests you with a very steep, dirt trail. It was a pretty grueling, sweat-inducing workout to start the day. And upon reaching the open, rocky summit, I sat down for 20 minutes and relaxed.

In the afternoon, I decided to try a new hike that wouldn’t be too challenging, driving to North Conway to hike Peaked and Middle mountains — a pair of sub-2,000-footers. That doesn’t mean they were easy ascents, however.

In fact, for the third consecutive day, I did do not one, but TWO ascents. First, I headed up a dirt path to summit Peaked Mountain. After roughly a mile and a half, I started climbing up steep slabs of rock. And with them came blueberries, and tons of them!

I found myself frequently stopping to eat blueberries. Handfuls of them. I couldn’t stop — eating, at least.

A large patch of blueberries — the one thing that can slow me down!

The top of Peaked was rocky and offered nice views to the south and west toward the Moat Mountains. I stayed there for a few minutes, relaxing on another beautiful, cloudy and picturesque day. Then I headed down the mountain to the south only to begin another ascent up Middle Mountains.

For more blueberries. And more great views.

Was the hike spectacular? Not compared to many other ones in the White Mountains. Still, it was a nice 6-mile loop, or so, and was well worth the effort. On the drive back, I stopped at the Pothole to cool off and then went to the Sandwich Creamery. Stunningly, not a single flavor of ice cream didn’t contain corn syrup. There would be no ice cream for me. Still, I bought a couple pints for the rest of the family.

On Thursday, I figured I would keep my streak of hikes alive. Why not? There are so many spectacular mountains and trails around this region, it doesn’t make sense to waste days. A plan quickly developed that had me hiking up and over South and Middle Moat mountains, then down the Red Ridge trail and up to meet the parents, Sal and Vicky on top of Cathedral Ledge (which I had visited briefly the previous day by car).

The hike was amazing, phenomenal, just inspiring.

The Moats are just under 3,000 feet, and while it was steep, it didn’t take too long to come to an open, flat rocky slab that offered close-up views of Mt. Chocorua to the south. I rested for a minute and then continued up the steep but fairly easy trail to the summit.

The going was slow, mostly because, of course, there were more blueberries!!! I couldn’t keep myself from continuously stopping and grabbing handfuls. I was also beginning to feel a bit guilty for not picking berries for the rest of the family.

Then I reached the summit, dropped my pack and looked around. Never does a tremendous mountaintop view cease to amaze me. There were views in all directions, and an array of stormy-looking clouds (minus the rain) made the hundreds of peaks in the distance all the more interesting. There were dozens of flat rocks to choose from as a sitting spot, and I found the perfect place to bask in the narrow ray of sunlight and enjoy myself.

Unfortunately, I had a 5 p.m. meet-up time with the folks and time was flying. Also, there was the blueberry factor. I simply couldn’t ignore the droves and droves of blueberries patches lining both sides of the trail.

Small blueberries. Plump blueberries. You name it. All wild. All delicious.

Finally, I devised a way I could pick them for the folks, who, I joked to later, wouldn’t have allowed me in the car without a supply, by placing my sandwich bag inside of the cracker box that had outside holes in it.

Genius.

Then I sat down and starting picking. Maybe 20-some minutes later, the box was almost full. I was also way behind schedule.

The ridge to Middle Moat Mountain was mostly in the open, making moving fast al the mort difficult. The summit was also exposed with the same great views, only closer to the taller and more imposing North Moat, which I had hiked a year earlier, with the Presidentials, their tops dwarfed by clouds, in the distance.

Knowing I still had more than 4 miles to go, I picked up the pace as the trail dropped below the tree line, pushing myself through dense pines and bushes that clipped my arms and the bill of my cap. It was quite the contrast, I thought, from the ridge hiking on top of the mountains.

Finally, I reached familiar territory at the cutoff to the Red Rige Trail, which I had done a year earlier as part of my North Moat loop, and took the trail down over rocky slabs, and more rocky slabs, to the northeast.

The trail was even longer than I remembered, and my left knee had started to ache a bit — a very disturbing development for me, considering I’ve never had knee problems — and I didn’t reach the cutoff for White Horse and Cathedral ledges until 5. I was going to be about an hour late.

The link trail took me steeply, but also quickly, up to White Horse Ledge, which wasn’t populated by anyone and offered a few fine views overlooking the town of Conway and the mountains I had climbed a day earlier to the east.

Then I went back down AND up to Cathedral Ledge, the touristy spot that folks drive up to. It offers plenty of fine outlooks to both the east and south — and, kind of, to the north — which are marred, a little bit, by the occasional beer bottle or empty cigarettes case in the bushes.

Some people simply don’t respect nature.

At that point, it started to rain, which kept me from visiting my favorite, unfenced ledges. Instead, I sat on a rock by the road and waited for the folks to return with ice cream.

An appropriate reward for a 9-mile tramp as the rain started to pour.

I probably shouldn’t have, but I had made plans to hike up Osceola and East Osceola with J-bo and Pudds (to bag the 4,000-footers) and Shanda (to train for the upcoming three-day hike) on Friday. My knee wasn’t hurting at all, but it had a bit on the descents toward the end of my Thursday hike. It probably needed rest.

But it’s not easy for me to say no to a hike, and I had to take Charlie off the visiting-Vermont parents, so we headed to Waterville Valley to tackle the pair of 4,000-footers. As with the first time I hiked Osceola, it was a pleasant, fairly easy ascent. We went at a slow pace, as Shanda was going up a 4,000-footer for the first time, and I enjoyed the relaxed pace (it was quite the difference from the previous three days).

Charlie was phenomenal. The little Pomeranian, hiking his biggest mountain, scampered up and over flat, rocky slabs, never panicking whenever he slipped and always recovering. There was only one spot where we needed to assist Charlie, boosting him over a bunch of tangled roots.

He didn’t even drink much water. He wasn’t interested in treats. He just wanted to continue hiking.

The summit offers a pair of ledges with tremendous views of the Tripyramids and Sandwich Dome, not to mention many mountains to the east and north.

We left Charlie and Shanda and made the 1-mile trek, down and up, to bag East Osceola’s wooded peak. I was glad we didn’t bring Charlie, despite his enthusiasm. The descent down Osceola, and then up it on the way back, was extremely rocky and would have been treacherous for him.

On the descent, Charlie led the entire way by at least 50 feet. He showed no signs of fatigue.

The dog is a hiker!

Sadly, my left knee was not so enthusiastic on the way down. It wasn’t unbearable pain, but as I stepped down rock after rock, I could feel the soreness, could feel the aches. This was a huge concern.

Vermont's 4,000-footers: Summary

Amazingly, prior to this summer, I had never been hiking in Vermont. Every summer since I can remember, I’ve come to New Hampshire for a couple weeks each summer for hiking. But probably because the state offers so many hiking opportunities, I’ve never even thought about heading west for the no-billboards state to hike.

This year, I figured it was time to do just that and summit Vermont’s five 4,000-footers. This would leave me with just Maine’s 14 highest summits to peak in order to claim that I’d hiked all of New England’s official highest peaks.

Oh, baby.

I put together a very ambitious plan, which involved hiking the summits in two days, with my friend Hannah’s house in South Royalton, VT, serving as my home base. Here is the breakdown of how my days turned out (not necessarily how I planned them; read on for that):

Day 1:

-- 9am: Leave for Mt. Killington (4,235 ft.) on Sherburne trail

-- 1:10pm: Back at the car (12.4 miles total)

-- 2:31pm: Start Mts. Abraham (4,006 ft.) and Ellen (4,083 ft.)

-- 7:41pm: Down (12.6 miles total)

= 25 miles in about 9 hours of hiking

Day 2:

-- 7:39am: Leave for Camel’s Hump (4,083 ft.) on Monroe trail

-- 9:25am: Top of Camel’s Hump

-- 10:51am: Down  (7.6 miles total)

-- 12:12pm: Start up Long Trail on Mt. Mansfield (4,393 ft.)

-- 1:37: Top of Mansfield

-- 3:45: Down after 30-minute break on top of summit (6.5 miles total)

= 12.1 miles in about 7 hours

TOTAL: 37.1 miles hiked

Vermont's 4,000-footers Day 2: Camel's Hump, Mansfield

Day 2: Camel’s Hump and Mansfield

As difficult and long as Day 1 had been, I figured that, at least comparatively, my second day of tramping in the Green Mountains would be a walk in the woods, so to speak. Those were some fighting thoughts, considering the tallest mountain in the state was on the agenda.

My day began at the base of a washed-out road. Luckily, I only had to walk an extra 0.4 miles up the dirt road with huge crevices in it to reach the base of the Monroe Trail up Camel’s Hump.

I was just a little farther north than I’d been the previous afternoon.

The Monroe Trail wasn’t much different from the trails of Day 1. It was a steady ascent on a trail with fairly easy footing. But it felt very long. And because there was no escaping the trees, it was impossible to see how close I was to the top.

Sweating profusely as I continued at a steady clip — although my legs still felt sore from the previous day — I came upon a woman and her German Shepherd named Eli. I would see another five dogs on my way down.

Camel’s Hump — mountain of the dogs.

Judging by Eli’s appearance, I didn’t anticipate too much difficult, technical climbing. However, the steep final 0.3 miles didn’t surprise me, although they were made easier by the rapidly increasing cloudy views around me.

Upon gaining the summit, I was greeted by 20mph winds and swirling clouds in all directions. I put on my long-sleeve AMC shirt, took some pictures — sorry, fans of the sun and clear days, but clouds make everything, including picture opportunities, better! — and sat down to inhale some trail mix.

I’ll say it again: There’s nothing better than being on an open summit, giving you that top of the world feeling, and food tastes 10 times as good when consumed in such a spot.

I didn’t stay for too long, though, as I still had one more climb and, yes, one more breathtaking ascent.

Mount Mansfield might be best known for its array of ski slopes that are jam packed every winter in the resort town of Stowe. But hiking the mountain is one heck of an adventure, too!

Just like with Mount Washington, Vermont’s tallest mountain offers an array of routes up it varying in length, steepness and scenery. Having ascending three 4,000-footers (and Pico) in the previous 24 hours, I opted for the “easiest” route up via the Long Trail — more white blazes!

It was only 2.3 miles to the summit. Nothing, right?

Of course, it was also an elevation gain of 2,800 feet.

So I knew that from the base of the trail, I’d be climbing. And, sure enough, it was a steady and often steep, if not difficult footing-wise, ascent through the woods.

Unlike the previous three hikes, though, once I had sweated and exhausted myself for two miles, the final stretch — which was a very long 0.3 miles — was completely in the open. As I emerged from the pines, the summit of Mansfield, called “The Chin,” lay in front of me, a rock-covered cliff similar to New Hampshire’s iconic Mt. Chocorua. I could see dozens of people slowing making their way up through steep crevices between rocks or using their hands — and butts — to lower themselves down the precipice.

(Side note: I have discovered, and I’m sure I’m not the only one, that it’s much easier to hike when in the open. Even if a daunting ascent lies before me, if I can see where I’m going, it feels easier mentally than when I’m exerting all that energy in the woods without much of an idea how far the destination is.)

I joined the throngs of people, slowly making my way toward The Chin. Once on it, I was greeted with the expected and read-about views in all directions, including Lake Champlain to the west. To the south lay The Nose, a shorter summit of Mansfield that is home to a couple TV towers and doesn’t, appropriately, situate hikers.

I talked for a couple minutes with the summit caretaker, who was in charge of making sure visitors to the summit don’t trample the fragile alpine vegetation (side note: Vermont’s Green Mountain Club does a tremendous job of protecting the alpine zone with certain areas up high roped off and caretakers on both Mansfield and Camel’s Hump. The rope is nondescript enough and not abundant enough to take away from the specter of the summits, and the caretakers are your average nature enthusiasts who only intervene if someone is way out of bounds. I understand this because especially on Mansfield, you can drive up a road by The Nose that’s just a mile from The Chin and its alpine zone. People can also take a gondola up the mountain. Those kinds of non-hiking types often don’t understand such things). The caretaker was really cool and we chatted about hiking 4,000-footers in New Hampshire and Vermont.

She took my picture on top to commemorate reaching all of the state’s 4,000-footers. Mission (not easily) accomplished.

The caretaker also advised me on a way down that would allow me to do my first loop. So despite adding a mile or two — by that point, I wasn’t counting! — I took the ridge toward the nose, which offered interesting views from a different perspective of The Chin — then walked down the road half a mile, zigzagged my way down a steep ski slope, and finally entered the woods on the Hasselton Trail.

An hour later plus a short hitchhike on Route 108 that probably wasn’t necessary, I was back at the Civic by 4 p.m. It had been a short day.

Hah.

To summarize, Vermont’s highest peaks take some adjusting to. Unlike New Hampshire’s tallest, Vermont’s are mostly wooded without much ridge hiking above the tree line. This makes continuing to push onward more difficult, especially when hiking alone.

But I still enjoyed each hike not just for the sense of accomplishment, but for the peacefulness of the trails and, of course, that great feeling I got when I did, finally, emerge from green to a rocky summit.

That feeling never gets old.