Arizona Grand Canyon: Day 2, Dripping Springs

Arizona — The Grand Canyon Day 2, Hermit and Dripping Springs trails, 6 miles hiked

If the first day at the Grand Canyon had been phenomenal, jaw-dropping and mythical, Day 2 was from another planet. While the “awe” factor had worn off a bit, nothing had become dull, and as I knew from plenty of previous hiking experience, each new trail, each fresh hike, brings a different perspective and a whole new inspiration.


First, there was the sunrise. I awoke at 5:45 in the warm lodge room in no way ready for the weather outside. Despite bundling up in a long-sleeved shirt, fleece, windbreaker, winter hat and gloves, I was still cold. It was about 24 degrees. Every time I took my gloves off to snap a picture, my hands froze. It reminded me a bit of my Michigan hiking experience.


But that was Michigan in February. This was Arizona in late March!


About 45 minutes later, I was cold, but I was also once again in awe — this time by the reflections of light on the castles and temples and buttes — as they’re called — down below in the Canyon. It was a beautiful early morning sight as the sun rose.


Despite the frigid temperatures.


The sun, thankfully, wasn’t going anywhere, and by the time we were ready to hit the trail around 8, the gloves and winter hats could be put away — although it was still a bit brisk. We took the red shuttle bus to Hermits Rest, which is the farthest stop on the west end of the South Rim. (Note: During March-October, visitors aren’t allowed to drive on the rim roads — Hermits Rest to the west and Desert View Drive to the east — which I think is a great system, considering the buses run every 15 minutes, are always on time, and make stops at every possible point you could want to get off at.) We took in from the bus the incredible and different views at each of the stops between Grand Canyon Village and our stop. Some of the stops, we were told, had views of the river.


And then, after about 30 minutes, we arrived at our destination and began another 6-mile round trip hike, this one to Dripping Springs. I had read about the hike in my Arizona hiking book and it seemed like a moderate trek that would bring different perspectives from our Day 1 adventure.


That couldn’t have been truer.


As the sun heated up the Canyon, we began a twisting, somewhat steep descent of over 1,000 feet to a campground. We were hiking in a small offshoot from the main basin of the Canyon, which provided an interesting, somewhat narrow view to the north and the wide expanse of buttes, castles and temples. To the southeast, large, towering rock walls provided a backdrop for the hike.


Once we reached the campsite and then an intersection at which the Hermits Rest Trail headed down into the Canyon and we stayed left on the Dripping Springs Trail, we were on a ridge for the majority of the hike.


And what a ridge it was!


As we walked on an extremely photogenic red-clay trail, we skirted the edge of not one but two canyons that dipped precipitously some 2,000 feet directly below us. Imagine hiking a backward 3 with the insides of the numeral those canyons. That’s what we did, and the views were astounding. In the morning light, huge shadows were cast on the ridges of the red rock, providing us with ample photo opportunities to showcase how the puzzles of the canyon fit together or complemented each other.


I’ve done some incredible ridge hikes in New Hampshire. This was right up there with them.


After completing the backward 3, we turned due west and hiked through a desert landscape replete with all kinds of cacti toward this infamous Dripping Springs. The trail seemed to go on forever and we were starving for a hearty lunch, but when we finally reached the spring, tucked underneath a rock wall hundreds of feet tall, it was all worth it.


As I would remark several times in the days after, it was like we were in a movie. Beneath a carved out mini cave in the red rock, an antiquated wooden sign read “Dipping Springs,” and from the overhanging rock 11 feet or so above it dropped a slow, very light cascade of water drops. The sign was surrounded by a small circle of golf course-green grass.


Yes, straight out of Hollywood!


It was the perfect resting spot, the impeccable lunch location, and as we munched on delicious rice cakes topped with sunflower seed butter, we were joined by a butterfly that flapped his or her wings up and down in the sand just in front of us.


The hike back wasn’t the novelty it had been on the way in, but the ridge didn’t lose its awesomeness and we sure weren’t taking our footsteps — one in front of the other! — for granted. The hike back up from the campsite turned out to be a beast of an ascent that seemed to go on forever, as we felt the burn in our calves and stopped often to catch our breath.


When we reached the trailhead, finally, at 6,650 feet, we knew it had been another complete hike full of hidden jewels.


On the bus ride back to the village, we stopped at Mohave Point to take in views of the Colorado River for the first time. It was pretty cool to have a perspective of the winding, narrow river some 4,000-plus feet below us as it wended its way between the massive rock formations throughout the Canyon. I climbed over the guardrail and sat on a rock on rim’s edge overlooking everything.


I could have stayed on that rock for hours, but probably not to sleep … as I tend to roll over.


This trip was just an introduction to the Grand Canyon, a small look into all that it has to offer. From the rim, to the Canyon, from the plants, to the multicolored rock walls, from the views to the precipitous drops, it truly is a treasure that I plan to visit again soon.

Arizona Grand Canyon: Day 1, Bright Angel Trail and sunset

Arizona — The Grand Canyon Day 1, Bright Angel Trail, 6 miles hiked


On Wednesday morning, Kelly and I made the four-hour drive from Phoenix north to the Grand Canyon for, what I figured would be, the extreme highlight of my trip of adventures. The approach to the Canyon is so unique. While I’m used to driving up toward mountains and seeing the peaks rise up above me, creating a mouthwatering sensation, the drive to the lip of one of America’s national treasures was, as you can imagine, a little bit different.


Just miles outside of the park, we were driving through a flat land that resembled Kansas — although I’ve never been — more than anything else. There were no houses, hardly any signs of life, and grass and plants that didn’t have much life themselves.


Where were we?


Even as we entered the park and drove through Grand Canyon Village, there was no tangible evidence that we were so close to one of America’s most majestic and incredible wonders.


Where was this canyon you speak of??


Finally, we found a parking spot and jumped out of the car. We walked at a brisk pace toward, what we assumed, the south rim.


And then, just like that, there it was. I leaned on a railing and tried to take it all in. It was so surreal, so like nothing we had ever seen. Kelly said it looked fake. I couldn’t disagree.


Before us lay the Grand Canyon — a mammoth hole in the ground stretching dozens of miles to the north and, as I knew from reading but couldn’t see, 277 miles river long. We couldn’t see the Colorado River from our perch at 6,850 feet, but we could see the multicolored rock formations that help make the park one-of-a-kind. We could see the path of the Bright Angel Trail, one of a handful that lead all the way from the South Rim down to the river some 8 miles and 4,000-plus feet below us.


It was intimidating. So much to look at. Where to start?


It was just before noon and we couldn’t check into our lodge for the night yet, so we decided to get hiking, because that’s what you do at the Grand Canyon, right??


The Bright Angel Trail is the most popular hike into the Canyon and with the trailhead located about a hundred feet from our lodge, it made for an easy choice of our first hike. The trail begins at 6,850 feet and switchbacks its way down to the river. Everything I read about the Canyon explicitly warned hikers NOT TO ATTEMPT TO HIKE TO THE RIVER AND BACK IN ONE DAY. I had no thoughts of attempting such a feat … at least on this trip.

Hiking down into the Canyon really is a tricky thing to plan because it’s not a difficult task to take the mostly gradual path down and make great time. Hikers forget, though, that, you know, you gotta then hike back up if you’re not camping! And it gets REALLY HOT — at least in the summer. On this late March day, we were treated to mostly mild weather, with the temperature on the rim a bit above 60 and expected to be warmer down in the Canyon.


With all that in mind, we planned to hiked at least down to the 1.5-mile point, designated by bathrooms and, during the popular months — read: not late March — drinking water and then reassess if we wanted to continue to the 3-mile spot.


As soon as we took to the trail, we were in awe. Similar to many of my hikes in Colorado, the biggest challenge was reminding myself that if I stopped to take pictures every 30 seconds, no progress would be made! Within the first quarter mile, we had to step to the side of the trail to let a procession of mules ride by — mule rides in the canyon for visitors are booked 13 months in advance. I had read about the mule riders in the Canyon, but it was still an awesome sight to behold.


We quickly found ourselves hundreds of feet below the rim, staring at towering walls of multicolored rock all around us. Yep, we were in a canyon. For one small section of the trail, we had to proceed slowly over icy, snowy terrain leftover from the 6 to 8 inches that had been dumped on the Canyon just 10 days earlier. The timing of our trip was ideal. A week prior, and we would have needed snowshoes. The rest of the trail was a combination of packed down dirt, red mud, packed down red mud, and rocks, but not ones difficult to navigate.


Pretty easy hiking overall.


We gained the 1.5-mile stop in great time, feeling good, and didn’t think twice about continuing down the winding trail for another mile and a half. That section passed even quicker, but we didn’t consider going farther. We were well aware of the uphill challenge that lay ahead. We enjoyed some cheese and crackers, a staple trail meal, on a rock overlooking Plateau Point, the end of the visible trail below us amidst a flat, verdant, green area that peers over the Colorado River. We didn’t have a view of the river, but could see just about everything else. Especially beautiful to me was the rock wall across the zigzagging trail from us that at its base was green, then a clay red, and finally, at its apex, a granite color. So cool.


Amazingly, we made the trip back up the trail in a shorter time than the descent. It’s probably because the picture-taking had lessened drastically and we didn’t take protracted stops, but we still felt damn accomplished upon gaining the rim in less than an hour and a half.


Wednesday evening, after resting up and checking into our lodge just a hundred feet or so from the rim — no joke — we took a walk along the rim to enjoy the sunset. We didn’t have a clear view of the sun setting, blocked by the rim to the west, but the reflections on the gigantic pointy rock structures rising up in the Canyon made it a spectacle, even so (side note: On the second day, when we took the shuttle bus along the rim to the west, we passed a few stopping points that offered an incredible view to the west; those are definitely the spots to be for future Grand Canyon sunsets).


Later, we were sitting outside, waiting for our name to be called to eat at the Bright Angel Restaurant (side note: The only negative of the trip was waiting 40 minutes to eat after a day of hiking!! Yosemite has a MUCH BETTER system with its buffet option; of course, if everyone ate like me at that buffet, the park would probably be shut down! Still, there should be a buffet at every national park village. Waiting 40 minutes to be seated and then another half an hour for food was brutal!!). We were the only ones outside, as the temperature had dipped down to around 40 degrees, and so we were the lone folks to see a neon green “thing” flash across the dark Canyon sky.


An asteroid entering the atmosphere!!


We couldn’t believe our eyes for several minutes. Had it been a large shooting star?? No way — this thing was huge! If I had had my camera out, I could have taken a picture of its flight, it stayed in the sky so long. It was incredible. Mystical. Magical.


And no one else had seen it.


What a first day at the Canyon it had been.

Arizona hike 2: Sedona

Arizona hike 2 — Sedona, West Fork and Little Horse trails, 8 miles hiked
On Monday, I went on my first solo hike, as Greg, who had started a job the previous week, had to head to the office. He did let me borrow his car, however, which was a huge help the entire week. I can’t thank him and Sarah enough for their generosity in working out travel arrangements that allowed me to put hundreds of miles on G’s ride.


Driving Greg’s Mercury Mountaineer, I made the trip north on US-17. Within just a couple dozen miles of Phoenix, the road began to gain elevation and views of mountain ranges opened up on both sides of the highway. It was difficult to just keep my focus on the road ahead. I stopped at a rest area about 60 miles north of Phoenix called Sunset Point and snapped a few photos.


The drive took longer than I anticipated — well over two hours — but when I finally reached the south side of Sedona, I knew it was worth it. Red rock mountains and buttes loomed in front of me. It’s hard to describe the incredible clay color of these structures without being there, but let’s just say I had a hard time taking my eyes off their intoxicating beauty.


I made the drive through Sedona and its plethora of shops and restaurants and drove about 9 miles on the winding Route 89, which featured a huge dropoff on its right side. The drive rekindled memories of 1999, when I visited the area with my family in April and it was covered by snow (so much snow, in fact, that we had to cancel our trip to the Grand Canyon). Then I finally reached the trailhead for the West Fork trail of Oak Creek Canyon, one of the most popular hikes in the area.


The 2-to-3-mile hike was mostly flat and followed the stream. It was alluring because of the towering canyon walls, some red rock and others more granite-looking, that loomed overhead. I constantly craned my head to take them in. The hike was also interesting because of all the creek crossings — 13 in all! The stream was extremely high because of snow melting — there was still a little snow here and there — and it made for several spots where I had to delicately navigate logs and rocks over the raging water. The water was never very high, maybe two feet max, but a fall still could have been disastrous, especially considering the temperature of the water.


At one spot, there was no log, no rocks to hop on, so I took off my hiking boots and shoes and waded across. As a family approached behind me, I told them that I wouldn’t dare spend more than 1 minute in the water. It was that frigid.


The Oak Creek Canyon hike was enjoyable, but I didn’t feel like it, alone, warranted the five-plus hours of driving the journey would end up being. So on the way back out of town, I stopped at a trailhead, right on the highway, for the Little Horse Trail. It was another easy hike — 1.5 miles each way, little to no elevation gain, but the views were spectacular and inspiring. The trail was mostly packed-down red clay, and each side was flanked by cacti, a huge difference from the pine trees and bushes along the West Fork trail.


As I walked along the path, a row of red rock spires appeared closer and closer. To my left, I noticed a man-made cross that had been built into the side of a cliff. The scenery was simply incredible. I continued along the path until I reached the base of a plateau called Chicken Rock. After a short, circuitous climb, I reached a large, sweeping flat red rock. I dropped my Camelback, looked around and smiled.


As the late-afternoon sun hit me from the West, with the temperature at around 4,000 feet in the 60s with a light wind, I had views in all directions. To the east, I took in several higher mountains of a granite hue. The same view, but much sunnier, was available across the distant highway to the west. Even more alluring, though, were the red rock spires and buttes that rose up directly across the narrow gorge just to the north of me. They struck an imposing presence against the deep blue sky.


I sat down and took it all in before making the easy but beautiful hike back to the Mountaineer. It had been a rather easy 8-mile day of hiking. But the rewards had been out of this world.


What would the rest of the week bring?

Arizona Hike 1: Camelback Mountain

Arizona Hike 1 — Camelback Mountain, 2,706 feet, 2.6 miles hiked

On my second full day in Arizona, I joined my host for the week, high school friend Greg, and Kelly, his MSU friend from Chicago, to hike the Phoenix area’s most popular mountain — Camelback. By the time we hit the trail around 10 a.m., it was already packed. Securing a parking spot in the lot was no easy task. Camelback was about a half-hour drive from Tempe, where Greg lives a little east of downtown Phoenix, and obviously lots of folks didn’t mind making a little drive to reach it.

The mountain stands a little over 2,700 feet and offers two routes to its summit. Naturally, we chose the more difficult one. Within a tenth or two of a mile, we were hiking up a steep rock incline — so steep, in fact, that a metal railing was erected in the middle of the trail for people both ascending and descending to use as leverage.

The trail, as was the case with just about all my Arizona hikes, was in the open and offered expansive, impressive views as soon as we started walking. Within a few minutes, I could see downtown Phoenix and the rest of the valley. I could see the mountain ranges that surround the valley dozens of miles in the distance. This made the hiking easier.

But it was no walk in the park.

Soon, the trail turned and we faced a steep incline up a combination of rock slabs and, more dangerously, loose rocks. This incline reminded me a bit of hiking in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. We pushed upward, breathing pretty hard.

I was a bit surprised by the diversity of people making the difficult climb. There were people in athletic shorts and people in jeans. People with Camelbacks and people with no water. Grandpas and grandmas and 4-year-olds. One mother urged her son to push onward, telling him, “We’re just 9 minutes from the top!”

Seven and a half minutes later, we had survived the steep ascent and joined a crowd of about 50 people on top of the jagged, rocky summit. As is usually the case, I scanned the summit for a rocky outcropping that would make for a cool picture spot and found one. We exchanged turns taking pictures from the outlook, admiring the 360-degree views, and I marveled at how many people had made the hike. It had been no easy thing.

Jan. 7-8, 2012: Adventure in George Washington National Forest

This past weekend, my cousin/hiking partner J-bo was in town for a job interview, so we decided — no-brainer — to make it a hiking weekend. Forget the cold. Chance of snow? No worries. We were ready for anything.

Early in the week, on my final day off during an extended Chrismakkuh break, I drove to the nearest REI to pick up a map of the area we had decided to hike in — George Washington National Forest just west of Shenandoah National Park. Somehow, REI was out of that particular map.

No worries.

I had learned of the hike from a meetup.com group that does lightweight backpacking trips (a group I hope to join, by the way). Through their website and a few other links, I pieced together the hike and printed out a few Internet maps. I felt we were ready to roll.

As it turned out, the weather was balmy on the drive west Saturday. When we got out of the car a shade before 10 a.m., it felt like 60. We couldn’t believe our luck. J-bo considered leaving his winter coat in the Civic, but we remembered how quickly the temperature can dip in the mountains. He took it without plans to use it anytime soon.

The parking lot was on the left (or south) side of Route 211. The directions had simply said to take the “Masanutten Connector” trail after driving for 8.4 miles on 211. We had drove 8.4 miles.

Adjacent to the parking lot was a trail with clearly marked orange blazes. I glanced briefly across the highway to see if there was another trail, but there was only a gate like you might see at a closed entrance to a parking lot.

I was itching to get on the trail. J-bo was ready to get his tramp on. The compass read that the orange trail led to the northwest, which was the direction we wanted to be headed in. We didn’t give it another thought.

We strapped on our too-heavy packs and started hiking.

After what seemed like a steady 1.5 miles, we reached a fork. The orange-blazed trail continued ahead while a pink-blazed trail branched off to the left. Gazing down at the map, studying it closely, we saw that the intersection resembled the first one on the 17.6-mile trek we had planned. We made a left onto the pink trail.

We hiked through the peaceful woods, not a worry on our minds. Sure, the going seemed pretty flat for the opening stages of a hike up a mountain, but we figured the elevation would increase soon enough. We passed a hunter with a rifle who didn’t exactly know the trails, but assuaged any fears we had of going the wrong way by describing the terrain up ahead.

After an hour of steady, easy hiking, we stopped at an open spot by the stream we had been following for quite awhile. We were famished. As I devoured a gluten-free peanut butter sandwich, some dried mango pieces — so good! — and a humungous apple, I began examining the map.

Two minutes later, I was worried.

I called over J-bo to confer with. Looking at the map together, we quickly reached the conclusion that, yes, we were not on track. At first, we had no idea where we were. None of the trails or intersections or signs we were on or had passed was even on the map. But we had gone the exact 8.4 miles. So what gave? We were confused.

Then it dawned on me. The mistake had been simple. Elementary, in fact. For such a seasoned navigator, I felt embarrassed.

We had started out on the wrong side of the road!

For some reason, I had overlooked the fact, when we started the hike, that we needed to be heading north and that, in order to do that, we needed to begin the hike on the north side of the road. I couldn’t believe my gaffe. Here we were, more than two hours and four miles into the hike — with no more than five hours of daylight left — and we were farther than we could have imagined from our destination.

We decided to go on an adventure, since our original 12-mile day was not going to happen. We packed up our belongings, re-strapped — bringing back the shoulder burn I felt all day due to my pack’s inept waist belt — and continued on the unknown pink trail, which suddenly began ascending, and ascending, and ascending.

We were hopeful. As we continued to climb, we imagined an exposed viewpoint at the top of whatever mountain we were on — an impeccable camping spot where we could hang out, relax and eventually eat and sleep.

With the excitement building, I reached the top of the mountain, or knob, or whatever it was — we later learned it was Bird Knob — and, to my disappointment, the summit was treed over. Only birds had a view (the name would later make sense to us). There was a nice campsite, but no view.

We continued on, but it was clear where the pink trail was now taking us. Down, down, down. We soon turned around.

Thus begun a long-winded discussion about our next move. Should we call it a day and camp atop the knob? Should we continue down to a couple campsites we had earlier seen by the river? What about returning all the way to the car and driving to a nearby campsite? As we moved at a steady pace down the trail, we decided that we would return to that first fork and stay straight on the orange trail, which, a sign at the trailhead had indicated, led to the Masanutten Visitor Center. From there, we figured, we could either find a camping spot or map out a short hike to a nice spot in the area to set up our tents. They had to have maps at the center, right?

Oh, how we were wrong. After a short hike from the fork, we reached the center, but it was closed and there were no maps outside. Not only that, but there were no real trails adjacent to it. Just the one we had come on and a paved 0.25-mile asphalt path for tourists.

We were at a loss.

The time was after about 3:45 p.m., and darkness was just an hour away.

The center was located on Route 211 a couple miles north of where we had started the adventure some six hours earlier, so J-bo decided we should try to hitchhike back to the car and then, maybe, attempt to find the trail we should have started on. Having made so many navigational mistakes throughout the day, who was I to argue?

After 15 minutes of watching people speed by us without a thought of picking up two good-looking young men, a guy in his huge carpentry truck finally made our day. We hopped in the back next to nail guns, pails of paint and other tools, and enjoyed a bumpy ride back to the parking lot.

It was a few minutes after 4 when we returned to our starting spot, but we were re-energized. I wasted no time walking across the road to that gate, and as I reached it, J-bo spotted a faint white blaze on a stump next to the gate. In the description, which we had read at lunch — and which, if we had ready earlier, would have kept us from ever getting on that orange-blazed trail in the first place — there was mention of the Masanutten Connector being marked with white blazes.

We had found the trail!

Moving at a brisk, it’s-about-to-get-dark-and-cold pace, we tore up the path for two easy miles before reaching the intersection for the Masanutten trail up Waterfall Mountain. We had read the description of the hike up Waterfall as severely steep, with an elevation gain of 800 feet in 0.6 miles, so we knew what to expect.

We were breathing hard, but thoughts of a nice view — our first of the day! — and a chance to set up our tents and eat a hearty dinner kept us going up the winding, dirt path. J-bo checked his heart rate. It was 240.

Finally, we reached the summit, but there was no view. Luckily, our Internet map had little camera icons that, we believed, indicated lookouts on the trail. One appeared just a couple tenths of a mile from where we stood. We hustled along the ridge, until we reached it.

The outlook wasn’t widespread and didn’t offer more than maybe a 120-degree view, but it felt like we had reached the top of the world. After seven-plus hours of hiking in the wood, of not having anything substantial to admire, we were treated to the final few minutes of a breathtaking sunset. We dropped our packs. We sat down for a minute. We had turned disaster into beautiful.

Of course, we still had to set up our tents, and all we had was a little loop of trail on which to arrange them. We somehow made it work, although I had to step through a bush — which had a few thorns — to reach the entrance of my abode for the night.

But once everything was set up and we had changed into our winter gear, as the temperature dropped at a scary rate, we allowed ourselves to sit down and cook a phenomenal beans, rice, corn tortillas and carrots dinner. I’ve had many incredible-tasting meals on mountains, but that feast — yes, we ate an entire pot of beans and rice — was certainly up there.

Content, full and overly satiated, we didn’t take long to crawl into our tents and call it a night. It was 7:30 p.m.

I had no plans of going outside during the middle of the night, but J-bo — always hydrated — did so, as he told me the following morning, to relieve himself. He described the temperature as in the teens. He said he was shaking. Exaggeration? Possible. But it can’t be denied that the temperature dropped some 30 degrees from midday to midnight.

When I got up at 7:30 Sunday morning after a rocky (literally) and interrupted sleep, I peered outside the tent and realized why these hikes are always, always worth it. The sun was just rising above a distant ridge, which was baked a blood orange. It was freezing, but I got out my camera and made sure to snap a few pictures of the sight.

There’s nothing better than waking up on top of a mountain ridge.

The rest of the morning was uneventful. It didn’t warm up until about 10, when I finally took off the long underwear and put my gloves in my pack. We took a side trip of two miles in the direction we had originally planned, but didn’t see a whole lot — which made us think, at least for a minute, that maybe our hike as we did it wasn’t too bad compared to what we envisioned it Friday night as we packed.

An hour later, after a quick descent, we were back at the car, hungry for lunch. We got back to D.C. by 3 p.m., in time to see the Wolverines put the finishing touches on an impressive win over the Badgers.

I vowed never to make a navigational mistake on a hike again. We laughed at ourselves for all the gaffes. And we knew we had another incredible adventure for the memory that will make a fun story for years to come.

Oh, and we hiked almost the exact 17.6 miles that we set out to do. Go figure.

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.