August 7, 8, 9
I got to my campsite around 1:00 and set up my tent and hauled an obscene amount of dry firewood (furnished by my friends, Liz and Ramona in Denver) to the established fire ring at my campsite. The sites are nicely spaced apart from each other with no visual contamination, but within shouting distance. The friendly ranger who checked me in gave me suggestions of the top hikes and I go off on a three-mile loop to “Dude’s Fishing Hole.” There were a few people fishing, but not much catching. Evidently the other lakes are better stocked. I expected more people on the trail, but after an hour and not a single encounter, I don’t bother to hide myself to empty my bladder.
Of course, just as I was on full display, two guys on mountain bikes come around the bend quickly, and silently (what? No bells to alert the bears?)
“Hey,” they blurt out.
“Hey,” I respond. “How are you?”
“Good, you?”
“Yeah, me too,” I reply.
That is all we have time for, and they swoosh around the next bend.
Back at the camp site I make the fire and have some beef stew and a cold beer (this is, after all, car camping, and I have a cooler in the jeep). I want to leave the rainfly off but I hear some thunder in the distance, so I won’t risk that. If I were alone or Stevie Wonder, I would play my harmonica around the fire, but I am not at that performance level and it would drive the other campers crazy. By 7:15 the rain starts. There goes my plan for making Sleepy Time tea; there goes the extended campfire plan. I am in Time Out in my tent and I read as late as I can and then go into a deep sleep listening to the lovely sound of rain.
The rain fly did its job. No leakage and I start the next day with plans to complete two of the trails the ranger recommended. Combined they will be about 7 miles.
The hikes take me by an old homestead and the ruined cabin of a Swedish family that raised four generations on 400 acres. They had beef, dairy cows, chickens, a saw mill, and a cash crop of potatoes. I like to imagine that homestead life and am particularly fascinated by the ‘milk houses’ that the rural farmers create by diverting a cold stream through a small shack, placing the food that needs to be kept cool in the cold water that flows by the food containers. It seems ingenious and simple to me how they used gravity and the natural resource of a stream to keep their food safe from spoilage, and the building to keep out the major predators. No doubt keeping feral cats to manage the mice and smaller critters.
Another trail takes me by a homestead that eventually was 1,000 acres and rewarded the family with a discovery of a silver lode that they hauled to a small town to be smelted. That family eventually helped to establish the University of Colorado at Boulder. Talk about winning the lottery!
I like the names of trails out here: Forgotten Valley, Bootleggers Bottom, Mountain Lion Loop. Ok, that one. I see instructions at that trail head to not hike alone (oops, well, never mind that). The instructions also say that if I see a mountain lion, “make yourself as tall as possible”. Good luck with that, Deb. My sense is that with mountain lions, I will never see them first. If one is stalking me (which is highly unlikely) the lion will come from behind and it will be over. But I do carry a can of Bear spray on an elastic loop that is nestled in the palm of my hand. After my first hike here, I just haven’t worried about it.
Today I decided to take a break after each hour and rest and play my harmonica. I follow Knott Creek which is lovely and shaded and I sit and play. Mr. Squirrel shuts up when I start and I take that as a sign that he enjoys my songs.
At the end of my last stop, having seen no one for several hours or so, I relieve myself by the trail, not bothering to hide. Again, this time I got caught with my pants down by a seemingly nice young man. If I ever get hurt on the trail, I now know step ONE in First Aid: Drop my pants.