Weekend Warriors

There she is!  Mount of the Holy Cross at 14,005 feet above sea level.  We haven't had our usual weekend warrior summer this year and it felt great to load up the little Forester with all our camping gear and drive into the darkness on Friday evening until we reluctantly agreed on a campsite (always fighting the what if there is a better one around the next bend), brushed our teeth and slithered into the feathery warmth of our down bags with summit dreams drifting into the tent with us.

Yes, we are still ticking off the 14ers on our list.  We are almost caught up with each other, as we each had done some the other had not, when we met, and we always find it delightful to enter New Territory and explore or reacquaint ourselves with a part of the state we are not familiar with.  This peak is near Leadville and we sucked it up and shouldered our way up I-70, which can seem like very stressful driving when you never do it, finding a site to camp in around 10 at night (those of you who know our habits know this is waaaaay past our bedtime).

The trail to the summit is beautiful and well-maintained, but we didn't linger long on top, as we wanted to circle the Halo Ridge, which holds three 13ers that were within our sights. I wasn't feeling so hot, but an espresso goo got me back in the game enough to forge on with our mission.  Here is view of Holy Cross on the right and one of the "extra" peaks on the left:

It was a long day, 7-4, but discovering the gems of this area allowed the journey to unfold quite nicely.  We didn't even have much of the usual peak fodder, comments from other hikers and goofy encounters that make a day like that noteworthy in a whole different realm.  Needless to say, I was ready to put my feet up in the tent upon our return and even resorted to hooking my big toes in the tiny tent loops on the inside walls while I lolled about on my bag, waiting until it was cool enough to make dinner.

Sunday was clear and beautiful and I made myself wait for a second cup of coffee until we had driven through Redcliff and on to Leadville and ultimately on to Aspen before I got it.  Redcliff is an interesting little community, we drove through the streets and gaped at the little run-down  houses intermixed with artist studios, while men in pajama bottoms on  walked around with coffee in their hands, getting ready to split and stack wood in their yards.

Neither of us had been through Leadville in a really really long time, maybe 19 years for me, maybe more for Johnny.  Both of our memories contain a gray, drizzly day with buildings boarded up so we were both in for a surprise when we saw the incredible views of Mount Massive and Elbert, and hordes of people lined up for coffee and milling about the streets of a seemingly vibrant and thriving community.  Then it began to dawn on me... is this the Leadville 100?  And yes, there is the finish line, 30 hours and counting, athletes lying around with ice on their knees and arms over their faces, men with shaved legs and $6000 bikes on the roofs of their cars.  The worst part?  I had to wait for my coffee.

We drove on, over Independence Pass, down into Asssspen, where I was rewarded with a cappuccino and a huge wedge of quiche, which we took to our "usual" bench to watch the comings and goings of Assssspenites.  Always always entertaining.  It really is how you envision it.  I popped into an outdoor store to grab a few maps of that area, then we were off again, next stop Carbondale for gas and more coffee (Johnny) and a pineapple-blueberry-mint-ginger smoothie (me).  Mine was better :)

We had another small detour through the "Ruby of the Rockies", also known as Redstone, which had a surprising number of lodgings and B & Bs.  I suspect the population drops from 47 in the summer to 7 in the winter.  Then we were up an over McClure Pass, sneaking peeks over our shoulders past Marble, trying to spy some potentially great ski touring slopes up the valley.

My favorite fruit stand in Paonia offered up a $40 box of peaches, local honey and vine-ripe tomatoes:

As we drove on, me cutting slices out of a softball-sized peach with a pocket knife, we paused to watch a red-tail hawk dive-bombing a golden eagle, crying and carrying on until the golden arced away and took his bad self to another part of the mesa.  The golden's demeanor seemed to say, Whatevs, I'm going to meander over here you crazy bitch red-tail and continue patrolling the next 17 square miles until I eat my fill of whatever I feel like.  They are impressive creatures, those goldens.  Bad-asses of the sky.

Back to work on Monday, super tired of course, but that's okay.  My lawn is green, the sod is growing, my flowers are filling in their new beds, the kids come back over on Thursday and start school next Monday, and we have that contented feeling of knowing and loving our state, the tens of thousands of wild and remote valleys and peaks and rivers and streams, orchards and farms and back roads and passes.  Lucky we live Colorado.  Especially the western slope.