So, last Tuesday, Boulder got hit with its first snow of the year. The forecasts were calling for the possibility of “flurries” later on in the day, but the way it went down was that the flakes started falling around noon, and didn’t stop ‘till Wednesday morning.

Around 6:30 pm, I decided that things weren’t going to improve for a long time, and, despite being totally unprepared for the winter weather, I headed home on my bike. No gloves, no hat, no rain gear. At least I had a headlight on my bike.

A couple minutes into the ride, my front was completely white and I was slipping and sliding all over the place. The tires I bought a month ago will make great springtime tires, but they are out of their league when the snow and ice comes to town.

By the time I got home, I was freezing and my fingers were starting to bark at me. It took a minute to get them to behave enough to enter the security code on my garage door, and once I got into the warm, things got worse. I stood in the foyer with Emma meowing at me for five minutes while I blew into my hands to warm them up enough to unbuckle my helmet! After changing clothes I headed to the bike shop for some real snow tires, and fenders are next on the list. It’s time to accept the reality that winter has arrived.

My fingertips remained numb for three days after that ride, but the view from our bedroom the morning after the first snowfall was worth it, I feel:

True to form, the sun came out in full force Wednesday morning and melted much of the troublesome snow away and dried the roads out. It snowed again on Friday night, but once again, by today things were basically dry, which was great because it allowed me to get out and ride my latest two wheeled acquisition, which is surely going to be talked about in the coming days…

Sometimes you look out and it looks like a postcard… I’m motivated by the mountains. For some people it’s the ocean, for me, it’s the mountains. – Scott Moninger

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, I haven’t hiked a step since our Long’s Peak ascent three weeks ago, but rest assured I’m still here and loving every second of Colorado living. Been on a few bike rides, and every time I go I’m awed by the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains’ Front Range. What really hit home for me though, what really smacked me in the face and told me that I’m lucky to be here, was the arrival of the new Colorado Cyclist catalog on Friday. This is a catalog that I used to get regularly back east in my Hoboken apartment, my Glassboro dorm, and my Blackwood home. And when I’d look at the pictures of the models wearing the cycling clothing they’d invariably have these unbelievably beautiful mountain backdrops behind them. I used to wonder who these people were, and what they did to deserve to live and ride amidst such beauty.

And now I live here, and ride the same roads, and stare at the same mountains. I still can’t believe my luck.

The pictures in the Colorado Cyclist catalog took on a whole new dimension for me this time around, because now they were actually familiar. After twenty years of staring at those pictures and wondering who those people were, on Friday I realized that now I am one of those lucky people. And the article in the latest VeloNews—the one that contained the Scott Moninger quotation quoted at the beginning of this post—was fun to read, because it essentially pegged Colorado as the great cycling state that it is. I felt a sense of pride knowing I was a resident. After just 15 short months, I feel a deep attachment to this state, its scenery and its people. I think that says a hell of a lot.

Cyclocross, that quirky combination of cycling, cross-country and steeplechase, was always a curious mystery to me back east. In two weeks, the inaugural event in the annual Boulder Cyclocross Series will take place, right across the street from our house. I have access to miles of bike paths right outside my garage door. My neighbor across the street is the head mechanic for the Trek Mountain Bike Racing Team. Can you believe this shit?

I’m surrounded by mountains and cycling culture and loving every minute of it.

OK so the other day I told y’all about the impetus for our attempt on Long’s Peak, and then I fell asleep. Lemme tell ya how the walk went.

Walking to the top of Long’s Peak takes time, lots of time. The most popular route is called the Keyhole Route, and it is the “easiest” way to go, containing the least “technical” sections and least “exposure” (refer to my previous post for the straight shootin’ definitions of these terms). The downside is that it’s just a damn long trail. Seven miles from trailhead to the summit means you’re looking at a 14 mile walk with some scary stuff at the end, so yeah, it’s going to take time. On top of that, the afternoons often bring strong thunderstorms complete with hail and lightning. The last place you wanna be when one of those dark clouds roll in is up on those rocks, so this is what leads you to a 3AM start time. Some people start even earlier than that.

And so it was 3:00 a.m. when Brenda & I woke up in our tent, shooting for a 3:30 a.m. start time. Camping, as I mentioned previously, still is not something I can get used to, but it’s a necessary evil in this case; waking up one mile into the hike is a good way to get a good start, after all.

With everyone dressed and fitted out with lots of water and food, we embarked on our adventure. By 3:50 a.m. we were on the Long’s Peak trail and headed in the right direction, seeing only what our headlamps could illuminate for us.

A couple hours later, we arrived at the “sky potty”, one of the highest johns in the park. As we headed off on the Long’s Peak Summit Trail from there, the sun began to rise in the east:

We were now well above treeline, the trail resembling more of a moonscape than a forest, and the stark, artificial light from the headlamps only exaggerated that effect. Slowly but surely, the sun painted the sky in a dazzling array of constantly-changing pastels. At this point, we were walking west, but we always knew when a major sky event was happening, because the rocks in front of us would change color and vibrance along with the sky. We were turning around every few minutes to witness a completely different sunrise scene.

Now about 4.5 miles into the hike and above 12,000’, the sun is fully out and shining, and the next big goals are revealed—The Boulder Field, and the route’s namesake, The Keyhole. Things are going well at this point, the hike is relatively easy and we’re making good time. Far off in the distance, the Boulder Field looks flat and The Keyhole is but a speck in the center of the photo below:

We walk along a stream, progressing toward the Keyhole. Long’s Peak—on the left in the photo—is starting to look really impressive. It’s as if it’s taunting us. The thing is massive, and beautiful.

Finally, we arrive at the Boulder Field, a broad expanse of giant rocks. Nothing else to do but keep walking, and now six miles and in and nearly 13,000’ high, we get a good look at the Keyhole:

There is no real trail through the Boulder Field, so you basically just aim for the Keyhole and try not to get into trouble. A very steep section awaits at the end of the Boulder Field that gets you up above the 13,000’ mark, and a great view of the giant hanging rock formation that seemed so small two hours ago.
The scale of this thing is unbelievable. That’s Bryce about to cross through the ‘hole:

We turn around for a quick peek at all the way we’ve come so far…

And now, at 13,200’ above sea level and after six miles of hiking, the hike actually starts.

The Keyhole is the doorway to the other side of the mountain, the final mile of the hike, and four distinct sections that each present their own challenges. The Ledges, The Trough, the Narrows and the Homestretch await. The last six miles took four and a half hours to complete; the final mile will take two more, all by itself.

Leslie had told me all about these sections, and I had read other accounts as well. But I still didn’t get it. The last mile of Long’s Peak has whatever you’re bad at: afraid of heights? The Ledges and The Narrows feature plenty “exposure”, where you’re often walking on 12” wide rock with sheer dropoffs. Have trouble with the steep stuff? The Trough is an unbelievably beautiful bowl of steep, loose rock that seems to have no end, and the Homestretch is a slab of rock that’s short on places to stand.

These sections are so sketchy that sometimes the trail you’re supposed to take elicits a “you’ve gotta be kidding me” reaction. For this reason, they’ve spray painted little targets (called “fried eggs” or “bullseyes” in most trail descriptions) onto the rocks to guide you along. You can see one of the bullseyes between Brenda and Leslie in the pic below:

After the endless scramble up The Trough, we are greeted by a difficult gatekeeper of a rock that marks the entrance to The Narrows:

Your reward for completing The Narrows is called The Homestretch, and I guess in my head I figured this part would be easy, I don’t know why. It wasn’t. The Homestretch is a two tenths of a mile long slab of rock sloped 40 degrees, with chinks in the rock that often are the only hand and footholds available. Looking down, you can see that one slip at the wrong time could lead to a long but fast journey down the mountain, with a shitty ending. It’s scary. I got into a few dead ends on this stretch, and had to traverse some sketchy parts of rock to get to safer and more secure footing. Brenda, Bryce and Leslie looked down at me wondering if I was gonna make it, but at this point there was only 100 yards to go; there was no way I wasn’t.

I regret the lack of photos to tie in to this part of the story, but I guess that says something about the mood and difficulty of these final sections; I really needed my hands on the rocks, and couldn’t spare them for camera holding at this point!

A few more careful steps, and we were at the summit:

After a mountaintop lunch and some wandering around, I signed the register and we all posed for one more pic at the very edge of The Homestretch. What’s going though my head at this point is “this is going to suck way more going down than it did going up.”

The descent down the Homestretch was indeed scarier than the ascent, but we simply took our time and crabbed our way down the thing. Along the Narrows was a no-brainer but we turned the corner and shimmied down the gatekeeper rock to witness the Trough in all its glory, and some thunderstorms in the distance. Thinking how unpleasant the Ledges would be if soaking wet, we tried to pick up the pace and really hustle down the Trough, but the fact is it’s a long way down:

We got through the Keyhole and down the Boulder Field without incident and I thought to myself “phew, the hard part’s over”, but the fact remained that there was over five miles of walking left to do! We took a break while Lelsie treated some stream water for us (water is the key to not getting altitude sickness, I’m convinced), I inhaled another Cliff Bar and off we went.

Back along the stream and down towards the Sky Potty we walked, admiring some new scenery despite the out-and-back course; much of this area lay under cover of darkness when we passed it in the morning.

A deeply resonant rumble of thunder belched out from the south side of Long’s Peak, and we all looked at each other nervously. All around us was blue sky, but we imagined a large storm just on the other side. Would it march north and get us? Who knows. Nothing to do about it but keep going.

As we got below treeline I breathed another sigh of relief, feeling slightly more protected should a storm come in. Eventually we reached our campsite at Goblin’s Forest, and it was time to pack up and get outta Dodge. I wasn’t looking forward to carrrying all the extra weight of our camping gear for the last mile, but it actually wasn’t too bad. At this point I’m running on adrenaline, with the end in sight!

With a quarter mile to go, I saw something out of the corner of my eye and turned to look. Turns out a deer was standing about six feet from me, just off the trail. He would have been happy to let me walk right on by, but my stopping spooked him a bit and he ran back about ten feet. Brenda, Bryce and Leslie caught up to me and I simply pointed at the deer. We all stood there staring at each other until the deer got tired of that and stalked off.

Finally, around 5:30 p.m., we arrived at the Ranger Station and our car. We’d just completed 13 hours of walking, with challenges and amazing views all along the way. It felt good. As I pulled my boots off I thought “well, that’s that, I don’t have to do that ever again”, but I’m already thinking about the next time. Hiking has (clearly) become an addiction for both Brenda and me, and it’s these big peaks that really do it for us now. The views are incredible and the effort is fun. The sense of accomplishment you feel when you look up at something like Long’s Peak and think to yourself “yeah, I was up there”, is really hard to put into words.

Another great day in Colorado! I love it here.

What started as a mild curiosity turned into a fascination, and then, a goal: Long’s Peak. It’s got a catchy name, it sounds distant and imposing, and it is. It’s tall, it’s beautiful, it’s scary looking at times, and get this: Brenda & I summited the damned thing this past Tuesday.

Standing 14,255 feet tall, Long’s Peak is the tallest mountain in Rocky Mountain National Park and a very popular destination for hikers, but it’s not the easiest “fourteener” to summit. Every recent year, some 15,000 people attempt to make the summit and about 9,000 succeed. Usually weather is the culprit for failed summit attempts, but many simply turn back after reaching one of the five obstacles that await the hapless hiker after six or so miles of hiking; places called The Boulder Field, The Ledges, The Trough, The Narrows, and The Homestretch. I should have realized that if a little patch of trail gets its own friggin’ name, then it’s probably got something to it.

This all started when Brenda & I were buying our home in Boulder, CO, and we and our home inspector got to talking about Colorado in general and hiking in particular. “Oh yeah, you’ll love it out here,” he said… “the hiking is great; you’ll have to go up to Estes Park and hike in Rocky Mountain National Park… a big one is Long’s Peak; the views are great and it’s a great hike… because of the afternoon thunderstorms you have to be off the mountain early in the day… most people start early (I’m still thinking 6:00AM is early) so they start at two or three in the morning, with headlamps… the views are incredible…”—Headlamps?!? These people hike in the dark? What the hell is wrong with these people? Where in the hell have we moved to, I thought. I looked for pods in our garage, but didn’t find any.

Well, let me tell ya what’s happened. Since that day, Brenda & I have moved into our little condo in Boulder and have started hiking the many local trails that are within miles of our home, some leading to peaks that afford views of the Rocky Mountains that are simply breathtaking. I mean it; these views are fucking breathtaking. Like, you go “holy shit” when you look, and then think to yourself that not only is this an amazing thing to see, but that you’ve got yourself to this amazing place.

Green Mountain, Bear Peak and South Boulder Peak followed in short order after moving here. Our eyes turned westward, toward the higher peaks; as luck would have it our friends Bryce and Leslie were into the hiking scene too. Talk of doing Long’s started while Brenda was down in Santa Fe; Leslie had done it last year and was ready for another attempt this year, and regaled me with tales of the hike while we did Bear Peak a couple months ago (this was the same hike where I sniffed a tree, which Bryce counted as a personal triumph and remains a bit of material worthy of a blog post, but I digress).

And so it was with motivation from two friends and my own stupid fascination with the peak of Long’s that Brenda & I began to train for the higher altitudes, with the goal of summiting on Long’s Peak this week. First, we did St. Vrain’s Mountain, then we did Mount Audubon. Lastly Brenda & I did Mount Elbert together, the highest mountain in Colorado. I thought we were prepared. We were, sorta.

See, the problem is the word “exposure”, and maybe the term “Class 3 climbing”. You read in the books and on the websites that Long’s “can be dangerous”, and that “there is exposure” on the hike. Let me clarify these terms for you all, in the best New Yorkey way I can:

“can be dangerous” means: IS fucking dangerous.
“exposure” means: you can die on this section, easily; bad fucking luck is all you need.
“Class 3 climbing” means: you will be clutching little fucking chinks in the rock, clawing your sad ass to a safer place, cursing motherfucking gravity and all the previous goddamned authors of a Long’s Peak ascent the whole fucking time.

This was hard, and not because I had to camp again for the first time in 14 years (it still sucks ass, despite the advances in sleeping bags and the advent of Thermarests). It was hard because it was still far (we camped at Goblin’s Forest campground, a mile or so from the trailhead, but still miles and miles and miles from the summit), and it held untold surprises, despite all the stories I had heard leading up to the hike.

A step-by-step account is in order, but for now it is time to go to bed, sorry.

Today Brenda & I hiked to the top of Mount Elbert, the tallest mountain in the state of Colorado. At 14,433’ above sea level, it’s second only to California’s Mount Whitney (by about sixty feet) for tallest mountain in the lower 48 states. Today, we stood on the top of Colorado, and it was a hell of a feeling. Our first “fourteener”. Yeah!

Now, Elbert is considered an “easy” fourteener. And it is, I guess. The thing is massive, so the approach ends up being fairly shallow the whole way. But you’re still walking six miles across and 4,000’ up, and then get to reverse and repeat the process to get back to the car. We were quite pleased with our performance, regardless of the “easy” rep Elbert enjoys. We passed several people on our way to the summit, and got the whole ordeal completed in 7.5 hours, including spending 40 minutes up there just looking around.

At the summit I had to chuckle, as I looked across the valley at Leadville, CO. Just a couple miles south of town is Lake County Airport, the highest public airport in the lower 48. And here we were, looking down on it! Pretty amazing. A few planes flew by while were were near and on the summit, and it was kinda cool to be looking directly at them, or looking down on them. In the photo below, you can make out the town of Leadville in the center and the long runway at the airport just to the south of town.

The clouds started building and we decided to get the hell outta Dodge a little before 11AM. The general idea is to be off the mountain by early afternoon, lest you get roasted by a nice bolt of Colorado mountain lightning. Below treeline, there were loads of charred trees and pulverized stumps to serve as reminders of what happens up there when the afternoon thunderstorms unleash their energy. After heading back to the (really nice) B&B we stayed at for a quick shower, we headed home. As we drove along RT24 we watched Mount Elbert get quite a soaking from an afternoon rainstorm, but thankfully no lightning; we knew full well that there were still a bunch of people on that hill, as we had passed them on their way up just hours ago.

All in all, it was a great weekend and a great hike, and I think we’re as ready as we can be for our attempt on Long’s Peak. Stay tuned.

And I’ll scare them all away for you.

This weekend Brenda & I drove to Avon (a few miles west of Vail, CO) to meet my Cousin and Uncle for some fly fishing on Gore Creek and the Eagle River. I stunk up the joint.

To say my Uncle is an experienced fly fisherman is a serious understatement; he’s an ichthyologist by trade, has discovered an entirely new species of fish, and has been fly fishing since he was sixteen years old. He loves fish and fishing, and over the years we had thrown words at the idea of hooking up and having him teach me the finer points of the wonderfully archaic world of fly fishing. When we moved to Boulder, that put Brenda & I just under a few hours away from my Cousin in Avon, and so this summer Uncle Bob came out for a summer visit that included lots of fishing and a visit from his favorite nephew.

After a trip to the park for practice casting, I tried on the rental waders, which make you look like half a fireman. It’s not a good look. Down to the stream we went, but instead of flinging flies into the water we got a full education on the main food source of the trout—the mayfly. Picking up rocks from the creek bottom, we saw primordial creatures in the midst of metamorphosis, culminating in watching one mayfly literally crawl out of its skin, spread its wings and fly off of my Uncle’s thumb. It was pretty cool. Time to fish.

Uncle Bob set us up with some nice kit, some quality rods and reels and expertly rigged line, leader, tippet and fly. And that’s when everything went down the shitter.

I propose we change the term from “fly fishing” to “untangling”, since I spent 45 minutes out of every hour untying complete bird’s nests of leader line that got created after mere seconds of inattention while casting. Oh, and did I mention that trout have excellent eyesight, and so the trick in fly fishing is to use a super-thin leader so they can’t see it? If they can’t see it, you can bet your ass I can’t see the goddamned line either, especially when I’m standing in a river trying to untangle the aforementioned bird’s nest of this invisible thread for the umpteenth time.

Uncle Bob was more of a hunter on the water, able to spot the fish in all conditions (“there’s a fish, right there; you see it Rob?”; “yeah.” (no)), and his actions were more like stalking, his casts more like setting a trap. Me, I was wandering around the river like a drunk, sliding on the rocks and mindlessly casting into the river at nothing in particular and hoping for the best. I might as well have been playing the slots in Vegas, my odds of catching a fish probably longer than hitting a decent payoff on the reels.

But I learned a lot, Brenda & I had fun, and standing around in the Eagle RIver under a beautiful blue Colorado sky is not a bad way to spend a Sunday. Seeing Uncle Bob and Kate was great, and Kate prepared an awesome dinner Saturday night out of a 21.5” rainbow trout that Uncle Bob caught the day before we rolled into town. That fish was the largest he’d ever caught in all his yeas of fishing, and carries its own story which I’ll not get in to now. Naturally, his luck changed as soon as I arrived.

Brenda & I also got a taste of the hell that is I-70 east on a Sunday evening. I’m told this stretch of highway—the gateway to the Rockies from the Denver area—is a nightmare during winter, as all the weekend warrior skiers and snowboarders head back to civilization, but I was hoping that in summer the crowds would be a little lighter. Boy, was I wrong. After sailing all the way to the Eisenhower Tunnel, shortly thereafter we hit a traffic jam that brought us to a 12MPH crawl for an entire hour. And I thought the Jersey Shore traffic was bad!

We stopped in Idaho Springs for ber and burgers at Tommyknocker Brewery and formulated a plan to get home by staying off I-70 as much as possible: we took Rte 6 through Clear Creek Canyon, which revealed—once again—a beautiful, unwinding vista, this time all the way up to Golden and then it was a short ride back to Boulder.

A couple of odd sensations hit us as we arrived on the outskirts of Boulder. First, as “the flatirons” appeared on the horizon on our way, we felt like we were “home”. The flatirons are now “our” mountains, our identity with our place called home. Second, all our empty water bottles were compressed on arrival. This makes sense, since the atmospheric pressure in Boulder is much greater on average than it is up in Eagle. But that means that now when I think of going to Boulder, it’s going down to Boulder, even though Boulder’s at 5,400’ above sea level. After spending 37 years living basically at sea level, it’s kind of odd to consider this place, 5,400’ high and nestled against the mountains, home. But it is home, and I’m just as happy as ever to call it such.

The Long’s Peak preparations continue, and this weekend it was Mount Audubon (our first thirteener!). Once again, the views were amazing and the hike was a huff-and-puff extravaganza as we neared the summit. As usual, the summit revealed views that made it all worthwhile, and something about the effort and the oneness with nature even causes me to eat rice cakes and fresh fruit—and actually enjoy it—while I’m up there. So this hiking thing is really healthy for me, all ‘round.

From the top you could see Long’s Peak, and it sorta just stood there saying “yeah, that’s right, I’m right over here, bitches; whenever…”

Leslie was headed for Peru on the day of the hike (on any given day in Boulder, you probably know someone who is on their way to some hiker’s paradise) so it was just Brenda, Bryce and myself. We had a ball and more pictures are sure to follow, I just need to go to sleep right now.

On the way home we made a quick stop in Nederland, to pick up some acid. (Anyone who knows me knows that this was not for me. The last thing I need to see is a melting floor, or say, a purple rabbit. I merely mention this because I think it’s pretty damned funny.)

Yesterday’s long day was followed by another great day today, where we got to once again see our dear friend Patty who was visiting her brother in Parker, CO and we celebrated her niece Grace’s fourth birthday with presents, cake and amazingly sweet Colorado corn (and yes, Patty once again brought cold cuts!).

Today marked one year since I moved to Boulder, Colorado. Lots of shit has happened in the last year, and since almost a month has elapsed since I’ve posted a word on this site, I figure I’ll throw down a quick recap.

First off, I am really, really happy living and working here.

Brenda is finally back in Boulder, after spending seven weeks in Santa Fe working for the Santa Fe Opera as a costume draper. She did well, but it’s definitely better to have her here than there.

Some more good sunsets have happened; I have pics.

The drive back from Santa Fe was along route 285, which took us through some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen. After a whole year of living in Colorado, I found myself falling even deeper in love with this part of the country. The mountains and the valleys between them are simply awesome.

I’m back into cycling, a lifelong love, in a big way. I have acquired three bicycles since moving here; one, I ride every day, my on-one singlespeed commuter bike. I scored an Independent Fabrications cyclocross bike on eBay last fall, which is one of the best fitting, best riding bikes I’ve ever owned, but I don’t really ride off-road so it’s been collecting dust since I built up the on-one. Still debating whether to try and fit it out for road riding or just sell it (or start doing more trail riding). Recently I bought another bike on eBay, a vintage Eddy Merckx that I have since taken all my Campy parts from my Zullo and hung on that. It rides like a dream, and it’s a dream come true to finally own and ride a Merckx. (The parts from the Merckx (all Dura Ace) are now hung on my old Zullo frame, and that bike will likely end up on eBay craigslist soon. Wanna buy a 60cm classic steel road bike?)

I have added hiking to my list of hobbies, and it suits me well living out here. But camping and sleeping in the snow, something that everyone seems to do out here, is not gonna happen anytime soon. Hiking a high summit is on my list of things to do this summer, though.

Flying has taken a back seat to my other interests, but remains a deep-seated passion for me. The expense, the fact that I no longer own a plane and the fact that flying in the mountains will require a concerted investment of time and money that I don’t have to spare right now have conspired to put aviation on the back burner for me for the time being. But I get a kick out of watching the gliders being towed to the Front Range right in front of my office window every day, and ride my bike to the Boulder Airport to watch the activities there every once in a while.

I went for a bike ride today. Twenty miles or so, along Arapahoe and 95th Streets. Riding along 95th Street northbound, I looked west at the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains and tried not to cry or run off the road as I took in the majesty of the mountains and pondered the amazing fact that after spending years in New Jersey riding and racing road bikes and reading magazines and catalogs depicting riders enjoying this backdrop, I was actually here (on my Merckx!), barrelling down the road in the thin mountain air.

This is a good place to live. I’m happy to be here, and I’m happier that Brenda, Emma and I are all together again. Twelve months after arriving here, alone, with two suitcases and living in a hotel room, we own a condo here and Brenda & I watched the Folsom Field fireworks from our front porch with Emma blinking inquisitively from the other side of the screen door.

It’s all good.

Brenda has been busy working a couple of jobs, and I was fairly convinced that this weekend she’d be working all weekend. So when I hiked up to Bear Peak via the Fern Canyon Trail yesterday, I really didn’t mind that my knee joints were solidifying as I sat on the couch last night. I figured I was done with physical exertion for the weekend. Imagine my surprise when Brenda emerged from her shop last night, having completed all tasks, and was all excited about going hiking on Sunday (today).

We’ve been meaning to summit South Boulder Peak for several weeks now, ever since we did Bear Peak for the first time last month. Weather and work have conspired against finally tackling the final summit of the nearest Boulder peaks, but today was the day.

We drove down to the South Mesa Trailhead, just south of Boulder and headed on out. We took the Homestead Trail to the Shadow Canyon Trail, and commenced climbing, and climbing and climbing, and climbing….

At one point, you reach a saddle, where you can hang a right and head for Bear Peak, or a left, and head for South Boulder Peak. The view at that point is already amazing, but we knew that more awaited us. Since we’d both already been to Bear Peak, we hung a left. There was about 500 feet remaining to the summit.

On the way up this last segment, we passed a trail runner on his way down from the peak. These people run up and down these trails, and my knees are still asking me tonight: “daddy, why do those people behave the way they do?” I have no answer.

Just shy of the summit, we were greeted by a huge pile of boulders and a couple of hikers just coming down from the top. “You have to climb the rocks!”, they said. No shit. Brenda & I stowed our trekking poles and crawled along the rocks to the summit. Here’s the view:

I have to say, I really like this local Boulder peak. I really think that it’s better than Bear Peak, which affords 360-degree views. A full panorama is nice, but Shadow Canyon is an awesome challenge, with great views along the way, and South Boulder Peak features amazing views with more dramatic vistas; there are plenty of perches on South Boulder Peak where you can look at the Continental Divide, and look down at your feet and stare in to a canyon that is three thousand feet below you (where you were just a few hours ago):

The hike down was accelerated due to an advancing storm, but I think that whatever speed I descended the peak today would not have mattered; between yesterday’s ascent and today’s, my knees and feet have been pounded more than they ever have. The views at the top(s) were worth it, but I’m quite certain that tomorrow I’m gonna be a hurtin’ puppy.

(Galen, if you’re reading, my FKT for Bear Peak via the Fern Canyon Trail is now 1:25.)