Just another dayhike

A few days after my first hike in the La Sals, I go for yet another dayhike. Checking out some places. Trying to understand the landscape and learn more.

After daydreaming about those peaks, I study my maps again and look at old notes.

This time, I finally figure out a way to get to one place I've longed to go. A peak probably no one else would care about. From a direction that wouldn't matter to other people.

Finding the way up there from down here.

First, up a cow trail. Not the first cow trail (that one didn’t get me anywhere last time) but the third one on the right.

Then up the old mining road. Not the one that goes up the south-facing slope past the old cabins. That led me into the the other valley last spring. But the old mining road with all the blowdowns over it.

This one.

Then up. They say the journey is the reward. But in the moment of the journey when all your cells are screaming for oxygen because acclimatization takes more than a week when you come from sea level, that just seems idiotic.

Wildflowers make a better reward. Mountain coyote mint. The aptly named Monardella odoratissima. A sweet minty odor, -atissima indeed!

Breathe it in. Slowly.

Commas flying around too. Two species! I stop and look at every single one. Trying to get better at distinguishing the satyr comma (P. gracilis) from the zephyr anglewing (P. satyrus). Which has to do with an extra spot you can see from the top if their wings are open. Or if they are in their elusive mode with closed wings, one is brown and tan and the other is light and darker gray. So subtle. To me anyway. But I like subtle.

From the guide written by my friend Robb.

A few zigs and zags up the side of the mountain. As circuitous a route up as the wing-margins of the commas. Especially with all the stopping and breathing and watching.

At the ridge.

Then, up and over the ridge. The wind blasting. Turning my fingers into icicles. I'd forgotten that 12,000 feet is cold even when it is 90 degrees down at my home in the valley.

Crouching down on my belly to look at teeny tiny alpine wildflowers.

Moss campion

Down on the ground, the wind doesn’t feel as cold. Moss campion hugs the ground too for the same reason. Rich purple. In places they carpet the ground with their purpleatissimness. But if you stand up and look out, the mountains are mostly tan speckled with green. Doesn’t look like much, actually.

Not all that much. Subtle.

The thing about the La Sals is they are not the most gorgeous place. A few minutes on instagram can reveal all the beautiful mountains you’ll want to go. Steeper peaks, more epic-er.

What makes me love these mountains, then?  It's hard to explain.

I am not a confident rock scrambler. I’m scared of heights. But enough places in these mountains are gentle enough for me to explore on my own without getting too sketched out. So that’s part of it.

Plus, I can be the only one at the trailhead. I can hike all day and not see anyone else. Or I can see someone else and we can stop and have a conversation because there aren't that many of us up here. Uncrowdedness.

Maybe most of all, I love how deeply I can know these mountains. I can be up in them in half and hour, so I go again and again. This proximity permits a depth of understanding, through all their various moods and seasons. I love how in living here, I’ve met enough people to share their knowledge of these mountains with me- the botanists, the butterfly expert, geologists, locals. I pick up little pieces of history here and there. Each little tidbit makes me want to learn even more. There are plenty of places far away. But I want to know my backyard place, a small place, with depth and richness.

So I keep coming back.