This Bud’s for…

Everyone.

“You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello"

Lyrics by John Prine

I was finishing up a gig of box shlepping for the monthly Friends of the Library sidewalk book sale, when I noticed a very senior customer. He was long and lean as a giraffe’s neck. Covering his sparse gray hair was a dapper cap. His wristwatch was adorned with turquoise. I’d say he stood out from the crowd of Durango’s book lovers. 

I watched as he methodically went through all the tables plucking books and placing them in a nearby cache. He chose most of his reads from the History/Biography tables. Eventually, he took a seat at a picnic table to review his selections. Every now and then, he’d glance up for a few minutes of people watching. I immediately recognized this activity. It’s the “better to be around humans than to sit alone in an empty house” look. 

It’s a look I’m guilty of as well. 

I wandered over, “Good Morning! Sir! I’m Jeff. I volunteer for the Friends of the Library. I couldn’t help but notice how long you spent at the History/Biography tables. Would you be interested in a really great book about Theodore Roosevelt?” 

“Maybe. Tell me about it.”

I gave him a brief book report on James Bradley’s “Imperial Cruise.” 

“ I used to be a Ranger for the National Park Service, so I’d be interested in learning more about TR.. I’ll go and look for it. My name is Bud by the way.”

“No need Bud! This is a full customer service book sale. I’ll bring the book to you.” 

I returned with the paperback and took a nearby seat. “I love our National Parks! They are one of America’s greatest inventions. Where did you work for the NPS?”

That was my opening. Bud took over from here. “I spent most of my career years at Mesa Verde. I was in law enforcement. I enjoyed my time with the Park Service, although I had my share of “by the book” superintendents. They weren’t the easiest of bosses.”

Bud’s history sprung forth from there. He grew up in Salt Lake City. “We were one of the few non-Mormon families!” He got married and raised five children. (Four daughters and a son). There are lots of grandchildren. Bud pulled out tiny family photos from his worn leather wallet. Apparently his  progeny are scattered in the cardinal directions of the US. I read between his silence  that his spouse was long gone. 

It was getting near lunchtime when Bud asked, “will there be more book sales?”

“Yes!” I caught the attention of our Madame President of Friends of the Library. “Shelley, would you happen to have a handout on upcoming sales for this Gentleman?” 

“Of course!” She returned in a nanosecond and handed Bud a slip of paper. 

We both stood up. “Bud, I hope we see you again in July”

“Yes! I’ll put it on my calendar.” 

“Good!” We shook hands on it.

Bud did return in July.  I bought him a cup of coffee, “I drink my coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and lots of cream, like my Mother drank it.” Our conversation took off from where we left off in June. 

When we parted this time, I handed him my “retirement card” with my contact information on it.

“Bud. If you need me to run errands for you give a shout. I’m not that busy that I can’t help.”

“Thank you! Jeff. So far so good. I’m still getting around.” 

“In that case, I’ll see you in August.”

Once again we shook on it.

“So if you're walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes
Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello"

Thank you John Prine for these words of wisdom.

Respect your Elders. One day you might be old too.

The Goodness of Gestures.

In the aftermath of my should-have-killed-me accident, I was well…depressed.

Who wouldn’t be? I was rear-ended on my bicycle by a sedan traveling at 50 MPH! It was an Uber sucker punch. 

For months I resided in a belly button to neck brace. Every part of me was sore, scarred or scabbed. Even my toenails ached. Worst of all, was the big questions. How well will I heal? Will I get my active life back or will I become the world’s first full-time nonfiction book reader? These questions and mountains of angst kept me up at night. I was in a bad state of mind.

One day, Rosie emailed me. Her message was short and sweet. (Like her) “Jeff, I made something for you. I hope it cheers you up. It’s in the mail. Keep getting better!” Of course, I thanked her beforehand. 

Eventually I reluctantly returned  to Tucson for another winter of discontent. After a session of physical therapy, I found a cardboard box at my door. I brought it inside and opened it. It was a Ride The Rockies Team Bar2Bar themed quilt! The panels were the tank tops of twenty years of my “drinkers with a bicycle riding problem” team. I sashayed backward after spreading  it out on the floor. I alternated between laughing and crying. 

I called Rosie immediately. “Rosie! This is the best gift I have ever received. Thank you so much!” I meant every word and then some.

 It took almost a year but I did heal! I spent my final winter of discontent in Tucson getting rid of stuff. I had made the decision to go “Homeless by Choice.” If it didn’t fit into Barley the Van, it was gone. I was pretty draconian on this. There were two materialistic sentimental items that made the cut.

A) Fido the porcelain pug who was gifted to me by a long lost friend. A woman who was capable of making me laugh like no other. 

B) Rosie’s Team Bar2Bar quilt. It fit nicely on my almost Queen-sized Barley the Van bed.

Both Fido and Rosie’s quilt survived those 6.5 years of my rootless existence. However, like me they aged. All four of Fido’s stubby legs have been Superglued back onto his frame. The Team Bar2Bar quilt was faded and frayed. There was no way either was going into a dumpster.

When Covid (SPIT!) struck I phoned Rosie. 

After commiserating about the misery of Covid, I got to the point. “I’d like to commission you for a second quilt. The Bar2Bar one is looking rough, but I can’t pitch it. Would you like a “stay in place” project? This time I’ll pay for your creation.” 

“Sure! I have to finish a baby quilt first, then I’ll get on it.” 

I desired a larger quilt with a National Park theme for my Durango home. She pointed me to an  Amazon site for the panels, and away we went. A little over a year later, (It took Michelangelo four years to paint the Sistine Chapel. Artistic genius takes time)  I met Rosie in May, 2021 at a post-Rockies game pub. I wandered in with a few friends as well. Rosie had already draped the quilt over a railing for all to see. I stopped to take the wonder in.. “Rosie! It’s beautiful!! You outdid yourself on this one.” Once again I meant it. Then I gave her a big squeeze hug.

And yes, I did send her a check in which she responded. “Jeff! It’s too much!” 

My reply? “Not at all, you have no idea on how much that Team Bar2Bar quilt meant to me. This is my simple way of paying you back.” 

Here’s my point. Rosie performed a gesture of goodness. She didn’t have to play Good Samaritan but she did. Here was a potential mitzvah (good deed) moment and she seized it.

There are life lessons here and I can be trained.

So now that I’m settled down in a tight community where everyone knows everybody,  but me,

I’m trying my hand at gestures of goodness. 

When a neighbor had a Buddha purloined from the front of her townhome, I instigated a local fundraiser to replace it. Marcia is still enthused about her new jolly Buddha. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/02/what-would-buddha-do.html

At a block party, I picked up an extra case of IPA to barter for Durango Food Bank donations. We netted $53 for a worthy cause.

If I hear a friend/neighbor is sick, injured or just feeling down, I’ll drop off a meal’s worth of Minnesota Soup or Sambini’s Famous Kosher Green Chili. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/01/

Will any of these deeds end poverty, bring about World Peace or curtail Climate Change? Of course not. BUT maybe someone else will notice. Then we can start a movement! I have a name picked out already.

“The Rosie Make a Quilt Good Gesture Foundation.” I nominate Rosie for CEO. 

Please consider becoming a member. 

Thanks!

Jeff

The Myth of the Bucket…

List.

In 2019, I was performing a welfare check on one of my favorite humans on the planet. Joe (AKA Trauma) was in his epilogue chapter of Stage Four liver cancer. Our conversation was anything but the usual light banter of jokes, sporting news and old memories. The overall tone was somber and forced.

In an awkward moment, Joe spoke out, “Sambini! You’d be proud of me. I finally retired!” 

“That’s great. Joe.”

“Yeah, some retirement Right?!” 

A few months later, Joe was gone. He was 62 years old. Joe’s Bucket List fit with room to spare in an urn containing his ashes.

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/06/parting-is-nothing-but.html?m=0

Now when I’m involved in conversations with friends or acquaintances, our dreamy future plans often takes center stage. If I hear the cliche “It’s on my bucket list” a few times AND if they are older than 50.  I’ll interject “Well, Dontcha know,  you probably have more days behind you than in front of you. What are you waiting for?

This is shocking news to many, when it’s just simple math and statistics. (The life span of Americans has been declining too. Covid made it worse). 

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m all in favor of creating travel or experience goals. (But only if you mean doing them!) In the last decade, I’ve been knocking off many: the Galápagos Islands, Machu Picchu (twice), the Camino de Santiago (twice), hiking in the Alps, the West Coast Trail on Vancouver Island, The Torrens del Paine Loop,  hiking the wild Portuguese Coast, hugging Redwoods,  getting into the Maze District (twice), finally seeing the Wave, going on an Hawaiian whale watch, and now getting into the high country of the nearby San Juan Mountains to name a few.

It was nearly a decade ago too when I became well aware of my own mortality. In July 2011,  I survived a bicycle vs. sedan collision in which three doctors assured me most cyclists would have perished. It was a life changing event. Life or death is sometimes a matter of landing just right. Apparently I  “nailed” the landing. 

This is why I abhor wasting days. As  Founding Father Thomas Jefferson said, “Never put off for tomorrow, what you can do today.” This includes Bucket Lists. 

Joe would concur.

PS. I’m currently available for Bucket List mentoring. My rates are reasonable. Happy Hour with or without dinner.

Cheers,

Jeff

“Jeffy! I don’t have time…

It was way back when on a yearly Florida pilgrimage to see my Dad. (AKA Sid), when I noticed his reading habits. 

Just like a precision Swiss watch a Sunday edition Palm Beach Sun Sentinel newspaper would materialize at his door. Sid would then meticulously sort it out in order of importance. TV section placed reverently by his remote. Grocery ads stacked into a pile. International and National news sections placed on top. Beneath were the local news and arts and entertainment last. The sports section got the heave ho, unless I was around. Through the course of a week, he’d ration out that one newspaper. An article one day, a section the next day and maybe interspersed with a rest day. 

Me being me, thought, “Hmmm! I’ll call the Sentinel and buy Sid an everyday subscription of newspapers. That way, he’d be up on current events and he wouldn’t have to dole out his news each day.”  So that’s what I did.

A few days later, I got a call from Sid. 

“Jeffy!” He shouted. It was in his tune me up tone of voice. 

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

“Did you get me a subscription of daily newspapers?”

“Yes. I thought you’d like that.” 

“Jeffy! I don’t have TIME to read the newspaper! I’m BUSY!”

Mind you this came from a man whose daily schedule revolved around meal purchasing and preparation. The other hours were spent napping. 

So if you’ve been following my blog along, you’ve picked up the “BUSY! “ capitalized for emphasis.

This is a Sidism. I consider it a Yogism only less poignant or hilarious. 

So now, when I phone people, I’ll ask (if they pick up), “Are you BUSY? Do you have time to talk?. I’ll keep this short.” 

Most Americans lead BUSY lives. I don’t and I won’t.  

There were heaps of other Sidisms. Here’s a few of the Sambur family favorites.

“Wait awhile! Wait awhile! You mean to tell me…” He said this when he was trying to grasp a new concept. 

“I analyzed the situation. I should have been a psychiatrist.” 

“Jeffy! You need to be your own Doctor.” 

“God Willing!”

“You’re pissing your money away.” This was his financial advice. 

“You’re talking crazy!” (I use this one all the time. So succinct and straightforward).

So… on the eve of a Father’s Day weekend, I’d like to say, thank you Sid for all of your lines of wisdom. We didn’t always see eye to eye (I was three inches taller than you) on things, but I  knew you always loved and cared about me. You were a little man with BIGLY opinions. You were a character. 

Like your youngest turned out to be.

Cheers to all the great Dads out there. Sid was one of them.

Jeff 

A Sand Country Almanac

“Embrace the Sand!” shouted the jovial boatman on a two week Grand Canyon float trip. 

At the time micro rocks had been blowing in a 360 degrees fashion for days on end. The gritty particles found their way into crevices, gaps and unmentionable orifices. As if the sand wasn’t enough, there was the endless annoying sound of something without a true substance. When the winds finally abated, all us campers sighed an audible “Ahhh!”

Now back to the present. (If that makes any sense.) In early February, I began a somewhat common Coloradoan migration. I turned my back to our glorious (then cold and icy) mountains and set my sights on the desserts of California, Utah, New Mexico and Arizona. It’s sand country. This year it was blowing sand country. 

In February, I ventured to Death Valley National Park. Originally, I was going to stay for over a month. However, the reality of Covid brought me back to Colorado. My buddy Paul L scored me a few Moderna shots via a website. I was craving to be out of Covid hell. I wanted to be part of the solution instead of part of the problem. In Death Valley, I discovered my camper can withstand 60 mph gusts of wind. (Numerous times). Yes, there was sand and shmuts (Yiddish for dirt) everywhere. I’ve had gentler visits there.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/03/a-thinking-persons-national-park.html

In late March (pre-second dose Moderna vaccine)  I drove to the Island in the Sky district in Canyonlands National Park. I posted a blog about the experience. It was windy, it was cold. When I wasn’t hiking, I was hunkered down in my camper with the furnace at full bore. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/03/the-coldest-campout-in-world.html

In early April I had my first visit to Chaco Cultural  National Historical Park. Initially, I thought what were those Ancient Puebloan thinking! The area is stark! Water is hit or miss in a nearby wash. Piñon pine and junipers for possible fuel or building materials are on top of the mesas. It’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer. In the campground, dust devils and an overly enthusiastic volunteer host performed continual laps. Both were annoying. As near as I could tell, the location was all about the big views for seeing and being seen. After all it was a cultural, administrative and trading center. No one really knows the whys. I guess the Ancient Ones had their reasons.

In mid-April, I returned to the Needles District of Canyonlands NP. It’s one of my All-Time happy places. Mother Nature cooperated. There was no need for a Shop Vac to Hoover out the sand. Many old friends joined me at our shared group campsite. Happy Hours were sociable and entertaining. A wonderful time was had by all.

A few days later (No rest for the WW J) I camped atop the Horseshoe Canyon district of Canyonlands NP. I hiked up-canyon the first day to see the Great Gallery and other amazing artful artifacts. I tried getting to Bluejohn Canyon to see Aron Ralston’s exit way. He’s the adrenaline junkie who amputated his right arm after a being detained by an irate chockstone. Once again, I was in awe of Mr. Ralston’s pluck, endurance and toughness. I never did see Bluejohn, it would’ve been a massive day hike. The second day I headed down-canyon. It was more scenic but the Green River was too far away for an out and back. In between those hikes, I read inside of my truck. It was too stupid windy to sit outside and get sandblasted.

The next morning, I met Brad with his tricked out, accessorized and macho Toyota Tacoma 4X4 truck. I dubbed his conveyance “The Beast.”  We were about to enter the Maze. We’d need the Toyota’s spacecraft technology for a successful journey on a so-called road which is nauseatingly gnarly. The payoff would be camping and hiking in the most beautiful and remote segment of Canyonlands NP. Of course our forecast sucked. Warm and windy, followed by cold and windy, followed by cold, rainy and windy. Our tents were pancaked by the gusts. One blast broke my tent pole. Any attempt to sleep soundly proved futile. We did manage to get out each day for a hike. Once back we hid behind rocks. I wanted to cry more than once. On our six night campout, we scored 56 hours of fine weather. On that day, I celebrated by getting lost...again.  

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2021/05/she-left-me.html  

Don’t get me wrong. I love the Maze, but this time the experience was quite exhausting.

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/10/37-miles-in-6-hours.html

Five days later, I was schvitzing (Yiddish for sweating) at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It was 93 degrees at Hermit Rapids. Once again Brad (plus two family units) was on hand. We hunkered in the meager shade provided by a few anemic willows. We couldn’t wait for the sun to go down. The next morning we hit the trail early to beat the heat. Five miles and a few hours later, we were hiding under the only cottonwood in Monument Canyon. We had plenty of time on our hands as we watched the nearby campsites fill in with other hot hikers. The following dawn, I was the first one up and out of M Canyon. It was another hot day. Eleven miles later, I shucked off my backpack on a picnic table at Indian Gardens campground. I was done. My Mojo wasn’t into this trip. My mind and body were saying, “No Mas!” For once I listened. The next morning I hiked out to cooler climes. Brad and family continued onto the Colorado River. 

Back in Durango, I finally scored some needed rest. One night, I slept over 8.5 hours, an astonishing amount for an insomniac like myself. I guess I was tired. 

Eight nights later, I was camped in four inches of slushy White Death in Great Sand Dunes National Park. OY! I finished one book and read 40% of another one before the onset of dinner and Happy Hour. The next two days, the snow melted or it might have been blown away. Yes, the winds returned. I hiked in the dunes way past the crowds. I enjoyed this giant cat box (minus the poop and acrid smell) all to myself. As usual I savored the solitude and serenity of those mounds of sand. 

Yet, I didn’t “embrace” the winds. 

And that’s all I’m gonna say about my Sand Country Almanac.

Cheers! 

It’s time to get back to the mountains!

Jeff

A Country of Contrarians.

A Country of Contrarians.

“I don't know what they have to say
It makes no difference anyway
Whatever it is, I'm against it
No matter what it is or who commenced it
I'm against it

Your proposition may be good
But let's have one thing understood:
Whatever it is, I'm against it
And even when you've changed it or condensed it
I'm against it”

Groucho Marx from “Horse Feathers.” 

There’s a lot of Doubting Thomas’,  Naysayers and Conspiracy Theorists in Merica these days.

Obamacare? Creeping Socialism

Climate Change? Chinese Hoax

Reasonable Gun Control Laws? A Govment intrusion on our sacred Second Amendment Rights.

Covid 19? It’s just another flu.

Masking up? Nope! I’m no masktubator.

2020 Presidential Election Results? The Dems stole the Election. It was rigged! (Despite no real evidence of widespread voter fraud).

The deadly January 6th  Attempted Congressional Coup? “Normal Tourist Visit.”

Now we are left with “vaccination hesitancy.” 

“The vaccine was rushed through!” 

“I’m not a Guinea Pig!”

“There’s a microchip in each dose!”

“I don’t need the vaccine. The Lord watches over me.”

Here’s an allegory. (I didn’t create it although I wish I had.)

The Mississippi River was rising! 

Local TV, Radio and emergency texts messages were warning,

“Flooding is eminent! Move to higher ground. NOW!”

Clem took it all in and tossed out a wry smile. “I’m not worried. The Lord will take care of me.”

He heard a knock on his door. There was a firefighter in knee deep water. “Sir! Follow me and I’ll get you to higher ground. It’s not safe here.”

Clem shook his head in the negative way and said, “I’ll be fine. The Lord watches over me.”

The firefighter shrugged his shoulders and moved on. There were others to save.

The river kept rising. Clem retreated to his second floor bedroom. Shortly thereafter a teenager in a rowboat came by. “Get in the boat, I’m rowing around the neighborhood picking up stragglers. I’ll get you to a dry spot.”

Clem shook his head. “No. I’ll be OK. The Lord has a plan for me.” 

The young Samaritan rowed away. There were others to save.

The river kept rising. Clem escaped through his roof hatch to the apex of his home. A helicopter hovered overhead. The copilot tossed down a rope ladder. Through a loud speaker the copilot shouted. “Climb up on the ladder. We will get you out of here. Save yourself! Your home is gone!”

Clem shook his head vigorously. “No! No! No!” He was thinking, the Lord will take care of me.

The chopper flew off. There was others to rescue and time wasn’t on their side.

Finally, the river began to overlap Clem’s precarious perch. He launched himself onto a piece of flotsam. Disappointingly he looked up at the Heavens. “Lord! I thought you’d  keep me safe!  Why is this happening?”

From the stratosphere there was a booming voice. “Clem! I sent three ways to save thyself. You turned them all down! You are now on your own. Good Luck!”

Folks! The vaccines are three ways to salvation from the scourge of Covid 19. Their names are Moderna, Pfizer and Johnson & Johnson. Think of these jabs as gifts from God. 

Or else, you are on your own. 

Good Luck!

From the New York Times:

There is no better way to crush the pandemic in coming weeks than to persuade the vaccine-skeptical to get a shot. It is the best way for them to protect themselves from the risk of Covid hospitalization and death. “If you are not vaccinated, you are not safe,” Dr. Rochelle Walensky, the C.D.C. director, said yesterday.

I know. New York Times. Fake News! Sigh.

“The Future Ain’t What...

it used to be.”

Yogi Berra

In the early 80’s...

I encumbered myself with an overloaded backpack and headed into the Maroon Bells Wilderness. It was midweek. There was a just a smattering of vehicles at the trailhead parking lot I shouldered my pack and set off on a narrow trail past Maroon Bell Lake. I was starting out on the now famous Four Pass Loop. 

The Four Pass loop is a 27 mile, 8,115’ elevation gain jaunt over a quartet of  12,000’ plus saddles. It’s gorgeous, glorious and a great work out. 

In the 80’s it was virtually devoid of humans.  At that time the trail required a sharp eye not to go missing.  My! my! how all that’s changed. 

What’s never changed is my love for this hike. Through the years, I’ve lapped this route six times. Each time the trail was more rutted and worn down. Each time there were more encounters with Homo Sapiens. It was noticeable but not annoying.

This year, I had time on my hands, a great forecast and a desire to visit my old friend once again. I arrived around 7 am on a Tuesday. There were Ubers  and Taxis ahead of me. They were disgorging backpackers with the latest REI gear and apparel at the trailhead. The parking lot was full. I backtracked down the valley and left Barley the Van at the Aspen Highlands ski area. ( $70 for three nights ). I took a bus up ( $8 round trip ). The driver was an “American Idol” wannabe. He warbled two off key songs. There was a prominent tip jar adjacent to the driver’s seat. I would have paid him to shut up. The bus was three-quarters full. The vibe was more DisneyLand than Wilderness. 

When the bus dropped us off, I bolted up the trail. In half mile there was a mandatory self-registration kiosk for backpackers. By the time, I filled in the blanks about twenty people slid by me. Many were being guided up to the top of West Maroon Pass. I caught them when they were taking a time out. The guide smirked at me and said, “Well, there’s plenty of wildflowers on the other side of the pass!” I smirked back, “Are there more flowers than people?” His answer  ? “Maybe!”

After passing droves of humans, I glanced down from the 12,490’ summit. On an indistinct mini-ridge line, I spotted my campsite for the night. As of that moment, it was vacant. I headed down to claim my turf. 

I set up camp, hauled up liters of water from a trickle of a creek and went into relaxation mode. As I turned the pages of a paperback, I noticed a steady stream of backpackers drawn toward my campsite. It was similar to a crowd of obese people eyeing an all-you-can-eat buffet, except the backpackers were leaner. The homeless veered off once they realized, the site was occupied. I never saw any wander too far away. I suppose they found a tiny bit of flat property nearby. I estimated I had fifteen neighbors within a tenth of a mile radius from my prime real estate. Fortunately, they were out of sight and quiet. 

I hightailed it early the next morning while my neighbors slept in. The cool air was thick with the scent and pollen from a gaudy display of wildflowers. I took photos between sneezes. I have hay fever, but I wasn’t complaining about the “Damn flowers!” 

I had Frigid Air Pass (12,405’) to myself. The views of the Maroon Bells were obscured by the hazy smoke of a nearby fire. I took a few minutes to savor the lonesomeness before heading down. I was on a mission to score a campsite with a neighborly waterfall. The morning was getting old as backpackers headed up Frigid Air Pass from the counterclockwise direction. There were Boy Scout Troops, Church groups and coveys of male retirees sporting ubiquitous gray beards. Every now and then (rarely) I spotted a solitary soul. I counted over 60 campers before I found my camp. 

Once again, this early bird claimed the Sotheby’s Real Estate deal of the month. A flat worn down pad with a fire ring and a few logs and soft rocks to sit upon. An unobstructed view of the waterfall was steps away. Unfortunately, so was a large communal latrine. I shot photos of the waterfall but none of the latrine. 

After setting up camp, hauling water and snacking; I donned my flip-flops and took a mosey down the trail. I found a creek side seat and watched trout go about their daily routine. A few hours swam by and I returned to camp. OY! I had five neighbors in three tents within eyesight. Luckily, they were pleasant neighbors who respected our distances. There were five billion black flies who were extremely unpleasant neighbors too. After dinner I sought fly free refuge in my tent. 

I broke camp early. The loop’s  toughest climb to Trail Rider Pass (12,415’) was waiting for me. As usual, I had a game plan. I lusted for a true wilderness experience. I reckoned I wasn’t the sole sociable hermit hiker in the World. Surely there would be a single-tent sized plot of land prior to the KOA-like campground at Snowmass Lake. 

The climb came and went. The Forest Service had apparently upgraded the old straight-up-a-gulch approach to the pass. It was still hard but hiker friendlier. (On the old trail, one could practically touch the rocks and dirt ahead of you. That’s steep.) 

I dawdled on the pass enjoying the views, the warmth and three giddy young women from Alaska. One asked me “Why don’t you move to Alaska?” I blurted out an answer, “Too much winter and too many people with too many guns.” They didn’t disagree. 

I started my descent on the lookout for a solitary campsite above Snowmass Lake. About half-mile and 400’ above the Lake, I noticed a social trail curling up above the main trail. I wandered up it. YES! There it was. A beat down bare spot large enough for one tiny tent. Mine! 

But! What’s a campsite without running water? Well, its  sort of like a breakfast burrito without green chili. Worthless. I dropped my load and ambled  downhill on a rudimentary path. Eureka! A miserly-looking snowfield was melting above at the rate of one spilled IPA/minute. With a little bit of Bureau of Reclamation engineering I was able to fill all my personal reservoirs. Now, I had all the essentials of home.

After making camp, I chilled out adjacent to the main trail. From my perch I achieved a better view of my surroundings. Besides taking in the lake, the mountains and the scree fields, I counted over fifty-five hikers in my impromptu census. Most looked weary and physically thumped. Many didn’t even notice me, even though I was a mere twenty feet from where they slowly trod. At 6 pm, I spoke to two young dudes working their way downhill. I nostalgically related about how uncrowded the hike was in the 80’s. They told me about the Four Pass Loop’s prominence on Google. (I checked. They weren’t handing me Fake News). As a goodbye, one of them said, “We’re sorry for making the hike so crowded! We wish we saw it in the 80’s too!” I smiled and thanked them just the same. 

Before retiring to my tent, I did a lap around my campsite in my “invisible Emperor’s Suit.” Why? Because I could! I had my best night of sleep at that solitary camp.

The next morning, I was revved after a two Clif Bar breakfast washed down with two shots of Starbucks instant. I flew up to the top of Buckskin Pass, with lustful thoughts of real food, a hot shower and clean clothes. I passed an odd assortment of backpackers. One youngster was wearing bedroom slippers while carrying a tent in his hands. I won’t get into the blue Jean and cotton sock wearing crowd, (with heavyweight boots). I topped out, enjoyed the long distance views and snacked with the handful of calories I had left. 

Down I went stepping aside for the multitudes of backpackers and trail runners heading up. 

Yes, the Four Pass Loop is a BUSY place. 

According to the US Forest Service estimates, visits to Maroon Lake and the surrounding area surged to a record 320,500 in 2017, up about 12 percent from summer of 2016. 

Many were carrying backpacks. 

Alas, it is time for this beauty to join the ranks of “The Enchantments,”(Washington) the “Wave”  (Utah) and Rocky Mountain National Park. I’m writing this with a feeling of angst. The Four Pass Loop cries out for a permit system. The number of backpackers/day/trailhead must be limited.

The US Forest Service needs to do this to save the place I love. 

From the start of a 2.5 month North by Northwest then South road trip,

Cheers,

Jeff