Nothing Meek about Mount...

Meeker.

When Nelson (the other half of the Sub-Eleven Foot Expedition Team) suggested hiking a peak in RMNP,  I replied, "I'm in." I didn't need to know anything more than that. I always pay attention to my older, wiser and more patient brother from another mother. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/06/another-brother-from-another-mother.html

Our plan was to hike from the Goblin Forest campsite along the Longs Peak trail to the Loft route to 13,911' Mount Meeker. First, we had to perform our pre-hike ritual honed after a decade's worth of expeditions.

Nelson: "Jeff, I haven't been hiking much lately. We'll get as far as we can go. Is that OK?" 

Me: "Yep. You call the shots. I think you will do fine." 

With this tradition completed we set off on a breeze-free cloudy morning. We took breaks, shot photos and kibitzed. (Told stories). 

The heavy breathing began after Chasm Lake. We moved up a prominent couloir wedged between Meeker and Longs Peak. At times the climbing was aptly described by Nelson as "can't make a mistake" ascending. We scouted routes, made suggestions and like Lewis and Clark, "We proceeded on." 

We attained the flat saddle called the Loft. Here, Nelson had to start the second part of the ritual "I've been up on Meeker three times. You go ahead and summit it. I'll take a break here and get up as far as I can." 

"OK. You are doing great. I'll see you at the top." That's my part of the ritual. 

Sure enough, there was Nelson grinning and gaining the top a few minutes after me.

This is what I know about my Woody Allen look-a-like buddy/brother. He's a plugger. He doesn't give up easily. He's way tougher than he looks. He's hiked to the Mount Everest Basecamp, survived two avalanches, summited more peaks (in the winter) than I care to do and was a ferry boat captain somewhere in Asia. 

His adventure resume makes mine look puny and insignificant. 

He's also incredibly humble about his achievements. Here's his photos. He is generous enough to allow me to share them with you.

I am a lucky Dude to know him. 

Enjoy!

This guy knows how to really work a camera.

Cheers

Jeff

A Backpack Trip

Long overdue. 

When I turned 60 half a year ago, Courtney Sambur (my nephew Keith's wonderful spouse) handed me a surprise present. It was a note. It said something like this: 

"I, Courtney Sambur will give Keith Sambur a one-night Kitchen Pass to backpack with Uncle Jeff this summer." 

For me it was a priceless gift.

Its been over a decade since my nephews joined me for a ramble in Colorado's Great Outdoors. At that time, Justin was waiting to attend Colorado State University for his advanced degree. Keith just received his law degree. It was tweener time for the two of them. His most generous parents (brother Mike and sister-in-law Robin) sent them west for two weeks of U.J Boot Camp. 

 

We hiked everyday on a whirlwind tour of Colorado's pretty places. Most of the time we donned massive backpacks. On off days it was mere day packs. We were in constant motion. I was always hiking in front, pushing the pace. I taunted them mercilessly. "If this is too much of a strain on you guys. I can drop you off at the mall. You can spend the days shopping. Would you like that?" From below I could hear them cursing me. 

Hey! It was two against one. 

At our finish line in Aspen, Colorado (they had to return to NYC the next day), the boys had noon time beers to celebrate. They toasted each other. "We survived Uncle Jeff!"

The bottom line: Robin phoned me when the kids deplaned. "Jeffy! The boys look great! They look so healthy!" 

They both lost ten pounds of weight in that fortnight. If you really are serious about a weight loss program hang with me.

Back to the present. Keith and I had a great time tramping 18 miles from Estes Park, Colorado to Grand Lake, Colorado. Maybe one day, Justin can rejoin us. I would love that. 

In the last photo, that's a Pine Marten. It's the first one I ever saw in my life. I spotted another a few days later. Go figure! 

Stay in motion, it's good for you.

Jeff

Fear of Farbluzhet...

When I was a little "boychick," the Sambur Homebody family would hit the open road every now and then. Our vehicle was usually a used Chevy in suspicious condition. (We even owned a Corvair!)  I would take my place in the front between Sid and Clara. My older brothers watched the Bronx go by from the backseat. 

We would be cruising around when Clara would pipe up, "OY! We are Farbluzhet!" This is the Yiddish word for hopelessly lost. Sid would then get the "I'm nervous, very nervous" look combined with his worried expression. Those weren't happy moments in the Sambur Chevy. So I grew up thinking getting Farbluzhet should be avoided and feared at the same time. 

Now I hike in wilderness areas and alone most of the time. I take a large scale Trails Illustrated map, and often times a vague notion of what lies ahead. I also carry a fear of getting lost in my backpack too.The worst thing about becoming "disoriented" is how it would screw up my Happy Hour schedule. 

On my recent three day, 30 plus miles backpack trip in the Maroon Bells Wilderness, my fear of pulling a disappearing act was more pronounced than normal. I heard from reliable sources (a Wilderness Ranger) that a segment of my itinerary was dicey. The official U.S. Forest Service handout acknowledged the trail was "lightly used and steep." The insider info I pulled out of the Ranger was this, "When you get over the pass, take a hard right. Aim for the bottom of the bowl." Pretty vague. Right? 

I asked him, "Can't I just follow the creek drainage to the intersecting trail?"

His no-nonsense response, "No! Unless you can swim waterfalls." Not so much.

So I hit the trail early to buy myself more time to get lost and found. The hike up the pass was so easy a Caveman could do it. (good line, GEICO.)  At the top, I saw a large bowl below me and faint routes wandering off at odd angles from that point. I chose the way "hardest right." I quickly realized my choice was an elk thoroughfare. There were hardly any signs of Homo Sapiens. However, those elk must have been civil engineers as there meanderings followed the ridge's contours. Strong work until an elk labor dispute caused the construction project to come to a halt. At that point I began to imagine seeing trails at the bottom of the bowl. I gingerly made my way down. Nope! It was those nasty trail mirages. I hiked this way and that generally going downhill. It took my about half a mile before I found a genuine cairn. Like a bloodhound on a scent, I began to follow. I might have howled even. The trail crapped out often, but I stay focused. 

It took many hours of beating the bush to arrive at a more user friendly trail. I really like that one since it took me back to Barley the Van and a date with Happy Hour.

My point to all this? Don't get farbluzhet. You might get Sid's "I'm nervous, very nervous" worried look. It will upset your kids too. 

Stay Found,

Jeff

I'm no Gambler

You've got to know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run

"The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers

Yesterday, I left Carbondale with the idea of summiting nearby Mount Sopris. (12,965 feet). With a  70% chance of thunder-boomers and lightning as the forecast, I was more than a bit concerned. However, after my usual two pots of java for breakfast, I was feeling game on. 

As I made my way through the green ecozones, all was fine. The sun was shining, the wind was gentle and temperature was set for cotton instead of fleece. Perfect. By the time I got above tree line, conditions began to change. 

To the east of me, the valleys of the Maroon Bells/Snowmass Wilderness were beginning to fill with cloudy and wet stuff. I felt a few drops of moisture myself. It wasn't my sweat either. With half an Empire State Building of uphill ahead of me, I made a decision. It was time to head down. 

Despite Sopris' minuscule size compared to its neighbors, it's an extremely steep endeavor. The mountain's flank is composed of rock slabs strewn about in a haphazard state. The odds are "flip a coin" whether the unforgiving surface slides or not. The descent is tedious and slow. There is no quick exit off of Sopris. 

One can always second guess a hiking decision. Would I have been able to complete the climb safely? Possibly.

Did I make it back alive for another Happy Hour? Definitely. 

I made the right choice. Sopris is not going anywhere. 

Please try and make the Right Choice when you are in Wild Places. 

That's not my handwriting in the last photo. 

Hiking with a Viking...

I met Paul the Pilot (AKA Paul the Polly-Anna), on a long ago Ride the Rockies Bicycle Tour. He rode an antiquated Schwinn Le Tour bicycle. His metal steed was clunky, unresponsive and oppressively massive. Paul is a large, lean, headstrong, "Type A" Scandanavian. He muscled his bike up the passes, laughing at the Bike Nazis he left in his wake. He's a tough dude. 

I mentioned the newer, lighter bikes that were available in stores called Bicycle Shops. His answer, "This bike is fine. Why buy another one?" 

You know the saying, "You can always tell a Scandanavian, you just can't tell them much."

Now Paul is gainfully unemployed, recently divorced and taking the same heavy handed approach to backpacking. 

On our three-day, 28 mile journey in the Maroon Bells/Snowmass Wilderness of Colorado, Paul's concession to lightweight gear was leaving his Grand Piano behind and settling for a Baby Grand instead. Out of his Mount Everest Expedition pack came a pound of raisins, a heavy two person tent, (for himself), a container of liquid coffee creamer, a spice rack, a large plastic 7-11 coffee mug and other extraneous add-ons. I was surprised there was no portable sauna. I feared placing my puny backpack next to his. It might have eaten it. 

Now is a good time to mention, the hiking loop contains four passes over 12,000 feet too. 

So...just like that bicycle tour from so long ago, Paul employed brute strength to make his way up the passes. He still managed to leave most younger, better equipped hikers in his wake.The one and only reason I was ahead of him was my mini backpack was half the Wells Fargo Bank vault weight of his backpack. He's still a tough dude.

Then again, what can one expect from a region who brought the world such notable Bad-Asses as Eric the Red, Roald Amundsen and Fridtjof Nansen. I hear they eat lutefisk too. That's fish soaked in lye. 

At least our hiking conditions were to Paul's liking. Cold, wet, damp, cloudy and plenty of white death (snow) to traverse. Perfect for the newest Scandanavian Bad-Ass. 

This Cold Weenie survived the ordeal. In fact, a wonderful time was had by all. 

Cheers from Carbondale, Colorado,

Jeff

America's Greatest Invention...

Wilderness Areas, followed closely by National Parks.

Sure, Jazz, the Blues, Democracy and baseball are up there, but the notion of "Let It Be" land use is our Nation's best idea. (Besides the Internet, which I happened to have invented.) 

What a concept! A piece of land valued for what it doesn't have. No mining, no logging, no ranching, no motorized vehicles, and best of all, no subdivisions. 

For the past week, I visited four designated Wilderness Areas-Indian Peaks, Mount Zirkel, Sarvis Creek and felt compelled to visit the Cradle of Wilderness. I'm talking about the Flat Tops Wilderness (Colorado's second largest preserved area). 

All great ideas start with a visionary. The lovers of Wild Places (like myself) can thank U.S Forest Service landscape architect Arthur Carhart for his epiphany. His bosses sent him to remote Trappers Lake (in the year 1919) to come up with a game plan to build a few vacation cabins along its shore. When young Arthur saw the lake, and the volcanic amphitheater leaping from its shores, he filed this report to his supervisors.

"There are a number of places where scenic values are of such great worth that they are rightfully the property of all people. They should be preserved for all time for the people of the nation and the world." 

Thank you! Arthur! I couldn't have said it any better. 

Now I'm at a campsite scattered along the outflow of Trappers Lake. While I quietly quaff my IPAs, my neighbors seem to whisper in their conversations. Maybe they are showing reverence to the beauty that's around them. 

On today's 11 mile hike to Wall Lake the only sounds I heard was the wind whistling past the burnt snags from the 2002 Big Fish Fire. (I heard my heavy breathing too, but we won't go there.) 

Shortly after Mr. Carhart's proclamation, another visionary saw the light. Aldo Leopold fought for America's first Wilderness Area-the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico. He won that battle, but in reality, we all won.

Here's a plethora of photos from our Treasury of Just Trails. In the last photo, there's Paul, Robin and Jenny overlooking Gilpin Lake in the Mount Zirkel Wilderness. Contrary to popular belief, I don't go solo all the time. Oftentimes I go fishing for companions, but I usually come away with an empty creel. 

As Jeff Shakespeare once wrote, "Tis better to go-eth alone, than never to go-eth at all." 

Enjoy America's best invention. I do.

Cheers!

Jeff

 

Shirley McClain and me...

On yesterday's almost a Ghost Bike hike, I got a late start, the distance to my goal was greater than expected and I was feeling introspective. In other words, sort of a normal day. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2015/07/four-years-ago.html

As I girded up the trail to Crater Lake in Indian Peaks Wilderness, my mood changed to cheery. The weather was mild, sunny and wind-free. I'll borrow an overused cliche here. "It was a great to be alive" day. And that's exactly how I felt. 

Somehow four years ago, I dodged the bullet, didn't buy the farm, wasn't pushing up daisies and survived and recovered from my ordeal. I am very fortunate. 

Shirley M believes in reincarnation. I don't. I'm very pleased with this scarred, creaky body and IPA addled brain. I'll try to hold onto this form of me as long as I can. It has served me well. I'm like a Timex watch, "Takes a licking and keeps on ticking!"

Be safe out there.

Second chances don't come often.

Cheers!

Jeff