This was likely the best morning yet – a perfect sleep after Emily gave me some CBD to relax my muscles. I feel strong and wake with the birds and a half moon rising over a rock wall shining into the alicoop.
The sun is rising, so I pack up determined not to repeat yesterday’s late-ish start and try and walk in the shade as long as possible. So far north, dawn is drawn out, pink and cool. I take down my bear bag, one of a half dozen in silhouetted bunches. I’ve gotten pretty good at throwing that rock over the pole this far in.
I don’t eat breakfast – yet, anyway. Somehow I feel more energized just going. The sky is pink and everything is lit, but the sun still has not risen over the mountains. It’s an undulating trail, up and down through a burn. Long enough ago for wild flowers and tiny pine trees like Christmas trees to take advantage of the sunlight.
I yell out softly at first so as not to wake anyone, but soon call out in earnest, “Mr. Bea-er! Yoo hoo!” I don’t see any creatures, but I can be seen on trail now and it’s unlikely I’ll surprise anyone. It’s safer and the views of mountains turning rosy orange excites me to challenge myself to walk until sun hits me before I stop for breakfast.
Red Eagle Creek gets louder in a mad rush as I approach it, a torrent pouring spring melt in a narrow channel. This is where they place the rickety swing bridge, the cables a bit low for my reach as I hang on tightly to my poles. New Zealand had hundreds of swing bridges caged in with fencing. These feel far more open to the elements.
The trail continues up and down, winding its way into a deep valley. A thrush sits high on a dead trunk singing his two part melody.
Ahead, I see tall pines that escaped the fire. The brush is high and the sun still hasn’t hit me. I call out louder so I can be heard above the rushing creek, filled every second with melting snow high above that’s disappearing fast in this heat.
It’s a perfect bowl of shade, tall trees marching up the valley and nearly to pass. A blooming spirea with big pink heads brushes my thigh. No wonder they plant these all over the Twin Cities – they flourish after harsh winters. But ugly even here. We dug them up with a hatchet.
Finally, the sun hits me and I put my hat on and pull up my sun hood. I cross the stream ahead and there’s a gorgeous patch of shade for breakfast. I look past tall trees to a massive waterfall and the half moon above in a cerulean sky.
I press on and enter more shade with the mountain blocking the sun. The trail gets steep around a cliff before I reach snow. It’s only a small cross, then melt in lumpy dirt. Someone helpfully places a cairn above where the trail continues.
The flowers in orange, yellow, purple, red and blue line my walk up into a bowl where the trees are stunted and gnarly. I still call out, but I’m reaching the switchbacks now in rock.
But I do the responsible thing and fill my water one more time before heading up, again in shade with a spectacular view of a mountain eroded into the shape of a ship.
Triple Divide Pass is all mine now, as I push to the wall. Two marmots chase each other in the field of flowers. It’s sunny, but not hot yet and a breeze hits me. Switchbacks or zigzags make climbing easy, like a moving sidewalk inching up, the mountains seemingly lowering.
Every crevice is filled with snow draining in a waterfall. Glacier’s mountains are like stairs, chipping away into flat rock slabs. It’s dramatic, but also limits travel and trails appear hewn into the rock, floating on air with steep slopes far to the bottom. I can’t imagine crossing this in snow with that fall.
At the top, short and thick pines appear in a small alley. I take photos at the top and find a small hole in the trees to sit down and make more food. It’s early, but I decide to soak noodles for a salad. This one calls for six packets of mayonnaise; six!
I lay the bag in the sun with a view and suddenly I’m swarmed by flies. All sorts of flies buzz me – iridescent, tiny, big and hairy, and faux yellow jacket – but not a one bites. They just land and suck up the salt on my skin and clothes. When one land on my hand, his feet tickle my skin. Another seems to get drowsily drunk and won’t leave when I shake my leg.
A ground squirrel find me, one likely fed by idiotic hikers. He poses, runs by, sneaks up and basically refuses to go. When I finally pack up, I catch him nibbling my trekking poles. Hey, this is not feeding time at the zoo. Scram! He peeps at me and reluctantly follows orders.
Austin is the first to arrive and I move to the other side of the pass. The mountain looks like a layered cake, snow melting into funnels then streaming cataracts. The green below is brilliant with pointy trees as if for a model railroad lined up near a lake.
One by one the others arrive and I’m grateful for my hours alone to soak it up before the mood changes. We talk and laugh and eat. Kimmy tells us a story about her life and cries. It’s funny how the trail brings up so many emotions.
The air is perfect with a light breeze, but only Scotty and I are completely covered. Everyone else is burned, surprised by the intensity of the sun. Andrea is last up and immediately suggests yoga-on-the-pass. Emily leads and we breathe deeply and hold poses in this magnificent place, a tiny V of land with mountains at either end, but a view down both sides at once.
At the end we thank the mountains and the trail, someone mentioning the Italian phrase, ‘Grazie montagne,” meaning gratitude for both the strength and humility the mountains give us.
Everyone leaves one by one and I saunter down slowly, looking back at the spectacular shelf of land expelling water to the lush verdancy below. It’s easy on rock, this ramp built on the side of the mountain, often reinforced and protected from the enormous potential fall.
The rock is a deep brick red, soft and cracked into tiles. I arrive at a huge waterfall in multiple stages and stick my head under the water, squealing in delight.
There are many falls as I descend, and one snow field at a 50 degree angle, or worse, with a the bottom maybe 500 feet away. I stupidly cross it then look up and see how I could have avoided it had I climbed above. I make a note to always look for an alternate.
The site is not far, but in brushy, hot and mosquito-ridden forest. I set my tent right away even though it’s sunny. It’s just a habit, in case I might want to get in right away. We’re given only a tiny access to Atlantic Creek, rushing fast but with a small eddy where I can sit down and soak my thighs in its iciness.
I fill water and hang out at the cooking area in shade, snacking, sharing snacks and eventually making dinner. It was a spectacular day of views and strong legs. More climbing tomorrow and hopefully begun again in the cool of dawn.
We all hang out until the sun disappears behind the mountain, then crawl in at 8:00 trying not to let the dozens of mosquitos who are latched onto my bug net inside.
