Walking The Weminuche

Four days alone in the Wilderness.

This is the first in a series of essays from my recent backpacking trip through the Weminuche Wilderness. No outline. No destination beyond the next campsite. Just four days of walking, writing, and paying attention.

20° last night. This old sleeping bag isn’t cutting it. I’m 52 years old. Circulation isn’t what it used to be. I get cold easier. My legs tire more quickly. My feet get sore. My first thought is to pack it up and head home. Being cold sucks.

But then... coffee.

Coffee makes everything better.

I rationalize. Better to suffer for eight hours and enjoy sixteen than bag the trip altogether.

Clouds roll in, swallowing the blue sky. A cool wind slips down the basin, rippling through the grass around my tent. I drain the last of my coffee and sit in silence. I’m camped in an alpine meadow. Dramatic cliffs wrap around this drainage called Crystal Basin. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Their gray walls rise hundreds of feet above the meadow, disappearing into passing clouds. Water trickles through the valley, though I can’t always see it. My camp is nestled in grass like a freshly manicured lawn, surrounded by wildflowers and granite outcroppings. Wildlife is everywhere. Tiny chipmunks dart through the grass. Birds chatter from the rocks. Large marmots, two to three feet tall, sit upright, eyeing my belongings—my food bag especially. I’m reluctant to leave my stuff unattended, even for a few minutes. Rascals.

Yesterday, on my hike here, I saw several large snowshoe hares bounding across the talus. It was a glorious ridgetop hike with views in every direction. And wind. So strong I had to wear earplugs for the noise and gloves to keep my fingers warm. The hike started off easy but quickly changed. A steep descent down loose dirt to a lake, then straight back up the other side. More loose dirt. More steep climbing. Every step forward threatened to slide half a step back. More suffering.

But I need this. Time away from the modern world. Technology. Social media. Cars. Trucks. Buses. Noise...

I need solitude. To recalibrate. To reset my mind. The suffering is worth the trade-off. In a few days I’ll be back to my cushy life. A warm bed. A stocked pantry. A fridge full of food. Back home I have everything I need.

But I also need this.

Out here, no one expects anything from me. No notifications. No errands. No deadlines. Just another sunrise and another place to walk.

I need to remember my essence. I need to remember who I am, stripped of technology, bank accounts, traffic lights.

It’s been just one night, and I’m already thinking of leaving. I’m becoming soft. Less comfortable with discomfort. Eighty degrees feels perfect these days.

We change.

So why am I up here? To write? To see that I still have it? To see if I’m still a nature writer, or just a self-help philosophy wannabe writing from the comfort of my home.

I’m cold. I’m sore. All kinds of doubts fill my head.

This is not recreation.

This is something else.

A test. A pilgrimage. A flashback to my early years of desert tramping, ridge wandering, and snow camping. Those were the days.

Nostalgia...

I spent my youth wisely. My greatest gratitude is that I had the wisdom to do it then, while I still had endless energy and passion. My heart weeps with gratitude.

Something about being out here makes me more receptive. Maybe it’s the absence of distraction. Maybe it’s the rhythm of walking. Or maybe the mountains simply ask so little of me that my mind finally stops spinning.

I just look. Listen. Feel. Smell. Taste. All of my senses are amplified. A hawk circles overhead. The breeze moves through the meadow. Clouds drift across the peaks as though they have nowhere else to be. I sit and watch them. Life feels more real. Less contrived. Essentially, I’m doing nothing—wasting time by today’s standards—and yet it feels more meaningful than simply getting things done. Does “getting things done” create meaning? If so, why do we so often feel as though none of it matters?

But here...

This matters.

This is meaningful.

This is real.

It’s funny what we deem important these days. Productivity. Profits. Results. Improvement. Success. Measurable statistics. Money. So we can buy more crap. A warmer sleeping bag, perhaps? It’s been years since I’ve replaced this old bag. I keep putting it off because of more pressing expenses. The funny thing is, I can’t quite recall what they were or why they seemed so important. Money matters, yes, but not to the extent we believe. In the city, we are ruled by it. Out here in the wilderness, the whole thing seems irrelevant. Ridiculous. Meaningless.

Day 2

The first rays of sunlight warm the side of my tent. Frost disappears from the grass before I finish my coffee. Soon enough the clouds return, followed by the familiar wind. More ridgeline hiking above treeline. But my spirits are high. Thank you once again, coffee! I say good morning to the marmots. Hello to the bugling elk.

This landscape is granite, yet weather and time have sculpted it into towering cliffs that look almost like desert sandstone. Small ponds are scattered about. Patches of green grass. Wildflowers. The scenery is stunning, but the hiking is unforgiving. More steep, loose ascents on ball-bearing-like pebbles. Lots of sliding around. I’m averaging 1.5 miles an hour. Not exactly a fast clip. But I’m not here to log miles. I’m here to camp, lollygag, write in my journal, drink tea. Ponder the meaning of life.

I envy the animals up here. They look so healthy, content, and full of life. How nice would it be to be born with everything you need? A warm, waterproof fur coat that never needs replacing. Surrounded by your favorite foods. Spring water everywhere. But I don’t mind being human either. I’ve carved out a good life for myself, with enough free time to do things like this.

I meet a couple—the only people I’ve seen on the trail. The man says he’s been out here for two weeks. The woman joined him a couple of days ago. Two weeks! Makes my four-day outing seem easy. How do you carry two weeks’ worth of food? I’m impressed. Perhaps I just need to get my backpacking legs back.

He’s from Ridgway, where he says a forest fire is burning just a mile from his house. Evacuation orders are in place, but he doesn’t seem worried or stressed. Serious backpackers are a different breed. It takes a lot to rattle their cages. They have a proper perspective on life. Not everyone is addicted to social media, television, the internet, and all the city things we think we need.

There are people all over the world right now walking the rooftops of the Earth. Sailing across oceans. Living out of backpacks. Choosing a different way to live. Oh, how I wish I could hear their stories. Expeditions I have no interest in attempting myself. What a privilege it would be to listen to them around a campfire.

They disappear over the next ridge, and once again it’s just me. The wind combing through the grass. The whistles of the marmots. Endless granite glowing in the evening light. Four days suddenly doesn’t seem very long.

Tomorrow I’ll keep walking.