Lost Lake

Lost Lake

A full moon on Tuesday, but because it likes to rise with the creatures of the night I missed it while wedged in a two person tent trying to be fast asleep at 9:00 PM. We hiked for about 3 miles on single-track with my cumbersome load weighing down solely on my left shoulder, keeping the stress from bearing down on my right side, still recovering from the clavicle break and the later surgery. It was doing much better, allowing a decent range of motion but no weight bearing was manageable. It took about an hour and a half, maybe two, to get to the Lost Lake where we would set up camp.

I road the motorcycle, leading Eric most the way up Canyon Rd., past Nederland and Eldora Ski resort to a dirt road which brought us to where Eric could abandon his car and I could my motorcycle. Canyon Rd is called so because it winds following the canyon carved out by Boulder Creek. The road never bends to sharply, but forces you to constantly change speed in and out of the turns.

I couldn’t help but sit back and swivel my head from side to side, just as I had on the way to Terry’s B&B. The ride climaxes just as you round the bend coming into Nederland. Slightly leaning right, you edge around a protruding rock to reveal the Baker Reservoir flicking rays tossed from the sun toward your eyes and resting at the bottom of a mountain view still holding on to the last patches of snow through the summer heat. We passed through the busy mountain town, know for the Frozen Dead Guy Festival they throw every year to celebrate the frozen man kept in a permanent cryogenic freeze waiting for a cure so that he can be brought back to life and saved. After just half a mile on Peak-to-Peak Highway, our directions take us due west, bringing us ever closer to the continental divide.

With the breathtaking views of the journey up the canyon, the arrival and hike couldn’t match it, except for the fact that we were on foot, passing by one flowing creak just to follow another raging to meet and unite with the other. Passing one rain filled creek to another, we find ourselves following a much smaller trickle to Lost Lake. It ripples small waves matching the winds intensity and peace through the acre of water. To the east, north and south there are immediate mountains, though not topping much higher than ten thousand feet. Off to the west, are mountains still adding a chill to summers breath, as it passes over the snowfields holding on to the mountains shade: The two peaks that must pass the twelve thousand foot mark lurking over the valley.

Back where we had set up our tent, with a view of the two peaks limited only by the surrounding conifers, we begin to realize that the warnings of hail we received from some day trekkers may be more than just a warning as lighting lit the faces of the mountains and thunder rumbled its warning echoed thumping against the mounds of rock. With all that warning, the storm never gave more than bright, booming warnings and the spit of the ancient Aztec god, Tlaloc.

Our dinner of trail-mix and granola bars managed to abate our hunger and led to the realization that with the fire ban, it was nearing the time to go to bed while the sun still offered enough light to ease into the tent and sleeping bags for the night. Six came quickly the next morning, as did seven when we actually got up. Before dinner the night before we did a reconnaissance of the mountain to the south and decided that a direct approach the next morning would be best, not wanting to risk losing sunlight. We stopped very near a fallen mining entrance; the logs that used to support its entrance lie in ruins with the rocks and rusted tin. The climb up proved to be challenging, at more than a forty-five degree angle our hands were nearly as useful as our feet. The view from the top was broken by the tress that claimed residence in the altitude, but still allowed for a calming glimpse of the higher peaks.

Instead of sliding dangerously down that face of the mountain in a vertical prone position, we followed the ridge to a trail that lead back safely to our tent. With only the early part of our day behind us, we packed up our bags and let the earth pull us back toward the trailhead we entered so eagerly nearly twenty-four hours before. The early exit was to help me avoid having to manage the motorcycle around wet curves in the usual late afternoon storms.

A picture taken just steps from the zipper front of our tent.