It’s Not a Vacation. It’s an Adventure - Day 3
I woke to the sound of a door being unlocked. That door was about a foot from my head. I rolled from my stomach to my back and can only imagine how my squinted confused face must have looked to the giant man who was upside down and peering back at me. The left side and the right side of my brain struggled to connect as the fog lifted and it occurred to me that I was laying on a stranger’s deck and that stranger was now standing beside me. “Morning”, was all I could mutter. To my relief, it was met with a friendly, “Hey. How are you guys doing?”
It turns out the man (whose name I shamefully cannot remember) was more than happy to have a half a dozen strangers sprawled out on his deck and patio. The others began to stir as he opened his house up to us. Not wanting to overstay our welcome we loaded up our bedrolls, thanked the man, and headed into town for roadbrew (coffee).
We headed north towards Estes Park. It was a cool, clear, mountain morning. At a glance the panoramic scenery was a beautiful collection of the same mountain repeated side by side for as far as the eye could see. But passing each one afforded us the chance to see the unique characteristics of each one. Long drawing precipices and varying blankets of foliage gave each mountain its own identity.
We arrived in Estes Park and went straight to an outdoors store where the employees, like nearly everyone else we encountered on this trip, were beyond friendly and went out of their way to help us locate a good mountain bike trail that would suit our varrying degrees of skill.
Following the map they provided we drove just outside of town to an old abandoned boys summer camp. The abandoned, weathered wooden buildings looked like a movie set and added very cool starting point for our mountain bike adventure.
Early on our line up was established. Kent and Kelly were out in front. Traver hovered a short distance behind them and Brian, Stan, and I traveled far behind them in a pod characterized by terrible biking technique and a consistent flow of cussing. The uphills were excruciating and the downhills were terrifying. The scenery changed back and forth from forest to pasture to mountain ranges. It all added up to an adventure that left us bleeding and exhausted.
We stopped at Grand Lake for lunch and then drove into Winter Park to find accomodations for the night.
After drinks at a resort that was as deserted as a ghost town we wandered into town where we found a bar that was equally as vacant. Night was quickly approaching and we were debating on how the final chapter of this trip would be written. A hotel was out of the question. Too easy. Too cliche. We could find a wooded area to camp for the night but storms were rolling in and the thought of driving ten hours back the following day caked in mud wasn’t real appealing to any of us.
The bar waitress mentioned a hostel. …A hostel. Hmmm. It wasn’t a hotel. It wasn’t messy. Most of us had never stayed in a hostel before. We were thinking that a hostel could be a nice compromise.
We called and were given directions. We checked in and any image I had of a hostel was blown. I would like to report a dank room with old bunk beds and backpackers from around the country sharing stories of going off the grid. Instead it was the entire second floor of a hotel. We had our own modern kitchen, living room, a deck… it was nicer than most hotels I had ever stayed in. We agreed that the final night in luxury would be our little secret, so don’t tell anyone please.
After settling in we congregated on the deck. I had a stashed pint of Sailor Jerry rum and a pack of Swisher Sweet cigars. I opened the rum and pitched the lid. We were going to empty that bottle. …and we did. We passed the bottle and reminisced. In a few short days we had escaped our daily routine. We hiked a mountain at night, climbed it at dawn, repelled down, hiked out, tubed a creek, visited an ER, mountain biked, laughed, drank, and laughed some more.
To this day I have never crammed more adventure into a few short days. We left the plains and found our way to the mountains. True adventure enthusiasts would balk at our little excursion, but to this man, it was about a conquest. Not conquering the mountains but conquering a vanilla existence. There isn’t always reason behind the things we do. Sometimes it’s simply for the scars and stories.
Cheers.
It’s Not a Vacation. It’s an Adventure. - Day 2 pt 2
We made sure Kent was okay and he agreed to go the ER for stitches only after we were done tubing. A man has priorities, right? One by one we eased in to the frigid water pretending to enjoy it. Okay, admittedly, after a few Miller Lites (“blue yummies” – Stan) we really did enjoy it. …most of us. The current was strong enough to make it difficult to traverse the creek, but not so strong that it couldn’t be done. There were a series of waterfalls about 100’ apart. None larger than a two or three foot drop.
As we went over the first waterfall and hit bottom each of us, one at a time, uncontrollably rolled forward, in defiance our body weight pitched back shooting the tubes out over the boil line. I remember crashing into the icy water, popping my head up and taking a giant gasp of air. I struggled to get my feet beneath me on the slippery rocks, fighting the rolling water that pulled me back into the waterfall. I lunged forward, threw an arm around my tube, and climbed back on top laughing at the thrill and the absurdity of this whole adventure.
After the first fall, the wiser of the bunch, Stan and Brian, opted out and walked the path along the creek as the rest of us continued to tumble over each waterfall. The highlight/lowlight for me was one particular fall I went over and began to again fall forward. I threw my weight back as a counter attack against momentum. As my body began to level I mentally celebrated too early. I thought I had won. I didn’t realize that as I was approaching the horizontal position again, Kent came over the fall landing on my face and causing me to do a complete 360 back into the water. Again, laughter ensued.
After about a half an hour of freezing plunges over the waterfalls we agreed that this was becoming borderline insane and we opted to exit the creek, walk back to the trucks, and warm up.
While walking back to the trucks our body temperatures slowly rose from the fringes of hypothermia. Kent’s chin began to bleed with intensity. Rain started to fall as we performed quick parking lot changes into dry clothes. Brian, Stan, and I followed Kent, Kelly, and Traver to the nearest ER where we did what any good guy friends would do; we dropped Kent off and went looking for a bar. We found Pearl street which is a blocked off street full of shops, restaurants, and bars. Due to the off and on again rain it was not very crowded. We found a Mexican restaurant where we filled our bellies with mediocre food and good margaritas.
We were killing time walking down the street when we noticed one particular store. What earned our attention was the marquee. It did not simply state the name of the store or the latest specials. It read:
Kelly felt obligated to inform the staff so we walked into the store as he loudly asked the clerks, “What’s up with the penis?” They were dumbfounded and unable to formulate a response. He let them off the hook telling them about their marquee. One of the girls said, “Oh, it said ‘open’ and someone probably took the O”. To which Kelly sarcastically replied, “…uhhhhh yeah. Cuz that spells penis”. The girls, feeling slightly dumb, walked out and began laughing as one called her manager while the other took cell phone pictures that would undoubtedly be on Facebook before the call to the manager was complete.
We found a bar that served us up a few Irish Car Bombs and we headed back to the ER to pick up Kent. …only to return with Kent to a different bar and continue what we had started. Night crept in while we were enjoying our libations. Then a new kind of fun began: messing with Brian. Brian is a good guy who has a great sense of humor and a strong moral foundation. We used this against him.
Prior to the trip we had arrangements through the friend of a co-worker. This friend owns a house near the base of the mountains and would be a prime spot to throw our sleeping bags for the night. We kept this information from Brian. The set up began on the initial drive to Colorado. Conversations began to stir about where we would be sleeping at night. We knew the first night would be at the base of the third flat iron. Beyond that we were in “wing it” mode. Kent first mentioned that we could wait until after dark, find a house that was dark, and stay in their backyard unbeknownst to the homeowner. Brian was uneasy with this but kept his reservations mostly to himself early on.
This night we drank until dark and then started on Brian. We loaded into the vehicles supposedly with no plan in mind other than to drive around looking for a dark house that we could easily access the yard and escape before the homeowner woke. Keep in mind there was a moderate amount of alcohol on board (Note: The author does NOT promote drinking and driving; Brian was not drinking. But I strongly support jacking with your friends).
Brian’s protests became stronger as we drove. Stan and I stifled laughter as we slowly cased the neighborhoods looking for the right house. We arrived at the pre-arranged house (which just so happens to be the house directly across the street from the Jon Benet Ramsey house). Kent, Kelly, and Traver hopped out and slid through the gate into the dark backyard to “investigate”. Brian began to cuss. “I’m NOT f#cking staying in someone’s backyard. This is bullsh#t!” Stan replied, “This is Colorado, things are different here”. At that point bottled water nearly passed through my sinuses as every facial muscle clenched to avoid busting out in laughter. Brian had enough. “You guys can get your sh#t and get out. I’m NOT staying here!”
I told him to sit tight for just a minute, that I would check with the others and see what the status was. He simply replied, “I’m NOT staying here.” I laughed and walked into the back yard where I told the guys that we needed to let him off the hook. He was pissed and leaving. We all walked out and Kent broke the news to him that the homeowner was out of town and we had permission to stay there. Rather than laugh and enjoy the fact that he had been had, he did not believe us. This just got better! He thought we were saying that so he would shut up and stay. He wanted to talk to our co-worker to confirm our story and foolishly pointed to me as some sort of moral compass saying, “Scott, swear to God!”
Finally he reluctantly accepted the fact that he had been had. Stan and I set up our sleeping bags on the deck while everyone else set up on the patio below the deck. We all sat together passing Stan’s honey whiskey bottle and talked and laughed about the day we had just had.
On our first full day in Colorado we woke before dawn, scaled a mountain, rappelled down the mountain, hiked off the mountain, drank, tubed the rapids, went to the hospital, drank, set up camp in some guy’s backyard, and drank again toasting the good life.
Under the clear starry sky we slept well that night.
Boulder Creek - Boulder, CO
It’s Not a Vacation. It’s an Adventure - Day 1
“It’s not a vacation. It’s an adventure.” - Kent
Usually the best adventures/bad ideas are born while leaning on a dirty bar table decorated with several empty glasses and a fresh round on the way. It typically begins with a few moments of silence followed by, “You know what we should do…”
Well, this particular trip came to life long before I was a part of it so I can only assume it hatched during happy hour. I was actually the last to sign on to take a four day trip to Boulder, CO. I was told we would drive out to Boulder, spend one day rock climbing, the next day either white water rafting or mountain biking, and then on the fourth day, drive back. It seemed like a short but attractive itinerary.
Stan, Brian, and I came off duty at the fire department and met at our training center. We loaded our backpacks, supplies, snacks, and bikes into the back of Brian’s truck. After talking to Kent (the brains/instigator behind this trip) we found out that the plan would be to spend pretty much our entire trip in the mountains to “maximize our mountain time”. The three of us were going to need more stuff. So we did what any good suburbanites would do, we headed to Target.
We stocked up on food, flashlights, food, baby wipes, and food. I should have known how this trip would go from the moment we were checking out. Brian passed through the line first followed by Stan. While the twenty-something girl was ringing up Stan’s items I decided to make small talk and said, “What do you think of a grown man with no babies at home that is buying baby wipes?” …silence. Stan leans towards me and out of the side of his mouth whispers “she’s deaf.” Simultaneously she signs something to me that I can only assume was “I can’t hear you, dumbass.” We stifled laughter at my expense until we made it to the parking lot and then let loose. Yep, this is how the rest of the trip would go.
We drove to Lawrence where we met up with Kent, Kelly, and Traver who were loaded up and waiting for us. Most guys have or want a man-cave in their house. Kent’s house IS a man-cave. He escorted us through the house to the back deck where he had several piles of climbing equipment. “Grab one of each”, he said. We loaded up harnesses, climbing shoes, helmets, etc. We left Lawrence around 10:00 a.m. and began our loooooong trek across the Kansas plains.
Favorite quote of the road trip: “What is this shit, rap or something?” - Stan said in obvious dislike of the Modest Mouse song that came on the radio.
Brian had never been west of Wichita so the monotony of the trip was replaced with early excitement when mountains began to appear on the horizon. We followed Kelly’s SUV into Boulder where we stopped for some last minute climbing gear and dinner with adult beverages at The Northern Sun restaurant with a few of Kent’s friends. One of whom, Deon, decided to join us for an evening mountain bike ride. After dinner we drove to El Dorado Canyon where we parked the vehicles, unloaded the bikes, and set out into the canyon. It did not take long to realize that I was not in very good “bicycle-riding” shape. That, combined with the thin mountain air, made for an awkward first ride but amazing nonetheless.
We rode up the canyon; half of us experienced bicyclers, the other half not so much. I spent the first ten or twenty minutes just getting used to being on the bicycle and shifting gears. Once the comfort level of the bike set in, I took the time to notice the amazing scenery around us. The Rocky Mountains never feel like you’re actually there. They are so vast and so beautiful that you are constantly looking around at the breathtaking scenery without noticing that you are actually standing right in the middle of it.
We followed a path that paralleled a turbulent mountain stream. It amazed me how a grown man on a bicycle can feel so free when coasting downhill through the mountains. The wind blowing past my face was exhilarating. I was nearly lost in the moment when I realized that we were rapidly approaching the end of the downhill portion and Traver was slowing to a stop right in front of me. I squeezed the breaks with all that I had and turned the bike sideways. I came to a sliding hockey stop right behind Traver’s bike. With my heart beating through my chest I quickly looked around to see if anyone else saw that. It was so… so… awesome! We gathered ourselves and decided to pull over at the mouth of a cave to rest, take a few pictures, and pass my bottle of Sailor Jerry rum and Stan’s bottle of Wild Turkey Honey Whiskey. We were at the threshold of the next adventure.
As darkness settled upon us we decided it was best to get back to the cars and start gearing up for our after-dark hike to the base of the third flat iron. We drove into town and found a Whole Foods parking lot that provided enough light to unload and sort the climbing gear.
As we unloaded our stuff out of the vehicles Kent instructed us to pack only our climbing gear, food, water, and any bare essentials needed for the hike to the base and the climb in the morning. We all condensed our things into one backpack each.
We found a neighborhood near the trail head where we left our vehicles in a place where it would not be obvious that people were illegally hiking/camping after dark. We made sure our bikes were safely locked in the bike racks, grabbed our packs and ropes, and walked in silence toward the mountain.
To prevent drawing any unwanted attention we needed to hike without the assistance of lights. The nearly full moon was bright enough to cast shadows as we started up the trail. The lack of flashlight use was not an issue. Even in the thickness of the trees, breaks in the canopy would allow in enough moonlight to somewhat illuminate the path. …for a while.
The higher we hiked the darker the trail became. We hiked for nearly an hour before reaching the base of the third Flat Iron. The last twenty minutes of the hike were basically in pitch dark advancing only by touch and sound. The sounds of stumbling men, rolling rocks, and muttered curse words echoed along the trail. Occasionally a headlamp would come on by Kent or Kelly just to ensure that we were still on the trail.
Favorite quote of the hike: “Hey Kent, I think a sasquatch just flipped me off.” - Brian
I was so focused on advancing and not falling that I was surprised to hear Kent say, “We’re here.” I looked up to see the conglomerate sandstone wall climbing up to the starry sky right in front of me. We were at the base. In vein, we tried to find a flat spot to sleep. We dropped our gear and in varying angles and positions did our best to find comfort sleeping in our clothes using backpacks or the rock beneath us as a pillow.
Sunrise was going to be at six a.m. so Kent set his alarm for five and we laid in virtual silence. The only sounds were the occasional rustling of the guy next to you or the random bats that were flying just above our heads. The cool night air was crisp and clean. The night began at a perfect temperature for sleeping in the outdoors. By morning, the temperature had dropped and everyone had found their way into a sleeping bag or cover of some sort. I had only a rain jacket and somehow maneuvered myself into the fetal position trying to get my entire body inside of the jacket. Most of the guys slept the remainder of the night. Brian and I, who chose poor sleeping spots, slept in ten or fifteen minute increments at best and totalled maybe forty minutes. Part of the reason for my lack of sleep was the cool temperature. Part of it was… well… I was literally trying to sleep on a freaking rock. I think the main reason was the full moon above me, the vast lights of Boulder below me and on an evening when most everyone I knew was sleeping in their beds like they do every night of every year, I, along with my friends had just hiked a mountain in the dark. The earth was our bed. The city was below us and the stars were above us and we were hovering somewhere in the middle as men.
Lure of the Horizon is not only the title of this blog, it is a strong force in my life. As both a blessing and a curse, the restless soul has an affinity for the horizon; for something more, something new. I cannot change it, I can merely attempt to control it. ~Scott