The Weakest Link

Over the 4th of July holiday weekend, Dave and I took a trip to Guanella Pass, near the Continental Divide west of Denver. The highest elevation on the pass is 11,669. The summit is a staging area for hikers planning to climb Mount Bierstadt, a "fourteener" (Colorado mountains 14,000 feet or more above sea level). Its closeness to the Denver area, plus the fact that it is considered one of the easier climbs, makes Bierstadt quite popular.

I have long dreamed of climbing a fourteener but will never possess the type of physical condition required for such a feat. The only fourteeners I have been on are Mount Evans and Pikes Peak; both mountains have a road to the top. Realistically, those are the only fourteeners that will ever know my presence.

Over the past few years I suggested Dave find us a relatively easy "thirteener" to see if we can make it that high. On our trip to Guanella Pass, we discovered a thirteener, Square Top Mountain, that seemed like a possibility. So on Monday we took an exploratory climb.

Our goal was to make it to the Square Top Lakes, somewhere above 12,000 feet in elevation. Comparing our pictures, satellite imagery and topo maps, we felt confident we knew where the lakes were located: just over that ridge in the distance, at the bottom of that rock chute.

Off we went.

We estimated the trip to be about 2.5 miles one way, a fairly easy hike until it came time to climb the highest ridge. Dave and Tonka set out ahead with me bringing up the rear. This is the best place for the weakest link, as I require more frequent oxygen breaks. And I usually have an excuse handy, something along the lines of "time for a drink" or "just admiring that pretty little wildflower" or "might be a rock in my shoe, better sit down and check." At each stop Tonka circles around, growing impatient with his slow hiking companions.

Eventually the boys abandoned me as we approached the steepest part of the hike. By now I was taking halting steps, counting out 15 to 20 paces, then stopping to rest. I encouraged Dave to forge ahead and let me know what he could see. He and Tonka found a nice flat rock near the top of the ridge and sat to wait for the weakest link to catch up.

After a few minutes I joined them on that comfortable flat rock as we watched two hikers descend from the ridge. Having just returned from where we were headed, the hikers assured us the lakes could be found just beyond the rock outcropping above. That last bit of trail was steep; I told Dave I wasn't sure I could make it. I handed him the camera and told him to take some pretty pictures.

But... it was so close! I watched Dave trudge up the path, Tonka weaving left and right in serpentine fashion, until they both disappeared from view. I pulled myself up and struggled to follow, now stopping after each set of 7-10 steps.

Nearing the top of the ridge, I looked up and saw Dave returning. "There are no lakes up there!" he shouted, frustrated. I couldn't believe it. I had to see for myself.

Standing on the ridge, we realized the lakes must be in the bowl beyond the next ridge, previously hidden from view. Another 30 to 40 minutes on the trail might get us there but we were already tired. Plus we did not bring nearly enough water for such a hot day. We decided to return to the car.

Gravity is an amazing thing, an incredible force that you barely notice from day to day. Yet the way it pulled and dragged us on the way down reminds me how firmly the earth holds us in its grasp.

The sun is hot at that altitude and we were running out of water. Nearly there... almost there... when my legs began to cramp, succumbing to the effects of dehydration. Muscles barking at me like an angry dog, I took deep breaths to help ease the pain. One last steep hill remained before we reached the parking lot. Dave held my hand as I limped back to our car and its bounty: a cooler stashed with ice cubes and a picnic lunch.

Despite my secure, unchallenged role as the weakest link, I always manage to have fun.

But maybe we should look for an easy "twelve-er" to climb. Then tackle it on a cool, cloudy day. With extra water.

More pictures here: In Search of the Square Top Lakes
and here: Guanella Pass

Haircut Remorse

I was blessed with a thick head of hair. Mom was surprised by that fact. According to her my baby hair was thin, fine, nearly non-existent. Mom brushed and brushed and brushed, but she could do little more than massage my baby scalp with the soft bristles.

Eventually my hair grew in. As a child I had a shock of white hair, resembling that of an albino. In early pictures my hair was often unkempt, sticking out wildly in any number of directions. Mom was crazy about a hairstyle known as a "pixie cut" and swore that was the finest look for me, ever. This was the hairstyle she resorted to when it came time to tame her little girl's icy mane.

Looking back now at the hairstyles that were my mother's patio inventions, I have to laugh. When I finally reached an age where I was allowed to be master of my own hair destiny, I let it grow. Thick and straight as a poker, my hair either hung down my back, was bound in single or double ponytails, or was woven into Indian braids. During my flower child days, a string of leather or colorful yarn was twisted through those braids.

Yet mom still preferred short hair. "You looked so cute in that pixie cut," she would reminisce. No way, mom.

A few times I relented and cut my hair. Mom raved; I felt ridiculous, naked, exposed.

Like most women I attempted an occasional perm; most made my hair look like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. I have vowed to never again do such a thing.

Over the past two decades I have alternated between long and short hair, letting it grow until the weight and thickness becomes nearly oppressive. Then it's time for a trip to the salon where I boldly pronounce: "Chop it off!" Not surprisingly, I wake up the next morning barely able to recognize the image in the mirror. Each time I have spent countless months growing out layers--in between planned hair trimming sessions--all in an effort to regain the same amount of hair I had whimsically paid someone to remove from my head.

What is it with women and their hair? All I know is that somewhere along the way, the mop on my head had been transformed into this tomboy's feminine touchstone, my only source of attractiveness, my one saving grace. To this day when I look in the mirror, I rarely look at much else beyond my hair. From my perspective, the rest is not worth more than a passing glance.

Increasingly the forces of middle age have come to dominate my life. Last week I could no longer tolerate the combination of summer heat and the heaviness of my hair, waking up in the middle of the night with the nape of my neck bathed in sweat. So I was off to the salon where I informed the stylist with unwavering confidence, "I need to lose this mop!"

She cut my hair exactly as I requested. During the process I could feel the wet, weighted whisps dropping from my head, could feel myself becoming cooler. At the finale I ran fingers through my hair; they were quickly released to the air, nothing left to hold onto. "Perfect!" I exclaimed.

The next day in front of the mirror I was overcome with remorse, nearly in tears, mourning the loss of my one saving grace.

It's silly, really. My new hairstyle is not bad at all. It has just been a long time since my hair was this short.

Even now I can almost hear mom: "I love it! You know, it's short enough that you should have gone ahead and asked for a pixie cut....."

No way, mom. Starting today I'm growing it out. Again.