Third Time's A Charm

Ypsilon Mountain in the Mummy Range of Rocky Mountain National Park rises to 13,514 feet. It's an impressive and appealing mountain in the northern part of the park, not the least because it can be climbed as part of a day hike. My first attempt to climb it took place in July of 2007, during my first summer in the area.
The logical approach to the mountain starts from Old Fall River Road, the original park road built in 1920. This dirt road can add considerable time to the drive, but is pretty fun as long as any slowpokes and gawkers use the available turnouts and don't block the way. The Chapin Pass trailhead is near the top of the road, at about 11,000 feet. The trail quickly climbs out of the forest, skirts along the western side of Mount Chapin, then ascends over tundra and rocks to the summit of Mount Chiquita (which always makes me think of bananas) before heading across a saddle to Ypsilon.
Mt. Chiquita was my first "thirteener", and I did notice the altitude more than usual. I took numerous rest stops to look at the scenery (and marmots). I only felt bad about having to catch my breath when an old guy in jogging shorts and shoes, carrying only a bottle of water, ran past me up the mountain.

The clouds were staring to roll in before I reached the top of Chiquita. They didn't look like thunderstorms -- yet-- but I kept my eye on them. The nearest tree was over a thousand feet down, and I wasn't interested in being a lightning rod.


The summit of Chiquita provided a nice view of Ypsilon Mountian, and I have to say I didn't really like the looks of the dark cloud that seemed to hover directly over it.

By the time I'd had a bit of lunch, the rest of the Mummy Range could barely be seen through the clouds. It was time to turn around. Ypsilon would have to wait for another day, but that was okay, because the climb up Chiquita had been fun.

In early August of 2008, I decided to try again. The morning was clear and beautiful, with bright blue skies that boded well.

The wildflowers were at their peak, and I enjoyed taking lots of pictures of the columbine, elephant's head lousewort, paintbrush and king's crown (in the following photo, abundant in the rocks where the marmots and pika made their homes). I saw lots of those cute little animals as well, as I started up Mt. Chiquita.

Once on the summit of Chiquita, I stopped for lunch and entertained myself by marmot-watching. These guys must have been used to hikers, because they didn't seem to have much fear of people.

I descended towards the saddle leading to Ypsilon mountain, watching butterflies and enjoying the hardy wildflowers that seemed to grow right out of the rocks. I saw some white-tailed ptarmigan that obviously trusted to their very effective camouflage. In a few months, the birds would turn completely white to match the snow, but now they blended in perfectly with the rocky terrain.









But when I reached the saddle, things changed dramatically. Clouds appeared out of nowhere. I was part of the way up Ypsilon when I heard the thunder. Before I could even turn around, it started to hail. I hastily put on my rain gear and hurried back down the mountain. I was nearly back to the saddle when I saw a flash of lightning. Abandoning the trail, I headed straight down the slope for the safety of the trees. It was rough going, but better than being the tallest thing around.

Ypsilon thwarted me yet again. I wasn't angry. I have a great deal of respect for these mountains and Mother Nature. And bushwacking through the trees to find the trail again was pretty fun. I saw a herd of elk that I would have missed had the weather allowed me to stay on the path!

So, September of 2010, I decided to try once more. Thunderstorms are a little less common this time of year, and I got as early of a start as I could. It was a beautiful autumn morning. The wildflowers were mostly gone, but the yellow and red colors of the landscape made up for that. In the clear morning light, I could see all the way to the Nokhu Crags area that I had explored early in the summer and even farther north into Wyoming.

The marmots, unfortunately, had already decided to go to sleep for the year. Those lazy gits hibernate for a good eight months! But the pika, who don't hibernate, were still quite busy, laying in their winter stores. This little guy found me as fascinating as I found him.

This time, I decided to take no chances. I skirted around the summit of Chiquita. Lunch would wait until the top of Ypsilon. I wasn't going to take the blue skies for granted.

The climb up Ypsilon was great. It really felt like being on top of the world as I looked down thousands and thousands of feet to mountain lakes and even lower valleys. The cold wind made me don my winter hat and gloves, but kept the skies clear. I made it to the top and had lunch at 13,500 feet.


You have to respect these mountains. Summiting a mountain should not be about conquest, but about experience. Ypsilon was fun to get to know.

Trail-free Trek

Lulu Mountain has been lurking in the back of my brain since July. It looked like such a nice little mountain to climb when I saw it from Snow Lake and Thunder Pass near the Nokhu Crags. I felt like I had missed out.

I decided to revisit the area, but from a different route, just to mix things up. I read on SummitPost that climbing Lulu could be combined with climbing Thunder and Neota Mountains from the east. No real trail exists, but all I would need to do would be to follow the boundary between Rocky Mountain National Park and the Neota Wilderness through the woods until I gained enough elevation to simply follow the ridgeline.

I had a compass, a topomap, a decent sense of direction and a good hiking partner. I liked the sound of it.

A pretty red fox was eating some breakfast on the drive up the gravel road. He or she had some very sharp-looking teeth, visible even from the car. I parked a few miles past the fox, at the end of the public road. A scruffy road did continue further into the park, but only government or service vehicles for the Grand Ditch were allowed on it.

The Grand Ditch is one of those engineering feats built back in the late 19th/early 20th century when Man thought he could tame all of the natural environment. The Grand Ditch thwarts the Continental Divide, by taking water from the Colorado River near its source and sending it towards Fort Collins and Denver. In other words, water that should be headed for the Pacific, now will end up in the Gulf of Mexico.

There is some controversy about the Ditch, because the diversion of the water negatively affects fish in the Colorado and because it scars the natural landscape, especially inside the National Park. In 2003, part of the Grand Ditch was breached in a flood and the damage to the area is still quite visible. But anyone who thinks the Ditch might be filled in is kidding themselves. The Front Range communities are still growing (and still watering their lawns), so they're not going to give up any water rights. And the mindset of Man hasn't changed that much; as the inscription Engineering building on the University of Wyoming campus proclaims, "Strive on - The Control of Nature is Won Not Given".

So, on my hike, I attempted to get to know nature a little better by not even using a trail. My main man and I struck out through the forest, headed west, which always feels like the right direction for me. Whenever I have to take the Eastbound route, a little part of me always rebels. Anyway, the woods weren't too thick, and every once in a while a Park Boundary sign was posted on a tree, so the going wasn't too difficult. The two of us were careful, though, singing the Bear Aware song and making noise so as not to startle any sharp-toothed creatures. As we were climbing a steeper section, here and there following various game trails that started and stopped with no notice, a deer ran from our racket.

As the trees started to thin. approaching the shoulder of Mt. Neota, a camouflaged dude with a crossbow appeared. It was bow hunting season in Colorado, and one of the reasons I wanted to hike in the National Park was to avoid potentially dangerous encounters with hunters. It was pretty freaky to meet this guy in the middle of nowhere, but I was glad to see he wasn't pointing an arrow at me. I'm much less concerned about a serious-looking sportsman on foot than about a bunch of guys with four wheelers, beer and guns, but he didn't seem too pleased to see us, and I don't want to displease someone with a deadly weapon. Perhaps we had scared away the deer he was after, but he was on the national park side of the boundary. We said hello, and walked quickly on.

For the rest of the day, we didn't encounter anyone else until we were back at the car. After a particularly steep bit, we climbed above the treeline and made it to the top of Mt. Neota at 11,734 feet. Since the hike started at just over 10,000, it wasn't that strenuous of a climb, but it still included lots of vegetation changes, which I always find really interesting. There were still some wildflowers blooming, but the landscape was headed for fall with reds and golds becoming more common than greens.

From the summit of Neota, I took this picture of Lulu Mountain on the left, Thunder Mountain on the right, and the Crags peeking through the middle. Very cool landscape.

Before reaching Lulu, summiting Thunder Mountain was required. At 12,028 feet, it's higher than the highest peak near Laramie. Medicine Bow Peak, which I have climbed every year since moving out here, only reaches 12,013. The mountains are very different though, with Medicine Bow Peak being made of fabulously colored quartzite, while Thunder Mountain is more rhyolite lava based. Lulu is believed to be an extinct volcano.

It was a very pretty climb, though, with vistas on every side. The ridgeline still followed the Park boundary, but the authorities had chosen writing that made me feel like I was hiking the Canadian or Mexican border...

Thunder Mountain was super-windy at the top, but the views were fabulous. I could see all the way to the Zirkels to the west. The entire National Park spread out to the south and east. The Crags came into view with great early-autumn colors.

From the Thunder summit, I had to descend carefully down to the also windy saddle and then climb again onto Lulu. If I had thought the wind was strong before now, I was mistaken. At the top of Lulu, 12, 201 feet, it was one permanent gust. Despite the stack of rocks someone had constructed to serve as a wind-break, I couldn't stay up there too long.

We decided to make our own loop back to the car by following another ridgeline and descending to a valley to hike along a stream. The gentians were blooming, the sun was shining, and it was warm once out of the wind. In the valley, we heard the very strange-sounding bugle of an elk, then saw the bull a few minutes later. He left in a hurry, probably thinking he needed more musical practice, since instead of a herd of lovely female elk, he only got two humans for his trouble.

Funny Signs

There's a blog of funny signs from around the world, often consisting of mistranslations or unfortunate juxtapositions. Since I usually find it fairly humorous, I figured I would also photograph the signs that make me laugh. Here are a few from recent travels:

The Montanan proprietors of Git's obviously don't know British slang, even though they spelled "Centre" the British way. They also used the archaic spelling of town to refer to their gas station/laundromat/casino combo in an attempt to make their corner of Columbus, Montana seem upscale. Nearby was a bar, some railroad tracks, and some run-down buildings with gravel parking lots. That's about it. If that's a Towne Centre, I think I'll live in the country.

One other interesting thing about Git's was that the ladies' room had two toilets right next to each other, with no stalls or dividers. Thankfully, the outer door had a lock, but I'm not sure what to make of that one.

This unusual name for a fast food chicken restaurant caught my attention in Swansea, Wales. At least someone knew their Geography and was able to say, "Eh, close enough."

I also think it is funny that they chose to have a picture of a rooster for their logo, since my impression is that full-grown male chickens tend to have tougher meat than hens or capons and aren't generally used for frying. But maybe fried rooster is big in Tennessee.

Here's a picture from a few years ago. I think the marquee changer had been watching too much Monty Python. Cool building in Afton, Wyoming, though, and it's interesting that they chose to go with the 'theatre' spelling in what I can only assume is meant to honor to the famous Ford's Theatre in D.C. Or is it another attempt to go upscale?

This sign in Cardiff, Wales is just silly. I wonder if you could even get a pizza delivered with that address. "Stop with the prank calls already!"

Another gas station sign, this time here in Laramie, also made me laugh. You can read it so many different ways, and none of them make any sense.




And finally, although I know I've used this one before, it is still a good one.

Traipsing Through the Tetons

Okay, I admit it. I wasn't paying attention. Or, rather, I wasn't paying attention to the appropriate things. I was sort of focused on the lovely day and the names of wildflowers and the miles I'd already walked and the amount of water I had consumed out of my convenient Camelback and, oh, wasn't that a handy clump of trees? I didn't remember that I was in the wilderness with the potential for encounters with furry beasties. I plowed obliviously ahead.

Until I heard a scrambling noise. I was in Grand Teton National Park. I'd seen plenty of signs advising awareness and caution due to bears in the area. I was even carrying a Bear Vault in which to keep all my food. I'd already seen a bear on a trail earlier this summer. But I still goofed.

I flushed a cub up a tree. It was pretty close to where I was standing, and my first thought was, "Oh, no." I've always understood the most dangerous bear scenario to be irritating a female bear with cubs. And there's no way that cub was out here alone.

My adrenaline took over, and I spun around and almost ran back to the trail, but even as I changed direction, I remembered that I wasn't supposed to run. Different parts of my brain were vying for control. The Medulla oblongata was shrieking "FLEE!" and causing my heart to pound, while my Cerebrum ran through all the things I'd ever read in those "what to do in a bear encounter" pamphlets. That's when I saw Mama bear, pretty close to me and staring. My focus was pretty acute, so I noticed three things right away. 1. I wasn't between her and the cub. 2. She was a black bear, not a grizzly. 3. She didn't seem particularly angry or upset.

I did this really graceful side step, trying to put more trees in between us and reach my hiking party for safety in numbers. My Cerebellum caused me to scratch up my arm a bit on some branches, but thanks to the Medulla, I didn't feel it. My Cerebrum prompted me to sound the alarm, so I called, "Bear, Bear, Baby Bear!" My main man soon had my back, with bear spray handy, and my parents weren't far behind. Once the four of us were together, I knew it wasn't as dangerous of a situation. Despite my quick heart rate and a bit of shakiness in my hands, I was able to snap this photo proof of the scaredy cub, but for better pictures I guess I should invest in a camera that can really zoom.

As we backed down the trail, waiting to see which direction the bears would go, two more cubs ran across the trail! Once the family was reunited a little ways off the trail, we left them alone and continued on our way, pretty stoked about the sighting (and, naturally, relieved that I hadn't enraged the adult bear). I talked to a ranger further down the trail who said that the bears had been hanging out there all summer, so I think Mama bear was fairly used to people going by on the trail and didn't feel too threatened. It just shows how often we probably hike right by wild animals without even knowing it. If I hadn't blundered off the trail causing that one cub to flee up the tree, the four of us humans would probably have walked right by the four bruins with no idea that they were just hidden in the brush.

So, due to that excitement, my main man and I sang the "Bear Aware" song for the rest of the trip. It goes like this: "Be Bear A-ware". Then you make up your own verses, generally various permutations of asking the bear not to be angry and not to maul you but to just go about eating its berries and honey and other lovely non-human things. We didn't see any more bears.

We did, however, have a great backpacking trip up the Teton Crest Trail. It was the only one I had time for this summer, and it was certainly a good choice. My dad had been talking about doing this hike for years, and the Tetons are sort of halfway between my parents' home in Montana and mine in Laramie, so we decided to meet up there.

We started at the Teton Village and took the tramway up the mountain, which was kind of cheating, but did let us start the hike at a wonderfully high elevation. My parents claimed to be a bit concerned about a long backpacking trip, because they are getting up there a bit, but I think they were faking. They did great with all the mileage and elevation changes and carrying heavy packs, and the only sign of a senior moment was when my mom started arguing with a tree near our campsite the first night. I'm not sure of the subject of contention, but the tree wouldn't budge.

The second day was long, but absolutely gorgeous. I think we hiked about thirteen miles up and down, in and out of the national park and wilderness areas. We had perfect, warm weather, and the flowers were at their peak. The colors were fantastic. I have trouble picking my favorite flowers, but the purple lupine seen here in front of Fossil Mountain is high on the list, and there were fields and fields of it.

We passed lots of interesting rock formations and mountains on our way to the Teton peaks. Some, like Spearhead Peak below, provided a landscape unlike anything I would have expected in Northwest Wyoming.


The absolute highlight of the trip was climbing up to Hurricane Pass, just to the west of the three Tetons. As we hiked higher, we could catch glimpses of the peaks peeking over the ridges, but once we hit the high point of the pass, wham, there they were.


The sky was blue and there was no one around. It was a huge payoff. And from there, it was all downhill. There I go, continuing north into the mountains. At times like these, I just feel like I could walk forever, even though I obviously can't. My feet were getting tired, I was pretty much done with carrying my large pack, and I really wanted my dins.


The campsite that night was perfect. We slept just in the shadow of Grand Teton near a little stream. I took off my boots--the same boots that trekked across Wales; they are accumulating some mileage--and refreshed my feet in the cold water. It was quiet and peaceful, and the only nearby creature, besides some inevitable mosquitoes, was a passing mule deer doe. Sunset on the peaks was an extra treat.

The last day consisted of a hike out Cascade Canyon, which was a lovely trail. It couldn't quite compete with the solitude and majesty of the alpine sections, but the creek was very pretty and I found another new bunch of wildflowers to photograph.

It was still peaceful up until a few miles from the end of the trail, where it started to get quite crowded with national park day hikers and sightseers. That usually happens in the few miles nearest to the trailheads. So we booked it out of there, looking forward to a trip to the Mangy Moose before the long drive home.


As I walked around the southern shore of Jenny Lake, I was feeling pretty tired, but it was a good tired. Dad's definitely got the go-ahead to pick another trip next summer.

Take Time to Find the Frogs

Some old friends recently came to visit from Portland, Oregon. I showed them my 'must-see' sites for this part of the country, which includes the Lakes trail in the Snowies and the T. Rex statue on the University campus. And pronghorn, of course.

We then spent one afternoon up at Vedauwoo, where the rock formations never fail to impress. Every time I hike there, I feel compelled to take a picture of this particular stair-step block. I find it so interesting to look at in all the different lights, depending on season and time of day, and I like how the middle area resembles the profile of a man wearing a nightcap.

While walking the Turtle Rock trail, we decided to take a short spur to a beaver pond. I've never seen any beaver, but there are certainly enough dams, ponds and lodges to indicate their presence. One time, when I was hiking in the Zirkels, the busy rodents had completely flooded part of the trail, but I still didn't catch any sight of them. I guess they're usually asleep during the day.

There didn't seem to be any freshly-chewed trees nearby, but it was still worth a look. The pond was quiet. I gave up on seeing any beaver, and looked down at the water near my feet. I saw a green frog, lounging in the water. Then I saw three more, then five. The little guys were all over the place!

My friends and I found a big rock and crouched down to get a better look, while Johnny Bamamfa tried to sneak up on some to get some close-up photos. He also took pictures of us frog-watching. Some frogs were floating in the pond, some were sitting in the mud; they were all green with spots.

I even saw a few frogs that still had tadpole tails! These are apparently called metamorph frogs while they are in and that in-between stage, but I can't remember ever seeing ones like that before. I thought it was pretty neat.

A few other people came by the pond, perhaps to see what we were looking at, and one lady called these critters Northern Leopard Frogs. I looked them up, and they do seem to match the photos and description. The website said they used to be a common frog in high school dissections, but thankfully, I never had to dissect a frog. Just a fetal pig. Which still kinda bothers me.

But anyway, the frogs were very cool to see, and were a part of nature that could be easily overlooked if you just hurried through a place. I've found that the more I slow down and look at the flowers and take pictures and examine my surroundings, the more I can appreciate.

So from frogs, I moved on to take pictures of my friends climbing on the rocks. I snapped some more August wildflowers. I got some butterflies enjoying the thistle. It was a warm, sunny day and we saw pronghorn on the drive home.

The Devil's Causeway

My atlas shows a Point of Interest just south of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. These sites are marked with little red squares and matching text and often lead to interesting road trips. I have heeded the call of many other of these labeled sights, including Independence Rock in Wyoming and Scott's Bluff in Nebraska, so this was worth looking into. The name "Devil's Causeway" had promise, too.

Internet research revealed the Devil's Causeway to be a trail in the Flat Tops Wilderness that narrows to three feet wide with drops of anywhere from a few hundred to a thousand feet on both sides (depending on how scared the estimator was, I guess). Some bloggers reported crossing the bouldery bridge on their hands and knees and kissing the ground on the other side. This sounded like something I had to see.

The Flat Tops Wilderness is the second largest wilderness area in Colorado, so that also seemed worth a trip. I often hike in the Rawah or Mt. Zirkel Wildernesses and find those areas beautiful and generally not too crowded. It was time to explore a little further south.

I bought a topo map and headed out with my favorite hiking partner. The drive took over three hours, since the road west of Yampa turned gravelly and rough, so the day was already warm by the time we got started. There were numerous reservoirs in the area, so there were plenty of cars and campers on the drive, but we only encountered a few other parties of hikers in our first few hours of walking.

We started climbing pretty quickly through some pretty wildflowers and soon came to a viewpoint where we could see our route. The famed causeway lies somewhere along that escarpment. We expected to reach it in a little over 3 miles, bravely cross it, and continue along the plateau before dropping back down into the valley for a 10 mile or so loop.

On the way up, which was hot and more mosquito-filled than I expected for the dryness of the terrain, we passed this skull in a marmoty, rocky area. I think it might be an elk skull. I think someone placed it nicely right by the trail to allow for photographs. I don't think the marmots did it.
I wonder if it was meant as a warning, like pirate's flags. Death to all ye who enter here. I often find bones while hiking, like vertabrae or leg bones or the occasional pelvis. I don't often see skulls, but at least it wasn't human.

So, after a bit of a climb, we reached the top of the escarpment. The trail was very clear and maintained, even though it wasn't completed on my topo map. On one website I read that it may not be included on maps because of the danger. Another great web resource (http://www.summitpost.org/) insisted (in all-capitalized red letters no less) that the crossing should be attempted only in "absolutely dry conditions". The day was dry, with blue skies and only a little breeze. More wind would likely have saved me a few mosquito bites, but might have also knocked me off the cliff, so I won't complain.

As we approached the east side of the causeway, we met a couple with a small beagle. They told us that they were turning around because the dog refused to cross it. Hmm.

The causeway looked like it had two fairly narrow bits with a wider section in the middle. I carefully crossed the first bit, thankful that I had my hiking pole for stability. The boulders gave a weird sensation: because all the rocks were a sort of reddish-grey, the trail blended in with the rock falling away on both sides. It brought to mind the climactic scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where poor Indy has to take a leap of faith over a canyon in order to reach the Holy Grail. I guess my faith was weak, because my legs did get a little wobbly.

Both my legs and the causeway held, though, and the experience was really cool. Usually hights don't bother me at all, but I think the hype had made me nervous, and, because I was going so slowly and carefully it did seem a bit intimidating. Don't they usually say, "Don't look down!"? Well, I wasn't going to miss the view.

We both made it safely across, and there really wasn't any time when we felt in danger. There weren't even any loose rocks (thankfully). It was a unique trail that was worth the trip to at least see it once. The view of the causeway from the west was even more striking.

After those cliffs of death, the rest of the hike seemed less than exciting. The scenery was very pretty as we hiked a very wide plateau, but lacking in any adrenaline rushes. What we needed was a good bear or cougar encounter, but it was not to be. There's my main man wandering off through the willows towards some other cliffs, in search of some kind of further adventure.

It was hard to believe that the pleasant subalpine meadows we hiked through were on top of 11,000 feet cliffs. Flat Tops Wilderness was well-named, and turned out to be a popular destination for backpacking and fishing. As we decended down into the valley and neared the trailhead, we started to encounter many more people. I'm glad they all hadn't decided to come up to the Causeway with us; it would have lost a lot of its magic if you had to cross it in a queue.

Near the Nokhu Crags

Last spring, my main man and I did some pretty sweet cross-country skiing near Cameron Pass in northern Colorado. This impressive picture of the Nokhu Crags was taken in March. We decided that we really needed to come back in the summer to explore the area a little further.

So we did. The trailhead is only about an hour and a half's drive from Laramie by mountain roads, so it really was inexcusable that we hadn't yet hiked there.

Everything looks completely different in the summer, and the Crags seem much less intimidating with friendly alpine sunflowers smiling in front. Nevertheless, I was not planning on scaling the Crags, only hiking to some nearby lakes. These lakes are either called the Michigan Lakes or the American Lakes, depending on what map, sign or blog you read. In all fairness, I think they should really be the Colorado Lakes, but I'm not in charge of these things.

The highest lake, Snow Lake, which still did have a little snow around it in late July (so I won't fault it's name), was tucked in a rocky bowl that made a nice lunch spot. A few marmots and determined wildflowers were our only companions.

As we looked out over the beautiful valley we appreciated the view, but did not appreciate all the elevation we would have to lose before rejoining the trail that headed up to Thunder Pass. We hadn't been able to get as early of a start as I would have liked, and the afternoon was getting on. We could see the pass just over there. It was time to take matters into our own hands.

We made our own way over to Thunder Pass. The trail we had climbed hadn't been much of a trail, anyway--much of it had been more of a rock scramble--so I didn't feel any guilt about going cross-country. I made every effort to avoid squashing delicate wildflowers and I didn't start any avalanches. My chosen path involved some bouldering and some rock climbing and I lost more elevation than my hiking companion did, but I maintain that my way was less precarious, and thus better. It was a lot of fun.

There I am, perched like a mountain goat on a pile of rocks. At one point, I think I was following a bighorn sheep trail, which was very helpful, but I didn't see any of the creatures themselves. I could see some hikers as little dots of color way down in the valley and felt superior. If I had been able to climb Lulu mountain there in the background, I would have felt even better, but it was getting a little too late and the wind was blowing a little too strongly. Oh well, another time.

Looking back at the Crags from this angle was a treat, especially with all the vibrant paintbrush blooming in the foreground. The wildflowers everywhere have been fantastic this summer.

As we reached the ridge above the pass, we could peek to the south into Rocky Mountain National Park. Maybe it's the geographer in me, but I always think that hiking to definite borders is fulfilling. I took a break, making sure to sit inside the park. Just because I could.