At nineteen years old, Ben has a mind-out-of-body experience, as he and two college buddies drive down the Big Thompson Canyon from Estes Park to Loveland, beneath the big blue sky of the Colorado Rockies. (No Great Lakes humidity creating overcast here. They left that back in the Midwest.) The walls of the canyon are vertical and steep, closing in and enveloping them as they follow the river bend through rock.
Ben knows at that moment he’s in a sacred place, as he remembers the news story death toll from the flood, four years earlier. They stop at a wayside rest area with a historical marker commemorating the event. July 31, 1976. One hundred and forty-three souls were swept to eternity after a thundercloud settled on top of the canyon and dumped over a foot of rain in a matter of hours. Ben remembers hearing Walter Cronkite report the story on the evening news, in the small farm town in central Wisconsin where he grew up. That was the USA’s Bicentennial Year.
But now it’s 1980, and Ben and his companions just spent the previous week in Rocky Mountain National Park, seeing sights and smelling scents Ben has never experienced before. He’s in constant awe of his natural surroundings. It’s May, before the park officially opens, so they camped for free. Very few people were there.
They settle into a campsite beneath rugged pine trees bearing huge cones, which kindle their campfires. The smell of sunlight on pine needles is warm in the air, thin and easy to breathe. From the picnic table Ben embraces a panoramic view of Long’s Peak. At 14,259’ it’s the tallest mountain in the park.
Ben unloads his bike and gear, checking the Coleman gas stove and lantern, tent, sleeping bag, and all the other trappings for his journey West. Unknowingly, he begins to acclimate to his surroundings and the rarefied climate.
Ben and his companions are classmates at the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire, and just finished their second year. As freshmen, they were on the same dorm floor. They kept in touch when they moved off campus, and somehow came together for this trip, sharing a desire to not go back to their hometowns and work at their family businesses for the summer, as they had in previous years.
A ski resort is being developed at a place called Beaver Creek. Ben imagines himself a lumberjack, clearing the runs of tall pine trees, and a ski bum gliding over the buried stumps when they’re done. College might have to wait.
After a few days pedaling and hiking throughout the area, they decide to extend their reach. Having ample time to read maps and talk with the few other visitors, they plot an overnight trip into the mountains. They’ll take the Fern Lake Trail to Spruce Lake, less than 5 miles on a reasonable grade. Slow, meticulous packing leads to a late start after noon. Ben has no experience preparing for a trip like this, and his gear is heavy. He has no idea what he’s facing.
The trail starts easy, and Ben drifts into thoughts. He’s never entered wilderness like this. He’s done plenty of camping, but it was always on flat ground. Ben doesn’t know anything about these elevations, and tries to suppress the negative “what ifs?” and focus on his footsteps and breathing, soon hearing a silence he’s never heard before. The smell of sun on rock lichen, wildflowers and wet stones is intoxicating, giving him energy. The air begins to come with effort.
They happened upon Fern (Creek) Falls in the headwater valley of the Big Thompson River, fresh snowmelt cascading over granite sculptures through pine trees, creating a fragrant mist. The air grows thicker. Ben can taste it. They linger too long as the sun slips behind the peaks.
Back on the trail with a fresh sense of urgency, Ben considers his gear. “What ifs” start to cloud his mind. He has a Jansport D-3 external frame pack and a two-person Timberline Eureka tent, one of the first freestanding units, that he’d bought at R.E.I. in the Twin Cities. Plenty of other gear to keep him warm, dry and well fed. Maybe too much gear. He adjusts the shoulder straps to put more weight on his hips and trudges on, conjuring that guttural military marching chant from the guards at the wicked witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz. “Bo-dee-doh! Badooh-oh!”
The elevation gain starts to take its toll, and it quickly becomes dark. Sunsets happen fast in the mountains, Ben has come to learn. When they start seeing snow they become a bit concerned. They’d been told they probably wouldn’t see much snow on the trail to Spruce Lake, which was a turn-off from Fern Lake Trail. In the twilight using flashlights they may have missed the sign. They trudge on. Ben focuses on the marching chant.
Eventually, the little voice in Ben’s head suggests very strongly that they may be lost, and gone too far. The trail has become buried and seems to be heading straight up a mountainside. The stars appear closer about. They stop to consider their situation, when they notice footprints coming out of the trees. They decide to follow these, hoping they’re coming from one of the campsites on the map. They go forward, and up.
The ascent grows steeper, so they rope themselves together, climbing in the footsteps of the lead. Ben has never done anything like this. He quickly realizes he has the wrong boots. They’re work boots with oil-resistant, slick soles. Ben needs hiking boots with Vibram soles. He knows better. The moon and stars give abundant light and they climb, grudgingly. Ben asks his body to do things it’s not used to. It answers, grudgingly. Then, they ascend onto a flat meadow, and the stellar panorama comes out to greet them. Ben feels like Lewis and Clark when they first see the Pacific Ocean. “Oh! the joy.”
Ben sets up his tent in the twinkle of the stars, the air thin and cutting. He falls asleep in fresh clothes, to the smell of new tent. He wakes in snow, aside a lake, on top of the world.
The morning is full of birds. Scrub jays, known as “camp robbers”, feed out of Ben’s hand as he swings in his hammock. Chickadees flutter about. Crows caw below raptors in the blue sky. Ben comes unstuck from his comfort zone. He feels as though he can fly.
They spend the morning in quiet regard, busying themselves around the camp. They know to leave the mountain heights before the afternoon storms, and draw a straight bead to the Fern Lake Trail. Downhill. They tighten their straps, lock their knees and bound down an open slope. Ben is flying. Temporarily.
They reach the trail elevation in a matter of minutes, after struggling the reverse in long, dark hours. The five-mile trek back to the trailhead is more than slightly surreal. Ben sees a huge bull elk grazing on the trailside, unconcerned. Herds in the distance. More birds everywhere, and flowers and wind and sun and smells that make Ben close his eyes.
Then, Ben’s tooling down the canyon – a few days later – and his eyes are wide open. He and his companions end up in Colorado Springs, at a KOA Campground on the south side of town. They will spend the rest of the summer there.
The release Ben feels on the backpacking trip sticks with him in the Springs. He does things he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing back in the town where he grew up: He jumps freight trains and rides them down to Pueblo and up to Denver, sometimes just short-hopping them as they lumber past the campground. He takes part in rock fights at the local quarry with campmates from North Carolina. Swipes food from all-you-can-eat buffets with sisters from Vermont. Eats chow at Fort Carson with Vietnam vets from the 173rd Airborne Brigade (Sky Soldiers) celebrating an anniversary. Crawls through the caves of Corkscrew Caverns in Manitou Springs, and eats huge cheeseburgers at a place called Betty Boop’s.
Now it’s 2017, and Ben is sitting in his ghetto-chic apartment in Loveland, looking at the birds through his window. He wonders if he would be here if he hadn’t taken that trip thirty-seven years ago. Ben’s kids were born here, in Loveland, and now they’re grown and on their own. What if they’d been born in a small town in central Wisconsin?
Ben thinks of the brilliance of all that starlight and moonglow reflecting off the powder… Swinging in the hammock, suspended with the birds… The canyon walls… The river… He thinks, if he hadn’t taken that trip when his curiosity stirred him all those years ago, his life would be very different. Probably worse. Possibly much worse.
