Shakedown Hike #1 - Part I

Trip occurred 7-9 June 2009, Lost Creek Wilderness Area, Colorado.

So, we’re heading off on this extended backpack in July, and a big part of me wants to just step out onto the PNT without any preamble. Hit the trail, suffer the pain and humiliation of being ridiculously out of shape for this sort of thing, but be moving forward, starting the trek.

Dale convinces me we need at least one shakedown hike. It'll give us a chance to make sure all our gear is in order, he says. I’m thinking neither of us have shouldered a pack in at least five years. Maybe more. It'll help our muscles start to remember what it's like to hike with weight, he says. I think about how we've had a longer than anticipated sojourn in the flat cornfields of Iowa.

There will likely be charismatic megafauna, he says. And I am sold. Big, sexy animals out in the field always make me feel better.

Of course, Dale is absolutely right. We need to get out in the field with our gear, and remember how to get by out there ahead of a three month commitment to wilderness backpacking. I am just not overly thrilled about packing for the first time in years at 9,000 feet above sea level after being back at elevation for only a week or so.

We spend most of the afternoon preparing gear at my parent's house. It doesn't take long before the deck is strewn, draped and covered with stuff. Mom and Dad have to walk through a maze of equipment as they bring BBQ ribs out to the grill ahead of dinner. When Dale and I finally sort through everything and lay it out before stuffing it into our packs I am more than a little overwhelmed. All this for only two nights?


Of course, we're bringing nearly everything we'll take in July in order to better replicate the actual experience. We have layers of clothes (base, mid, heavy), rain gear (pants, gaiters, jacket), sun hat, winter hat, gloves, three pairs socks (one for sleeping in, one for hiking in, and one for when the hiking socks get wet), and a pair of undies (we'll be decadent and take two pair on the long hike). There are hiking boots and a pair of camp shoes/sandals. We have a small, very basic toiletry kit and headlamps. There's gear for living out in the woods – a tent, sleeping pads and bags, a water filter, camp stoves (we'll each bring one on the PNT so there's a backup), fuel bottles, cookware, two Rubbermaid containers to eat from, spoons, two sharp knives, mugs (for hot drinks), a water filter and water bottles. We won't forget the map and compass.

There's emergency gear too – a first aid kit and a Personal Locator Beacon (PLB) in case of a dire situation that we simply cannot extract ourselves from. We have some repair gear and rope for hanging food bags to keep them away from bears and canny racoons. We are bringing a cell phone so we can connect with people once we get into town (though for most of the trip it'll be turned off and buried in the pack – no cell service in the wilderness, and possibly none in town depending on the location). As naturalists, we could not go into the wilderness without at least one field guide and binoculars. And to top it off, there's the all the extra gear that we would not usually take on a short hike, but for the PNT we are bringing to help document our experience. A camera, a genie GPS device to geo-code our images, a cute little netbook computer to write our blogs on, memory sticks and memory cards to mail images and blogs back to Conifer, extra AA batteries, an Ipod to keep us entertained on long, hard days and to double check bird songs. To keep all these electronic gizmos going out in the woods we're also bringing two solar chargers and a lithium battery pack. It seems ridiculous seeing all the high-tech gear scattered all over the deck, all this to keep us plugged into modern society when a big part of hitting the trail is to get away from all that. Yet we want to share the experience, and help others hike with us who may not otherwise be able to, so we'll compromise and allow the electronics and their weight.

By the time I finally, and none too gracefully, stuff my pack and lift it for the first time my heart sinks momentarily. It is heavy, and does not yet include food or full water and fuel bottles. Three months? 1200 miles? What had I gotten myself into?

Dale and I arrive at the Lost Creek Wilderness Trailhead mid-afternoon. We spend the first hour on our knees and backs under the car jury-rigging up my '88 Camry's muffler which jolted loose sometime during the long, wash-board drive into Lost Creek. Dale knows its better to take care of it while reasonably fresh than in a few days when we really won't have to deal with it. It's overcast, windy, and cool. I lay on my belly, arm stretched under the chassis to hold up the muffler while Dale finds a way to secure it. My nose presses into soft frilly sage under the car tire. My frustration fades into its smudgy aroma.


Finally, we're ready to hit the trail. Surprisingly, my pack settles onto my back easily. After the addition of a couple days worth of food and full water bottles it might weigh 35 pounds. The weight will go up when we pack enough food for ten or more days. It's a nice start for me, however. I'm outside, about to stride out across a narrow trail cut into the sagebrush slope. I'm back in the mountains. I've successfully finished grad school. It feels good to move forward.