Gravel in Spring
The plateau sits at eleven thousand feet, and in January the wind comes from the northwest without pause. Every exposed surface is glazed. The trail markers disappear somewhere around mile three, buried under a week of new accumulation that no one has crossed since the last storm.
We started in darkness, headlamps cutting thin cones through the predawn air. The temperature was seven degrees. Ice crystals had formed in the fabric of the balaclava, and each breath out created a brief fog that the headlamp lit white before the cold absorbed it.
The frozen creek crossing at mile four.
By first light we had covered eight miles. The sun came up behind the eastern ridge and threw long shadows across the snow. In direct light the ice field sparkled with a cold precision. Every footfall made a sound like breaking glass.
The cold does not negotiate. You adapt or you turn back. Most people turn back, and that is the right answer most of the time.— M. Hargrove
The descent was a study in controlled falling. We chose the windward ridge where the snow was packed hardest, using micro-spikes for purchase on the steeper sections. The valley appeared below in a wash of gray and white, the road a dark line threading through it.
Total elevation: 3,200 feet. Total time on foot: just over six hours. The drive back was mostly silence. Not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that follows something that required full attention and got it.
