The Pandemic Micro Adventure

The Pandemic Micro Adventure photos courtesy of Ann Driggers.

We rise at 4, or try to at least. The alarm should have gone off but for whatever reason it didn’t. No matter though for I have been tossing and turning all night and wide awake, beyond excited for the day’s adventure. It’s been a long time coming and something I have looked forward to through my “winter that never was”.

First a broken wrist in late December as a result of wild ice skating getting a little too, well, wild, followed by surgery in January to fix said wrist.  Then, within 10 days of being cleared to ski, the COVID19 pandemic hit and there ensued 80 hour work weeks and “stay at home” orders. Skiing was once again relegated to my dreams. 

Finally, towards the beginning of May, the orders were relaxed to allow recreational travel within 10 miles of home. I set my sights on creating a backyard micro-adventure to check all the boxes on the things I had missed for so long – biking, skiing and camping – all in one.  Here in the Roaring Fork Valley of Colorado, Mount Sopris is the matriarch, rising almost 7,000 feet above the town of Carbondale, the go to mountain for spring skiing and, as the crow flies, 6 miles from where I live. 

So late one afternoon, skis were strapped to bikes and backpacks to a trailer, and we set off towards Mount Sopris. Although traveling only a scant three miles (two by bike and one on foot) to reach camp, the act of leaving from work, hiking through the forest and symbolically setting down our heavy packs into this peaceful landscape, was all we needed to feel some form of escape, to shed off the weight that has been carried for many months. 

And now, here I am, wide awake at 4 a.m. and ridiculously excited to be heading up a mountain which I have climbed and skied more times than I can remember.  After coffee and pulling together our gear, we leave our tents, headlamps bobbing in the darkness as the almost full Flower Moon sets in the west. Mars, Saturn and Jupiter burn bright in the sky. A solid freeze during the night for which we are grateful after an extended period of warmth. 

As we leave the forest skinning across the frozen lake, the first rays of the sun gild the summit and we climb towards the light as it slowly creeps down. Eventually, we are bathed in brilliance beneath an impossibly cerulean sky. My eyes smart with the beauty of it all. 

Past the ancient and twisted limber pines, rocky ramparts towering above, ski crampons on for the steeper push up through the gut of the Bowl, and onto the summit ridge soaring endlessly upwards.

We pass by the first of Mount Sopris’ twin summits, apparently of equal height (12,953 feet) and head towards the west. The dip down into the cirque between the two, and the curve of the ridge to the second is a thing of magnificent beauty. Traveling along it is to be savored. To my left the mountain drops precipitously away down towards the Crystal River and town far below. Beyond I see the mountains of the Holy Cross, the Elks and the Flattops all stretched out into infinity. I feel like I am flying in an airplane. From this west summit we launch, 3,000 feet of sublime corn ahead of us. We arc turns into the creamy snow, shouting for joy as we head down, back to our tents, tiny dots in the meadow below. 

 As we return to the trailhead, looking like a gypsy caravan with gear strapped every which way, I reflect on how an injury and a pandemic makes, the sweet things in life more sweeter.

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