Fall Preview

Pavilion Point Trail

Location: Silver Plume

Length: 3.75 miles one way

Altitude gain: 900 feet

Highest point: 10,000 feet

Difficulty: Easy to moderate

Of yore, mighty trainloads of silver-laden argentiferous ores poured down the slopes of Leavenworth Mountain on their way to distant smelters. Savvy prospectors can still find riches aplenty on Leavenworth’s steep flanks, although gold is king in Silver Plume these days, and his gala coronation is conducted anew each autumn in nature’s grand cathedral.

Silver Plume dons its autumn finery




For connoisseurs of fall finery, it doesn’t get any better than the Pavilion Point Trail, a relatively indulgent off-road amenity offering a delightfully intimate look at Clear Creek County’s most public seasonal spectacle. To stake your own claim, exit at Silver Plume, jog south under Interstate 70, and sidle west for a quarter mile along the dirt access road that parallels the highway. Then get out your camera, because you’ll need it.

A subtle mosaic


Plunging into dense pine and spruce, you’ll find yourself sauntering due east, and gaining height steadily, but not hastily. Within just a few hundred yards you’ll behold one of Clear Creek’s least-seen and most-enchanting panoramas – Silver Plume laid out beneath you in its pioneering entirety. But don’t fill up your photo-chip at the very first vantage, because the view only gets better.

The trail carves five long switchbacks through the forest on its way up the mountainside, and offers a remarkable showcase of Clear Creek’s sterling historical pedigree. That’s because it lies atop the ancient Argentine Central Railroad grade, which provides both an ascent gentle enough for heavily burdened steam engines and lightly conditioned pedestrians alike, and a very personal look at artifacts, great and small, from the Argentine’s bright mineral past. Massive ore-chutes lumber past at intervals, and mossy, dry-laid stone revetments support the ground beneath your feet. Short spurs projecting ahead at each about-face in the trail should be explored to the fullest, because each comes equipped with its own fascinating freight.


The bones of ancient industry


For our purpose, the trail concludes four miles from where it began, although persons of particular energy can follow the broad rail-bed into the high Argentine if they feel like it. You’ll know you’ve reached Pavilion Point when you meet a lonesome-looking stone chimney standing watch at a spot that, were it less densely wooded, might supply fine views of Georgetown. Promoters with more ambition than good fortune once undertook to construct a posh mountain resort in that place, but little besides the solitary smokestack remains.


End of the line


To the remote observer, Leavenworth Mountain appears only casually painted with Colorado’s signature softwood. And yet, be it by design or happy happenstance, the Argentine Central seems to steam straight through the heart of every quaking grove on the mountainside. In many places, towering specimens reaching up to catch the westering sun blaze like molten gold. In many others, dense concentrations of thin, white trunks press close enough to muffle all sound except the quiet swish of your feet through a carpet of brilliant doubloons.

Paved with gold

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of autumn on Pavilion Point is that so few people appreciate its unique gifts. But that just leaves more gold for you.

Picture perfect

Silver Plume Mountain


At the time, it all seemed so simple. So natural. So inevitable. How did we manage to miss Silver Plume Mountain all these years?

Most people fleeing the dusty and dissipated plains don’t exit I-70 shy of Summit County, and them what do almost never take Exit 226.


Clear Creek is definitely my favorite county, and Silver Plume is without question my favorite part of it. Seeping history and mystery from every 140-year-old plank and paver, Silver Plume is a ghost town along Casper lines – a little friendly, a little retiring, a little doughy, and, if you want to know the truth, and if I can be trusted to tell the truth, which is no simple question, a little needy. Still, little Silver Plume goes out of its way to please, and I go out of my way to be pleased, so it was fitting and proper when, one bright morning in early June, me and Iron B took advantage of Main Street’s semi-ample on-street parking and prepared to tackle the 7:30.


I can see by your familiar vacant expression that elaboration is necessary. Back in the 1880’s, Silver Plume was awash in gold and grit, and the thickly-perforated hillside at its back featured a solid dozen busy hard-rock mines employing an ethnically diverse army of hard-rock miners who spent long days spitting fist-sized nuggets down on the rooftops below and quiet evenings failing to apply themselves in ESL classes at the guild hall. Those working major bores like the Pelican and the Drift were required by management to punch in each morning by 7 o’clock. Thanks to the enlightened, or possibly apathetic, leadership of its co-owner and superintendent Clifford Griffin – a Limey, if it matters, and I think it does – those working the 7:30 Mine were granted a half-hour’s grace.

If you’re wondering why I would waste a precious portion of my limited consciousness relating that seemingly insignificant scrap of historical trivia, it’s because I care deeply about your psychological wellness. We’re in for a rough ride this morning, and it’s my hope that possessing some small personal insight into Griffin’s character will help soften the emotional traumas that lie ahead. Courage, Camille!


The trailhead is very well-marked when you’re standing in front of it. To achieve that advantageous position, saunter east through downtown and hang a Louie on Silver Street. When you run out of Silver Street, heave to starboard and behold. In point of fact, the 7:30 Mine Trail is actually the ancient 7:30 Mine Road, a steeply artifact laboriously carved, stacked, hammered and willed into the sheer mountainside. Completed in 1872 by the Brown and Republican Mountain Wagon Road Company, the precipitous toll-way served a half-dozen of Silver Plume’s most prosperous mines, and the last stop on the line was the 7:30. The trail sets out from 9,100 feet on a relentless climb through Clear Creek County’s golden age.


On every side rest half-buried vestiges of industry, rusting reminders that the Valley of Clear Creek once figured large on the national economy. Jumbled fans of tailings sweep down across the trail, and flowing pipes jutting from the dense brush still drain deep shafts whose entrances have been lost to human memory for a hundred years. And beware! Long-stilled tram cables stretching across the path present rocket-propelled hikers with a very real threat of decapitation.



 Just so you know, I’ve done the 7:30 trail at least a dozen times. It’s my favorite trail in my favorite town in my favorite county because it unstintingly provides everything I want from a hike. Besides an unmatched catalog of Centennial State history and dense aspen stands, the vistas available from its sometimes-precarious trace can stand toe-to-toe with any in the Rockies. And, if you go in Spring, and I make a point of it, the way is refreshingly replete with water, crystal clear run-off trickling, chuckling, splashing and glittering all about and, at many points and for considerable stretches, directly under foot. But best of all, the 7:30 has the Clifford Griffin Memorial, and I must now ask that you bestir yourself long enough to retrieve a box of facial tissues before continuing.



We lit out at 8:30, climbing steadily through four switchbacks, one stream crossing, several lunar landscapes of processed rock, and eye-pleasing legions of aspen and bristlecone, always tending strongly toward the West. At places the antique roadway has crumbled into rubble and collapsed down the hillside, leaving uncomfortably vertical scallops in the mountain wall that can only be traversed along extremely narrow, white-knuckle tracks beaten across loose scree by the misguided feet of hikers goaded into foolish risk by people holding large insurance policies on their persons with double-indemnity clauses guaranteeing a lifetime of financial independence in the case of accidental death.


You come even with Clifford’s lonesome cenotaph 1.8 miles along and 1,180 feet above. To pay your respects intimately, a small cairn opposite a gated shaft is the only clue you’ll have to the monument’s access. The way is short, and bouldery, and dumps out on a high shelf far above the interstate. Time has been stern toward the stout granite monolith, but discerning eyes can still read Clifford’s nicely formal ciao-for-now more than 125 years later.


Clifford Griffin

Son of Alfred Griffin Esq of

Brand Hall, Shropshire, England

Born July 2, 1847

Died June 19, 1887

And in Consideration of his Own Request

Buried Near this Spot


Legend has it that Clifford, desolated by his lady-love’s callous indifference, spent most of that warm July evening atop the rocky prominence, sawing sorrowfully away on his violin and contemplating the heart’s terrible fragility. Then he shot himself in the pinto-bean with a .38 caliber revolver. The good people of Silver Plume will tell you that sometimes of a warm summer night the mournful strains of Clifford’s violin can be heard echoing softly down the canyon. Of course, there’s not a lot to do in Silver Plume of a warm summer night except drink, and consequently they tend to say a lot of things that defy empirical review.


The 7:30 Trail ends maybe a few hundred yards up farther along amid a litter of rusting boilers, tumbled structures and tetanus. The humble wreckage of the once-prosperous 7:30 Mine had always been sufficient reward for me in the past, but not now. Brown Creek washes through the gulch from higher parts, and if we wanted to plumb Silver Plume Mountain’s secrets we would have to follow it to its source. On a topographical map it’s an unremarkable two inches of crisp, clean, water-repellent paper. A cake-walk, surely, with but a single barrier to success.



Immediately adjacent the 7:30, the way is barred by a picturesque waterfall that, in season, is swollen with ice-cold snowmelt and hot malice toward all who go upon two legs. Iron B and me go upon two legs, and weren’t looking for trouble, but we had a job to do. Peering ahead and attempting to divine the trail’s character above the falls, it seemed to my hopeful eye that the gulch opens into a broad and gentle way just ahead, and I announced that conclusion with completely unwarranted certainty. A modern Lancelot, I allowed Iron B to precede me, and she quickly – and, I think, too harshly – disabused me of my innocent misapprehensions.

“Wrong again, Nimrod!” she shouted. “It gets worse! A lot worse! We have to cross over!”

Crossing over Brown Creek was precisely what I’d been hoping to avoid. On the other hand, I knew only too well that if Iron B wasn’t interested in pursuing the east bank, I wouldn’t be, either. I clambered up to her precarious perch above the falls and quickly deduced that the crossing would be several times more difficult from that location than the same maneuver just below at the 7:30.

“I didn’t say you should come up here,” she smirked.

Yeah, thanks B. We managed to get across the creek with only a thorough soaking, and bulldozed through the dense vegetation on the west side to discover a trail heading in our direction.


I call it a trail because I don’t know what else to call it. It was, for the most part, indistinguishable from Brown Gulch’s steep and thickly forested walls. It was, more than anything, the hollow promise of a trail, composed mostly of intermittent traces inscribed by lost hikers whose bleached bones must have long ago been swept into oblivion by the remorseless cataract sharing its knife-edged bed. It was, for more than half a mile, a close and noisy horror without a square foot of level relief to its credit, a nasty and precipitous track less interested in providing access to the mountains than in spilling everything upon it into the roaring creek.

11“This is kind of cool, isn’t it?” said Iron B, giving no thought to how our words can affect those around us. “Real bushwhack-y.”

            It was a long 45 minutes, I can tell you, and a desperate six-tenths of a mile. If there’s a moral to this story, and I think we both know you could stand to absorb a few morals, it’s that if you can’t find a single word on a mountain’s approach in all the vast informational landfill that is the Internet, there’s probably a good reason for it, and you might want to pick another mountain.


We eventually, and thankfully, rose up out of the woods like Lazarus from his grave and stepped into a great shaven bowl rimmed by 210 degrees of sheer majesty.


This, at last, was the hike I’d signed on for. The faux-trail vanishes about two steps beyond the last stunted pine, so you can pretty much pick your route thither. We took a hard left and started climbing.



 The last mile of Silver Plume Mountain is a pretty straight-forward tundra-walk up the peak’s broad eastern shoulder. Smooth as green velvet, mild of grade and hospitably inclined, it’s fit recompense for the heavy toll paid back in the gulch.

As it happened, no sooner did we break out under blue skies than those skies began filling with dark clouds and menace. I barely noticed. I was just glad to have friendly ground back under foot.


We topped out at 10:55 and 12,477 feet amid spitting snow and the grumble of distant thunder. Due east, 12,386-foot Republican Mountain presents a dignified profile. To the north, un-ranked Sherman Mountain, 12,287, offers an easily plucked 107 feet of prominence. Hard-by on the West, the imposing bulk of 13,641-foot Bard Peak dwarfs everything else in the vicinity. And, off south-a-ways, the whole of the Front Range from Mount Evans to Loveland Pass stretches out before you like a Motel 6 landscape painting.


Agopus leucura "White-tailed Ptarmigan

Agopus leucura “White-tailed Ptarmigan

Curiously enough, in the case of Silver Plume Mountain, “X” actually does mark the spot, with a Chi-shaped jumble of native granite occupying the mountain’s wide, bald pate. A long scythe of gentle ridgeline connects Silver Plume, Sherman and Republican, and Iron B and me had discussed the possibility of snapping up those two tempting prizes before heading down. In the event, however, worsening weather conditions and dreadful prospect of returning down Brown Gulch in rain made the decision for us. We started down.


 It is my good and right and commendable policy to present these thrilling accounts in as true and unvarnished a manner as possible, or at least those parts of them that can be easily corroborated. In that laudable spirit of conditional Glasnost, and before the gloating Iron B has a chance to, I will courageously divulge to you that I took a pretty good spill at the top of the gulch. For a fearless and free-wheeling adventurer such as I, the occasional oopsy is all in a brave day’s work, but this was a bit more awkward. While navigating the 45-degree track just within the gulch’s choking grip, I sat down, suddenly and without ceremony, my full and considerable weight applying directly onto my right foot, which was tucked underneath and pointing behind me at the time, nearly tumbling into white pandemonium of Brown Creek in the process 

 If there is any place further removed from human commerce, or less convenient to a medivac landing site, than the tip- top of Brown Gulch, I haven’t been there. I imagined nursing a broken ankle for 24 hours while mocking rescuers tried to devise a way to get me back to civilized parts, and Iron B did nothing to allay my anxieties. Fortunately, and in testament to my superb physical condition and Olympian resolve, I was able to creep, hobble and whine my way back down the 2.3 miles to the antique Town of Silver Plume in a mere two and a half hours. Never has a $15 Walmart hiking pole been used more gratefully, or been put to such noble purpose.

Ranunculus adoneus   "Alpine buttercup"

Ranunculus adoneus “Alpine buttercup”

However it ended, Silver Plume Mountain was a good hike, if one takes “good” to mean “not fatal.” For the most part, I enjoyed it, if one takes “enjoyed it” to mean “was not utterly wretched for a statistically significant percentage of it.”

And, as an homage to my favorite town in my favorite county, it simply had to be done.

But I won’t do it again.

 I’ll still visit with Clifford every now and then, particularly in autumn when the hillsides once more flow with gold. I’ll still stop for a pastie at the Silver Plume Tea Room, and pick up an apple-walnut pie while I’m at it. And I’ll still look up toward that big granite X and brag about the most miserable .6-mile I ever knew. But it’s plain to me that Silver Plume Mountain, a modest summit resting quietly between more flamboyant neighbors, doesn’t really want to be climbed.

Iron B thinks I’m crazy, but she also listens to books on tape, so her opinions can be safely discounted.

Clifford 026

Before You Go – Lowered Expectations on Top of the World

You’re probably thinking,

“Maybe this is the year I quit smoking, drinking and banging Mr. Brownstone, and finally climb Mount Everest.”


I think that’s great. Dream big, I say. For myself, this summer I have every good intention of completing the entire Rootin’ Teuton Sausage Tour at Helmut’s Black Forest Café & Wurst Haus, which is totally similar.

While such laudable gustatory achievements have yet to gain wide acknowledgement, we are relentlessly reminded that climbing Mount Everest might be the noblest endeavor of which a person is capable. Think of it: Bravely pitting your fragile substance against that dangerous and indifferent monolith; fighting your way into the gasping sky to the greater glory of King and Country; surpassing the boundaries of physical and mental endurance in selfless celebration of the indomitable human spirit.

It just sounds so cool, right?

But before you mortgage the farm for a Sherpa-class ticket to Kathmandu, you should talk to Clark Jackson. For what it’s worth, Jackson may well be the only mountaineer in world history who never claimed to have picked up the sport for lofty philosophical reasons.

“I feel like it’s something I’m pretty good at,” he explains. “You always want to do things you’re good at.”

Way to suck the romance right out of it, Clark. Still, I’ve got to grant him points for getting after the world’s highest mountain. Goodness knows his wife wasn’t making with the kudos.

“Actually, nobody I know thought it was a good idea,” Jackson admits. “But I’m a pretty cautious climber, and I was pretty sure I’d be okay.”

On the mountain locals call Sagarmatha, okay is a relative term. Soaring more than five miles into the atmosphere, Everest is an unforgiving mass of rock and ice littered with the bodies of those who hadn’t the skill or judgment or luck to survive its treacheries. No other mountain even comes close to Everest in difficulty and sheer peril. Near its summit you breathe a third less oxygen than at sea level, making even simple tasks – tying a bootlace, adjusting a crampon, snapping a selfie – a universe of fatigue. A clear, still morning can become a blinding wilderness of swirling snow without warning, and the summit is frequently hammered by sustained winds exceeding 150mph. In the everer“death zone” at altitudes above 27,000 feet, the body begins to die, and no amount of rest or nourishment or bottled oxygen can stop the decay. The only salvation is straight down.

But danger means nothing to courageous men like me and Jackson. The expense, on the other hand, can be daunting, and you start paying through the nose long before you get within smelling distance of an honest-to-goodness yak. The typical climbing kit starts at $8,000 for gear, plus another $3,000 for bottled oxygen. Airfare from the Heartland will set you back about $2,000, an official Nepalese or Tibetan climbing permit can run an extortionate $25,000, and expect to fork over at least $2,000 for airport transfers to and from Base Camp.

Once you’re into the scene for a solid $40,000, it’s time to shatter that credit limit into smithereens and engage a guide service. For basic amenities like food, expect to pay $40,000. For Ambassador-class amenities like an actual guide, roped routes, and some assurance of first-aid as required, $80,000 is closer to the mark. For an additional consideration, true adventurers may also enjoy personal porters, personal cooks, and personal tent-putter-uppers.

I mean, you’re not an animal, right?

Figure fees on the order of $120,000 just to get your foot in the Everest Club door.

The spring climbing season is a brief window that creaks ajar as the jet stream’s savage winds shift north of the Himalayas, and slams shut again six weeks later when the summer monsoon unleashes storms and heavy snow from the south. Arriving at the 17,000-plus-foot base camp in late April, 2006, Jackson spent the next three weeks building his endurance and getting to know something about the dozen other members of his party, an international collection of diverse temperaments and outlooks hailing from the U.S., Britain, Austria, Brazil, Ecuador and Malaysia. Jackson quickly struck up a close acquaintance with British climber David Sharp, a friendly sort who’d tried – and failed – to summit Everest twice before.

“He was like a lot of Englishmen,” Jackson recalls. “A little eccentric and very opinionated, but a good guy. There’s a lot of down-time before a climb, so you have a chance to get pretty close to people, and I spent more time talking with Sharp than anyone else.”

A lot of what he and Sharp talked about was the increasing frequency of thefts on Everest.

“I was disillusioned because it went against my belief that everybody on the mountain is trustworthy, that everybody pulls together and helps each other achieve a common goal,” says Jackson. “It’s unconscionable to take something that someone needs to survive, and stuff was disappearing from camps almost every day.”

Who would do such a thing? In 2008, two years after Jackson’s tale was told, Michael Kodas published “High Crimes: The Fate of Everest in an Age of Greed” detailing the prevalence of unethical guides, shady Sherpas, rampant prostitution, runaway gambling and outright fraud that has come to characterize Base Camp.

“Sherpas take the stuff to sell,” says Jackson. “I mean, there are good ones and bad ones, but the bad ones are pretty bad. Sometimes, equipment would be coming to Base Camp on yak-trains and the yak drivers would take off with everything.”

Jackson also got to know a Brazilian litterbug named Vitor Negrete who was making his second Everest attempt.

“He was nice, but he was definitely a different kind of guy,” Jackson says. “I called him ‘The Barbarian’ because he was really messy. He just didn’t care about anything but getting to the top.”

???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????Then again, what’s a few Snickers wrappers amid the more than 50 tons of trash and flash-frozen sewage weighing down Everest’s brawny slopes? As it happened, thieves cleaned out Negrete’s Camp II even as he fought for his life in the thin air far above.

If there were plenty of experienced mountaineers present at Base Camp, the place positively teemed with rank novices who’d paid heavy fees to guide companies that promised an easy ride to the end of the world’s toughest hike.

“There were a lot of people who didn’t really look like they belonged there, like they weren’t really ready for Everest.”

Adding a bizarre, Hollywood aspect to the already surreal scene on the mountain, a Discovery Channel film crew was on hand to document the ascent of New Zealander Mark Ingliss, who lost both legs to frostbite while trying to scale Everest in 1982.

“It was a real circus,” Jackson sighs. “I understand the commercial aspects of mountaineering, but it was still pretty weird.”

On May 10, Jackson made his bid for the summit, a grueling three-day plod nearly 8,000 feet straight up, culminating in a brief, dizzying interlude beneath only the stars. Along the way he tumbled to another of Everest’s dirty little secrets.

“Like most people, I thought all Sherpas were expert mountaineers who could help you in any situation,” Jackson says. “I was surprised to find out that they don’t know all that much. They’re able to function at high altitude, but they don’t know anything about the equipment. Beyond being experts at following one route up the mountain, they’re not that much help.”

Of six others from his 13-member trekking party who achieved the holy grail of mountaineering, two perished miserably before they could descend to safety, including David Sharp, who died near the summit while troops of fellow climbers trudged past within inches of his prostrate form just two days after Jackson’s triumph. Even as Jackson struggled with the death of his British friend, word trickled down from above that Negrete had succumbed to altitude sickness as he descended from the summit on May 18, dying high on the side of the pitiless mountain. His cold fate was Jackson’s last straw.

“When I heard about the deaths, it changed my whole dynamic. After all that time and trouble, two members of my party died. Everybody told me that once you’ve been to the Himalayas, they get in your blood and you’ll always come back. But I don’t think I’d ever go back, even if I hadn’t made the summit. All of a sudden getting to the top of a mountain didn’t seem all that important. I just wanted to go home.”

bottleneckIt was merely the last – and worst – of many disillusionments Jackson suffered during his Himalayan holiday. As equipment, infrastructure and commercial incentives improve, unprecedented numbers of climbers are reaching Mount Everest’s summit. More than 200 hardy hikers joined Jackson on the summit 2006. A whopping 658 stood astride Everest’s white crown in 2013, nearly all of them scoring their goal during three short episodes of acceptable weather. There, on the very top of the world, it is now possible to stand in line for five hours waiting for the 200-plus people ahead of you to navigate the “Hillary Step” bottleneck.

While good news for the casual campaigner, that remarkable summiting success rate begs abuse. Because there may possibly be some few mountaineers for whom the summiting Everest is invested with the smallest element of personal aggrandizement, and since merely getting to the top is no longer sufficient to get your name in the hometown fish-wrap, there could conceivably exist a mild motivation within less sturdy psychologies to find other avenues to distinction.

“Everybody’s trying to be a ‘first.’”

Fact is, that trend has been apparent since at least 1990, when for no obvious good reason an Australian adventurer named Tim Macartney-Snape became the first to trek to the top of Everest from sea-level. Once that was accomplished, in 1999 Babu Chiri Sherpa had little choice but to become the first person to spend the night atop Everest. In 2000, Slovenian Davo Karnicar became the first to ski down from the top, and the following year Marco Saffredi, a Frenchie, and Stefan Gatt, and Austrianie, were the first to snowboard down the mountain. Also in 2001, Erik Weihenmayer became the first blind person to take the walk. The youngest to summit Everest was 13-year-old Jordan Romero in 2010, the oldest woman to do so was Tamae Watanabe, 73, in 2012, and the flat-out oldest was 80-year-old Yuichiro Miura in 2013.

skiIn 2004, Moni Mule Pati and Pem Dorjee Sherpa, both of Nepal, became the first to get married atop Mount Everest, concealing their wedding plans until their hapless (and presumably giftless) guests were assembled thereon. In 2006, when Jackson was making his way onward and upward, Lakpa Tharke Sherpa, 24, claimed laurels as the first man to be naked on the summit, shedding his polars and standing totally starkers for three shrinkage-inducing minutes. As propriety would have it, Lakpa was later chastised for the deed by the Nepali government, which considers Sagarmatha sacred-ish, like a really big church with really hard pews.

Speaking of illegal attempts, the first-ever tweet from the summit was sent by Kenton Cool in 2011. “Everest summit no 9!” gloried Cool, the poetry flowing from his fingers like honeyed wine. “1st tweet from the top of the world thanks to a weak 3G signal.” Unfortunately, Nepalese authorities deemed his message, which was picked up and aired by the BBC, to be a commercial broadcast undertaken without the proper and expensive government permissions. Cool is now learning what it takes to scale the Nepali legal edifice.

Coincidentally, while being a “first” is now the goal of many Everest climbers, Jackson may well have snubbed a legitimate record of his own. A card-carrying member of the Kansas Potowatamee tribe, he is quite likely the first Native American to set foot on Everest’s peak.

“No one holds that title, and I’ve never heard of a Native American doing it, so I might be the first,” he shrugs. “But I don’t really want to go there.”

Indeed, Jackson considers getting one’s name in the history books a pointless, and potentially dangerous, preoccupation.

“One guy was going for his eighth summit,” says Jackson, shaking his head. “How many times do you need to climb it before your luck runs out?”

Three times for Sharp, for Negrete only two.

“I don’t want to be one of those guys who keep climbing time and again, who keeps pushing until something goes wrong.”

A reasonable position.

But that’s him.

Maybe your own ambition is more compelling than Jackson’s timely caution. Maybe you dream of being the first to wear a fake mustache on Everest, or to down the mountain’s first Jello-shot, or be the first to perform La Marseillaise on a harmonica with the whole world as your audience. I won’t dump in your corn flakes, so long as you have a good reason and $120,000.

But I won’t be joining you, I’m afraid.

I expect to have a lot on my plate.


Staunton Park Confidential

It’s like this…

After weeks, months, and finally years of delays, Staunton State Park finally opened for business on May 18. Now, me, I’m not one to attend a gala grand opening on the grounds that they tend to attract attendees and I hate to share anything in general and trails in particular. For some reason, though, Welsh Doug seemed to think we had to show or die trying and, mindful of Welsh tendencies toward hostage-taking, blackmail and legal harassment, I decided it would be easier to cave. As it happened, on May 17 Welsh Doug came down with an acute case of Craven’s Palsy and bailed on the expedition altogether. Having already composed and sent an entire brief email announcing the hike, I had no choice but to continue as planned. That plan started with catching a 9 a.m. Staunton Park shuttle at the Mountain View Park ‘n’ Ride in Conifer, but upon learning that park-service motor-coaches provide no mentholated towels, television monitors or beverage service, I thought it better to take our chances at the main gate. Iron B, MegaWatt and Yours Truly arrived there at about 8:45, and took our place in line behind perhaps 10 early-rising Parkies. Within 10 minutes the line stretched away out of sight down Elk Creek Road 

The gates opened promptly at 9 o’clock, and we raced into Staunton, seizing a parking space at the Mason Creek Trailhead just in time to wait in another line. On a more positive note, the bathrooms were so clean I couldn’t bear to sully their sanitized perfection. But I could, and did, eat a light breakfast of chocolate croissant and soft-boiled egg off the stall’s factory-fresh floor.

There are about 18 miles of trail at Staunton State Park, and most of them are accessed from the Staunton Ranch Trail – 3.3 miles of showroom-quality, neatly-manicured and virtually un-trod multi-use dirt measuring a précised 4-feet in width and still displaying rake-marks left by wooden-sandal-shod gangs of $200-an-hour Japanese feng shui artists flown in at public expense to groom the park.

That’s the ranger’s house. His name is Colin Chisholm. I know that because we spoke on the phone some weeks ago. He was very helpful on the phone, very forthcoming, very accommodating. When I showed myself inside and asked to use the bathroom he pretended to not know who I was and threatened to have me ejected from the park if I didn’t stop rooting around in his refrigerator and leave immediately. I see now that his previous graciousness was all an act. Very disillusioning.

The Staunton Ranch Trail climbs gently, but steadily, into the heart of the park. Sensing that I was growing parched from my manly efforts, MegaWatt offered me a “Fruit Gum” candy. They are English candies, made by the English, imported from England and purchased by MegaWatt at a Denver store that specializes in impoverishing red-blooded American confectioners. He gave me the first one (lime-eel) for free, then suggested a retail price of $5 for each chewy drop thereafter. He seriously thought me so weak and dependent and self-indulgent that I could be compelled to pay five bucks to suck on a 2-cent orange-eel, mango-eel or raspberry-eel morsel. Turns out he was right. I just love eel. Fortunately I had come prepared to pay steep littering and public indecency fines and was carrying lots of cash.

The rock feature called Lion’s Head is visible from nearly everywhere in the park. Remarkably, from no matter which angle one perceives that mighty pile, it looks nothing like a lion’s head.

About 2 miles in we hit a crossroads. Old Mill trail to starboard led up toward Staunton Rocks. As only Iron B aspires to the rock-climber’s moronic arts, we instead turned left onto Scout Line Trail. It’s hiker-only, which seemed a plus, and has a more trail-y aspect, having apparently been entirely snubbed by the Japanese gardeners.

Iron B took pictures of Staunton Rocks, possibly so she can later scale them mentally on her computer in the comfort of her own home. If so, she’s hit upon an activity even sillier and more useless than rock-climbing.



Scout Line Trail ascends quickly, leaving the open, harvested central areas and rising into densely-forested realms. And just in time. It was upon this gentle woodland resident that I lavished the precious gift of moisture, which blessing it gratefully accepted. A true “circle of life”.

 Staunton Rocks. Yeah, they’re pretty rocky, alright. But then so is my driveway, and you don’t see it getting all full of itself.

Whatever delight we had in hiking biker-free was soon tempered by Scout Line’s precipitous nature. After a few half-hearted feints at switch-backing, it gave up the pretense of gentility and made straight for the mountain top. The good news is the views were splendid. The bad news is that I was too blinded by tears to notice.

Here’s a view I didn’t see.

The intersection of Scout Line and Marmot Passage Trail. Despite my repeated warnings, MegaWatt persists in engaging with strange hikers. This fellow and his dog are from Oklahoma. Either he or his dog saw Staunton’s opening advertised on the Internet and decided to “git ‘er dun’” He had no food, no water, no map, and no compunction about marrying a first cousin. He did have a really big knife. It’s likely he thinks a really big knife is all a real man needs to survive in the wilderness. He’s half right. Take it from someone who knows – a real man also needs all the food and water he can steal from his two hiking companions.

And a map. Unfortunately, that’s a chamber of commerce merchant map of the 16th Street Mall. Interestingly, MegaWatt didn’t seem to mind, or even notice.




First bicycles, and now this. The whole “multiple use” concept is clearly out of control. What next? Big Wheels? Dogsleds? Segways? Slave-borne palanquins? Actually, that last one sounds kind of cool. I must propose it to Colin at the first opportunity.


The Stauntons left a bunch of cabins littered about the ranch. This, on the other hand, is the Staunton Park Visitors Center. It’s much nicer inside.

Staunton Pond. Anybody else catching a theme here?




Still plenty of water in the park. Cool, cool water, on a bed of black aspen leaves. Just right for slaking!

Given my correct and supportable views on rock-climbing, the only destination in Staunton Park I would attempt was Elk Falls. As it happens, Elk Falls lies at the farthest extremity of the very last trail some 6 miles distant from the Mason Creek Trailhead. At this point I’m guessing we’ve done every foot of those 6 miles, and climbed something like 1,500 to 1,800 feet. MegaWatt immediately produced a Sharpie from his backpack and vandalized the sign to read “Elk Falls Overlook H8TIN.” I tried to tell him that only works on stop signs, but he wouldn’t have it.

Iron B and MegaWatt argue before making the last push. Iron B wants to whistle the theme from The Great Escape. MegaWatt wants to whistle the theme from Bridge on the River Kwai. Disgusted, I stepped in and made them whistle the theme from the Andy Griffith Show. And it served them right.


There’s the Oakie and his coon-hound, now. Thanks to the masculine power of his really big knife he was able to take a less rigorous combination of trails and arrive at the overlook before us.


And there they are. The falls are pretty, sure enough.


A plunge of 100 feet, by all accounts. A trail is contemplated leading directly to the falls, but construction can’t begin until all appropriate Shinto purification ceremonies are completed.  By August this view will be considerably reduced. I feel fortunate to have caught Elk Falls in full bugle. By our estimation we were among the first 20 persons to witness this spectacle on Staunton Park’s opening day. That’s gotta be worth fifty bucks, at least. I will submit an invoice to Colin first thing Monday.

MegaWatt brought salted peanuts and nothing to drink. Being saintly, I gladly shared with him my Tum-E Yummies blue-colored beverage. I may as well have shot him in the mouth with a sugar-cannon. What was I thinking?



Feeling pleased with ourselves and maybe a little fatigued, we took the easier, shorter, quicker Bugling Elk Road, er, Trail back. Do I regret not getting a chance to stick my success in Scout Line’s face? Maybe a little, but only a little.



Cabins everywhere except this perfect little meadow. Makes you wonder how the Stauntons got so rich


Look! A rock climber! One, lone rock climber! I guess Staunton really is a magnet for, er, that guy.





After our exertions it was a pleasure to glide back down Staunton Ranch Trail. Like a grand trunk road, Stauntion Ranch meanders down the valley at a gentle slope and easy pace. Just what I needed after the terror at the falls.


Twelve miles later back at the park entrance, the festivities were in full swing. By festivities I mean this guy in a funny hat. Colorado State Parks must have blown their 6-figure opening-day entertainment budget on fugu box lunches for the trail groomers.

Party on, Colin!