I'm so lucky

After the Angel of Mt Shavano chased me down with a thunderstorm and whiteout, (see my story Whiteout Pall Triggers 911 Call ) I decided to take a day to dry out and recuperate. But the mountains had another lesson in humility for me. As I mentioned at the end of my Mt. Shavano story, Lucille's tires were in need of replacement and the police officer advised caution because the road down from the trailhead was steep and slimy from the snow and rain that had doused me all afternoon.

Lest you think I neglect automotive safety, let's back up a couple of weeks. When Lisa and I planned our trip, I noticed that our route included Interstate 90 through Indiana, and specifically through South Bend! You can bet that got my attention. After all, South Bend is the home of THE Studebaker National Museum, a man-made whitewater rafting course right downtown, and... a distribution and installation center for Tire Rack!!! What luck, Lucille could get new shoes at a discount price. Unfortunately, Tire Rack does not take reservations. So a few hours away from the store, I called to ask about wait times. An installation scheduler informed me that they were too busy because of Good Friday. All these years and I didn't know about buying new tires on Good Friday? Whatever. I resolved to replace Lucille's tires on my way home. Which explains why I still had slippery tires on a perilous trailhead road...

Feathering the brake pedal, I gingerly maneuver Lucille down the mountainside on the surface of slick mud when suddenly... I was back on blacktop cruising toward the town of Salida. No traction issues, (until later).

I decide to spring for a motel room to dry out my clothes and gear, take a hot shower, and bask in the therapeutic effects of WiFi.



Salida, Colorado must be an awesome place to live. They have a bouldering wall in the public park




A river runs right through the city (no man-made rapids however)



There's a restaurant with al fresco dining instead of parking spaces.

International travel hint: do not brag about your al fresco experience in Italy! Here's why



And it must be the city with the highest density of 4x4 vehicles in the US.



While in the motel room, I make use of wifi to download a GPS navigation app onto my phone. The software is named Gaia after the ancient Greek Goddess of Earth. Hopefully the Goddess will save me the next time the Angel gets mad at me.

Only slightly daunted by my experience on Mt. Shavano, and with the reassurance provided by the GPS app, I set out for a group of 14ers near Leadville. Mountains in the so called Decalibron loop include Mt. Democrat, Mt Cameron, Mt Lincoln, and Mt. Bross. With a round trip distance of only 7.5 miles and total elevation gain of just 3,700 feet, (about the same elevation you ascend to climb Panther Peak or Tabletop Mountain in the Adirondacks) this loop has a very high peak to effort ratio and can be completed in a day. At least on a nice day during the summer. I've heard the trails are quite busy during the summer, but on this day in May there were only a few of us.

I drive up to the trailhead the afternoon before my climb. The trailhead is located about six miles northwest of the town of Alma.

At an elevation of 10,361 feet above sea level, Alma claims to be the highest incorporated Town in the United States. Alma's higher than Quito, Ecuador! And with a population of 270.00, Alma's population is approximately 1.619 million less than the population of Quito, at 1.619 million.

Alma is home to the AOB (Alma's Only Bar), a Carhartt Superstore, and as far as I can tell, not a single paved street except for Colorado State Highway 9 that also serves as Main Street. Eventually I learn that it is also home to what must be one of the friendliest Town Hall/Sheriff's offices anywhere, despite a tragedy in 1998 when the Town water turned a man into a murderer! Unfortunately true.

Alma may not have the high density of four wheel drive vehicles that Salida has, but I saw one of the biggest all wheel drive RVs ever



And also one of the most unusual vehicles for sale parked by the side of a highway ever. I imagine you could clear your driveway pretty quickly with this beast, but your neighbor would be mad if you threw the snow over into their driveway.



While we're talking about 4x4's, I forgot to mention in my last post that Saguache has some kind of Willy's museum including jeeps, pickups, and a bunch of "Forward Control" trucks.



Perhaps my sudden infatuation with high clearance 4x4's and snow removal machines is because of what happens next.

The road from Alma to the trailhead is unpaved and includes a couple of very steep segments. Taking our time, Lucille and I make it up to the 'winter' trailhead parking area. This lower segment of road is kept plowed to maintain access to the Sweet Home Mine . The mine never yielded as much silver as hoped, but now provides some of the most desired specimens of rhodochrosite in the world.

In this second week of May, the road beyond the mine is not yet plowed. So I'll have a couple of extra miles of hiking just to get to the start of the climb. After parking Lucille I start getting ready for the night. Then it starts snowing. Big, wet, slushy spring flakes.



I wait for a while pondering my options and hoping the snow will stop or slow down. It wouldn't take much to render the road dangerous for Lucille's worn out tires, so as the snow accumulates at an impressive rate, I eventually decide to drive back down to Alma. For all I know, this might be the start of a storm that will bury Lucille. If you think that's exaggeration...

Here we are excavating our car (a Volkswagen Squareback) in Wyoming, in 1978. Yup, I'm that old.



I pay a visit to the Town Hall to ask about places to camp, and the clerk and one of the law enforcement officers suggest their parking lot! Water is available at a spigot around the corner (25¢ or some such pittance for 25 gallons!) they offer me books from their free lending/trade library, and there's an outhouse in a structure associated with the adjacent park. Mighty fine hospitality.


Alma Town Hall and Police parking lot where I spend the night

After a restful night I wake early and am pleased to find inches rather than feet of snow. I drive back up towards the trailhead cutting the first tracks through deeper and deeper snow as I gain elevation. Then I reach a really steep part. Despite a few attempts and running starts, I am unable to make it to the crest, so I back down and find a place to park. Oh well, I'm here to climb, right? What's another mile or two? At least the road is easy to follow by the light of my headlamp.

Eventually I trudge my way up to the summer parking area, where I pass a big SUV that must have driven up the evening or night before. I stop to put on snowshoes. Alma and the road are so high that I'm pretty much at the tree line. The temperature and wind feel more like winter than summer, so despite my internal furnace chugging away with the effort of breaking trail through new snow, I'm wearing an extra fleece layer under my wind anorak. This is more than I wear to climb an Adirondack High Peak in winter!, (when there's no wind).

About the same time I see the first evidence of the trailhead above, I spy another solo climber coming up from below.

The Decalibron trailhead starts at the Kite Lake campground, operated by the USDA Forest Service and Town of Alma. There are five spaces with fire rings, picnic tables, and a sturdy outhouse structure. It is a magnificent setting, and to think that you can drive to this place once the roads are clear of snow. I wonder if the cirque will overflow with wildflowers in a couple of months. Now however, the wind reminds me that it is definitely not summer.


The Kite Lake Campground

I'm looking forward to ducking into the outhouse for a reprieve from the wind. Unfortunately, at some point during the winter the door must have blown open, and the interior is now filled with drifted snow. I take shelter on the lee side of the shed to eat a snack and wait for the other climber.

When he arrives, he thanks me for breaking trail. I'm surprised to see that has no snowshoes. I'm more surprised to see that he is wearing cotton blue jeans. I'm most surprised to hear that he has climbed several other of the Colorado 14ers. It seems like he would be better prepared by now. He tells me that he drove from Denver during the night, was planning to climb one or more of these mountains, then drive tonight. Because of the wind however, he decides to turn back so we wish each other a safe trip and he heads down and I head up.

I climb up a broad valley as the sun ascends the far side of a ridge.


Eventually the sun and I reunite and I am thankful for the warmth.




Once again I am humbled by the beauty surrounding and coursing through me. I am so lucky.

The grades for these first miles are very gentle, less steep than the road that stopped Lucile! Just a hike. Yeah right. Just a hike through stunningly gorgeous alpine majesty. Every moment is a gift.

The slope does increase, but I don't push hard enough to feel seriously out of breath. My feet perform over and over and over, my back doesn't cry for attention, and my legs and lungs and heart are up to the task (thanks mom & dad), I am so lucky.


Looking back at my tracks

Without realizing it, the climbing orchestrates into the harmony of lifting legs, planting pole, breathing, and monitoring my heart. I am gladdened to see a well defined peak and look forward to a rest stop with the reward of rest, views, water, snack, and peeing, not necessarily listed in order of importance. Alas, as I pull over the rounded point, it turns out to be a false summit and the true summit remains a significant effort above. Arrrghhh. Decision time, do I indulge in the reward I was so looking forward to now? or press on?

Climbing often requires playing psychological games in your mind to coax yourself upward and beyond your body's desire to stop or turn around. You set achievable intermediate goals and promise yourself little rewards. Like handing out cookies for good behavior.

When I get to that slope break, I'll give myself a piece of chocolate.

When I get to that cleft, I'll pause for an extra few breaths.

Sometimes you threaten yourself with the stick (perhaps a withheld reward) instead of enticing with the dangled carrot: If I take a rest before I reach that rock band, then I can't have an extra piece of cheese for lunch. Luckily, I usually forget what I've threatened, and have the piece of cheese no matter if I've earned it or not.

The wind helps me decide to press on, and I reach the true summit.

Ridges and peaks fall away in all directions. The snow, rock, and sky are my temple and this experience is my religion. This is the greatest reward of all, though a snack, drink, and pee are good too.



The wind reduces my commune with nature to a brief thank you instead of the deep union a much desired nap would provide.



Briefly I consider descending to the col and then climbing Mt. Cameron. The wind, breaking trail, and extra miles have taken a toll. And standing here, I feel fulfilled, sated, Blissful.

I've had the honor and pleasure to witness splendor from atop Crestone Peak, Mt. Shavano, and now Mt. Democtrat on this trip. Each experience is life affirming. I am so lucky.

I turn and point my boots down a more direct route to the trailhead below.



As I descend, I see a couple of other climbers also descending ahead of me.



I catch up and walk with them. They look tired but happy and we talk. They have no snowshoes, so I walk in front and compact the snow for an easier trail. When we arrive at the Kite Lake trailhead, it becomes apparent that they are seriously worn out. One of them admits he has a headache. This is Altitude, or Acute Mountain Sickness. I give him a couple of ibuprofen, urge him to drink extra water and eat a snack. We rest a short while and continue down at a relaxed pace.

I learn that they flew from Philadelphia the day before, drove from Denver to the trailhead last night, "slept" in the rental car for a few hours, and managed to climb almost to the top of the false peak. They're in Colorado for a ski vacation, and decided to try climbing a mountain before skiing. They went from sea level to 12,000 feet in a day! Ahh youth.




By the time we reach their big SUV everyone is feeling better.



I gratefully accept a ride down to Lucille and wish them a fun rest of their trip. As we say good by, I suggest they take the next day off and relax in the hot tub at their hotel.

Maybe they took my advice. Probably they went and shredded the gnar ; )


Notice how the road melted out during the day!

I had previously resolved to start home after this climb. So after lingering in the woods and saying farewell to Colorado, I break away and point Lucille East.  Toward home.

Whiteout Pall Triggers 911 Call

Imagine a big mountain in Colorado.  An icy cascade tumbling over boulders, fragrant spruce and pine forest rising to a wind-torn tree line, rocky ridges cleaving snow fields, and a summit defined by sharp-edged blocks fractured over eons.  You've just pictured Tabeguache Peak, and the mountain I tried to climb.  But first I had to get there.

The Trip West
In the spring of 2017, Lisa and I took our minivan/camper Lucille on a road trip to visit our son Jimmy in Colorado.  Little did I know what an adventure lay ahead of me.

We crossed the Mississippi River

Appreciated a warm welcome from our niece in Kansas City:

And marveled at the beauty

and decline of small towns across the Midwest and plains states.

And we visited with Jimmy in Saguache, Colorado.

It takes about two minutes to stroll the length of downtown Saguache.  But if you visit, please take the time to stop in the office of the Saguache Crescent newspaper.  It appears to be the only newspaper in the US and possibly the world, still using a linotype press.  Saguache Crescent lynotype press   more information  It's said that Thomas Edison called the linotype machine the Eighth Wonder of the World!  ... from the inventor of the light bulb and phonograph!!!

Breathe deep of not only the sharp tang of printer's ink, but also the fumes emanating from the reservoir of molten lead!

Reporting is accomplished by the 550 residents of Saguache: "If you bring it, and it's not just absolutely insanity, and you want to sign your name to it, then I'll generally print it" [1]  says the owner/editor/publisher/business manager/press operator/maintenance engineer/paperboy...

We were impressed with Jimmy in his classroom interacting with his students, though evidently not everyone felt the same way: note the rapt attention of the second student from the right.

Shortly thereafter, Lisa flew back to Ithaca to rekindle the home fires, be the breadwinner and bring home the bacon.  Timeout for a snack.  With Lisa back home, I adopted dirt bag (definition of dirtbag) behavior and soon found myself in a fog.  Literally.

Tabeguache Peak
Unless you have lived your entire life in the Atacama Desert, you’ve probably experienced fog. In our daily lives, one of the scariest encounters we have with fog is while driving.  You crane your head forward and still hardly see the lines on the highway or tail lights of the car that just passed you.

After 60 some years of living in moist and cold places, I am acquainted with fog. But I had never navigated through wilderness in a whiteout until I tried climbing Tabeguache Peak in Colorado.

Tabeguache (pronounced Tab-a-wash)  is a Ute word meaning "people of sun mountain".  Unfortunately, my visit to this mountain did not turn out to be an entirely sunny experience.

The summit of Mt. Tabeguache rises to an elevation of 14,163 feet in the south central part of the Sawatch Range in Colorado. The standard climbing route for Tabeguache is to climb Mt. Shavano (pictured below at 14,232 feet), then drop down to a col and advance along a distinct ridge, then climb back up to reach the summit of Tabeguache.  To return to the trail head, you retrace your route up and over Mt. Shavano.

I decided to climb Mt. Shavano via a popular spring route called the Angel of Shavano, named for a snow feature.  The thin angel with her wings raised in joy (or maybe alarm!) appears in the photo (taken by others) below.  No disrespect, but she looks kind of like Woody Woodpecker to me.

The Angel of Shavano, photo by others

According to Native American legend, the Angel was a princess who sacrificed herself to save her people during a drought.  Each year, her meltwater tears provide life sustaining water to the valley below.  You can read more about the legend here: The Legend of the Angel of Shavano

With a round trip distance of eleven miles, total elevation gain of 5,600 feet and class 2 trail with easy snow, the Shavano/Tabeguache combo is a satisfying day hike.   I drove up to the trailhead the afternoon before my hike, and Lucille had enough ground clearance to deal with the heavily potholed gravel road.

There is a small US Forest Service campground in the woods, and I was the only camper that evening.  Great for a quiet night, though maybe it should have been a hint that the locals knew something was up with the weather.

Lucille makes for a very luxurious trailhead "camping" experience: I pull into a parking spot, pop the roof top up,

Lucille in New Mexico

pull food from the fridge and fire up the stove for a hot dinner and soothing cup of herbal tea, 

brush my teeth, prepare my pack and gear for the climb, pop the back seat to make a bed, and snuggle in to study the route descriptions and map.  Then lights out.
Then get back up because at an elevation of 9,750 it's pretty chilly and the wind picks up, so I drop the roof back down.

I don't rely on the kick start of coffee to get moving in the morning, and don't always prepare a hot breakfast while camping.  So in the pre-dawn darkness I dress for the anticipated temperature, check the pack, lace up boots, turn on the headlamp and start walking.

The initial part of the route follows the Colorado Trail, a well developed 486 mile-long path that runs generally north northeast in this location.  After a quarter of a mile I turn northwest onto the Mt Shavano trail and hike up through the dense forest.

Hiking by the light of a headlamp is another form of meditation.  Smells, sounds, and glimpses of surroundings touch the edge of consciousness, but your mind focuses on the soil and rocks of immediate concern to your movement.   Physical details of the trail pass under your feet, and also flow through sight and mind in a continuous scroll.

It's the month of May, so there is some snow on the trail, increasing in percentage of snow versus bare ground as I gain elevation.  Over some of the snow patches it's choose your own adventure through the trees.  Gradually the trail beyond the beam of my headlamp appears, so I turn it off and stash it in the top pocket of my pack.

My night vision has deteriorated with age.  A few years ago my son Jimmy and I were walking along a cobble-paved road in Ecuador, returning to our hosteria for the night.  It was dark with no street lights in the rural countryside.  Jimmy comments 'watch out for the pile of rocks'.  I think, okay we saw road construction when we left in the morning: when we get close to the pile I'll go around.  A bit more insistent 'Watch Out for the rocks'.  Finally he pulls my elbow 'WATCH OUT FOR THE ROCKS!' as he saves me from walking into the base of the pile!

The Angel of Shavano route departs the main trail and cuts cross country.  I follow a compass heading.  As I gain elevation, there's now almost continuous snow cover.  Sometimes there are faint boot prints to guide the way, or show where someone else blundered into dense brush (or sought privacy to pee ; ).  I continue up and over some hills through the woods and eventually pop out of the trees into a snow-filled basin.  The angle of the slope is moderate and the snow is perfect: hard enough to support me yet not so icy that I need to put on crampons.

Curving around a corner to the right, the Angel comes into view.  Climbing higher I reach the bottom of the Angel where the slope increases.  On a bare outcrop at tree line, I take a break to drink, eat a snack, put on snowshoes (more for traction than flotation), and take a picture.  YAY COE!  The actual summit is well behind the feature visible in the photo below.

The sky is clear, the wind is calm, the snow is perfect, I'm wearing my trusty red anorak, and all is well.  I continue up and follow the arm of the Angel to climber's right.  According to the guide book, the slope is never much more than 30 degrees, my snowshoes provide reassuring traction, and I'm acclimated.  So the climbing settles into the familiar rhythm of steps, placing the axe, and breathing.  The snow and steepness are enough to make this feel like a real climb, yet not so steep that it feels scary.  A self arrest would actually work on this slope.  Things are so ideal, that the only thing taking my breath away is the view.

Clouds form but don't seem particularly threatening so I continue climbing.  The firm snow crunching beneath my snowshoes is likely an easier and safer surface than the talus and scree lying under these remnants of winter.

By the time I arrive at the summit of Shavano, the clouds have coalesced into solid overcast and a light snow is falling.  It's not summer when I assume there will be an afternoon thunderstorm.  Conditions still seem reasonable, and I don't feel tired, so after a quick picture, snack and drink, I continued on towards Tabeguache Peak.

The summit of Mt. Shavano and ridge toward Tabeguache Peak

The route from Shavano to Tabeguache follows a distinct ridge line so although the clouds are descending, I'm not worried about getting lost.  If I monitor the compass bearing and stay along the top of the ridge, I won't get off route going or coming back.  Sometimes I follow a visible climber's trail, some parts require scrambling over and around boulders, and some parts cross patches of snow.  The clouds get denser and the snow falls a bit harder so I move as quickly as possible while not risking a fall.  I deliberately take slightly longer lines on bare rocks rather than more direct lines across snow if the run-out is exposed.

I've traveled maybe half a mile along the ridge when I hear a deep rumble.  Uh oh.  Since my retreat route is back up and over the summit of Mt Shavano, and the summit of Mt. Shavano is the highest point in the area... I don't think twice about what to do. 

I've run away from lightning twice before.  I was in forest both times and that was scary enough.  On this bare, exposed ridge a couple of thousand feet above treeline I wish for a Star Trek transporter.

Now the need to move quickly takes on a sharper edge so I run, hop boulders, and charge across snow slopes.  It's a sad bit of irony that your safety in the mountains often depends on an ice axe, yet in a thunder storm, that axe feels like a lightning rod in your fist.

I make it back to the summit scramble of Shavano, but don't want to go over the very top.  Instead I skirt around maybe 50 or 100 feet below the summit.  Would that distance make any real difference if lightning struck?  I doubt it, but it provides a psychological buffer so that I don't become the very highest object for miles around.  I descend and contour around on rock and across patches of snow.  The direct line towards the Angel crosses a slope that's steeper than I want to traverse, so I hurry around the back side of the Shavano summit.

As if I need another thing to worry about, the clouds have now reached an agreement with fog and snow to take away all visibility.  I've never experienced a whiteout so...
I take a picture to record my predicament.

Not Photoshop.

There is enough contrast on rock to see where to step up and down.  On snow however, I stumble over unseen bumps and drop into shallow hollows.  Sometimes my boot runs into the snow surface as I encounter an incline.  Sometimes my boot hovers in the air as the slope has dropped away.  I adopt a shuffling gait.  Good practice for a future of cataracts and corporeal degeneration. 

With no visibility, I am unable to see my desired route.  I continue stumbling around the summit and downward until it feels like I'm at the right place to connect with the arm of the Angel.  I try to follow a compass bearing and begin to descend the snow slope.  If I've navigated correctly, I will take the Angel's hand and she will guide me down the fall line of her arm and body to safety.  As I follow the snow at what feels like down, the compass bearing suggests that I am on the Angel and not at the head of some other drainage that will lead me into the wild.  Given the whiteout, I don't like my chances of finding the cross country route I took on the way up, so I plan to look for the standard trail that should show more signs of use.  I hope there is a boot track or bare trail to see.

The snow, softened by the morning sun and moderating temperatures is prime for glissading.  That will speed my descent away from the frightening electrical discharges.*  I sit down, hold the ice axe to brake or roll into self arrest, and start sliding.  The consistency of the snow and angle of the slope (the Angel's angle?  hah, couldn't resist) are just right and I go for a nice controlled ride.  I am thankful for the quick retreat.  Between the arm and body of the Angel, there's maybe 1,500 vertical feet to slide!  Despite the circumstances, it's fun.  standing glissade  a long sitting glissade  Even the whiteout is beginning to thin, and I can sometimes see the rocky slope to my left.  I keep watch for a sign of the standard trail.

After sliding down for so long it seems like I should have reached the ocean (what ocean I'd reach from Colorado I don't know), I stop and wonder if I've passed the trail crossing.  Low and behold, almost immediately I see it!

I breath a sigh of relief and pose to capture this moment too.  I think to myself, aren't I the hot shot wilderness navigator.

I should certainly know better than that.

The trail is easy to follow where it is cut into the rocky slope and there are boot prints where it enters the upper reaches of the forest.


As I follow the trail deeper into the woods, drifts gradually erase the tracks.  I double back and circle and sometimes find what I think are tracks, but at some point I realize I'm either off trail, or the tracks have been filled in by fresh snow.  I'm not exactly lost, but I'm certainly not found.

I find an area sheltered by trees and take the time to compose myself.  I replace my ear band with a hat, put a warm jacket on under my rain layer, drink water, eat a snack, and again consult my map and compass.  It's a photocopy protected by a zip-lock plastic bag.  I can see where the trail enters the forest on the map, and I estimate my position on the map.  I determine a bearing to follow in order to reach the Colorado Trail, my navigation handrail   Although the trail contours around ridges and gullies to provide a more uniform grade, I will plunge through the woods in a straight line towards a joyful reunion when I intersect the Colorado trail.

At first the trees are still relatively small and widely spaced, but the snow is deep.  As I descend, the forest becomes more dense and there are numerous blowdowns and patches of dense undergrowth.  Sometimes I skirt around the obstacles taking frequent compass bearings to try and stay on track.  Sometimes I scramble up and over tangles of tree trunks and push through the clutches of intertwined branches.  I plow through snow drifts and kick steps or skitter down hard frozen patches. The snow and downed trees and brush seem to go on and on.

I try to estimate my speed and calculate how long it should take to reach the Colorado Trail but the result has little meaning.  Travel through snow and jumbled trees is very slow work.  I feel like a lone speck in the vast forest.

Now that I'm lower, the fog is replaced by a light drizzle even more resolved to infiltrate my clothing.  The full body workout of descending and clambering over, under, and through obstacles combined with hours of intimate contact with snow and 100% humidity means I have achieved a state of moist equilibrium.  Waterproof breathable fabrics do not work magic.  But my wool underwear and synthetic fleece layers are warm, and the Primaloft jacket in my pack provides reassurance.

Frequent consultation with the map fails to reveal any epiphanies or even encouragement.  I begin to second guess my chosen compass bearing.  If I started descending a different drainage than I thought, will I still intersect the Colorado Trail?  If I angle too far to the south, will I parallel the Colorado trail and miss the trail head?  Shouldn't I be down by now?  My slow progress has consumed the afternoon.  The drizzle intensifies to rain.  Darkness will arrive in a couple of hours.  Will I see the trail if traveling by headlamp?

I'm not exactly dry, but I'm warm.  I have water and snacks.  I can certainly survive a night out.  But... thoughts evolve to concerns to worries that escalate to the edge of fear.  I pull my phone out of it's protective plastic bag, hunch over to shield it from the rain, turn off the airplane mode and see there is a signal!  I will feel embarrassed to call for help.

What a dumb inhibition.  I call 911.

No answer.  I try calling again.  There's still no response and I don't remember if I try leaving a message.  Well, okay then: follow a bearing a little south of east as my best guess and I'm stickin with it.

I send a text message to my son Jimmy.   He lives an hour away, has climbed these mountains, and is a great wilderness navigator.  It wouldn't surprise me if he possesses the navigation skills of the Inuit who rescue their injured friends in whiteout conditions on featureless plains of ice.  Jimmy responds that he's packing up to come look for me.

I put the phone away and resume my odyssey.  My phone buzzes but when I accept the call I don't hear anything.  I send a text to the unidentified number "Hi.  Are you emergency response?" I don't know if it will work, but I send a text to 911:
"Hi.  I'm unable to call 911"  that initiates the following exchange:
where are you and what's happening?
I got lost descending from mt shavano, Colorado
We got several 911 calls from you.  I could hear you fine.  Try to call again and tell me as much as you can - if I can't hear you I'll hang up.
Are you still lost?
Are you injured?
I think I call and tell them that I got lost descending in a white out, and that I am in good condition with warm clothes, water and food.
I can hear you.
It looks like you are just uphill of the Colorado Trail.
We have a location on your phone.
Stay put.  We have a good location.   Notifying Search and Rescue.

Since I have verification that I'm generally where I thought I was, I respond:
If you don't mind I'd rather start downhill and look for the trail.
I send a text to Jimmy letting him know that I'm in contact with 911 and resume correspondence with emergency response:
Okay. If you continue downhill, mostly east, a little south, you will reach the Colorado Trail.  But the route looks like it could be tough in spots.
It's gratifying and highly comforting to know that I had already chosen the correct compass bearing to follow : )
Thanks.
Looks to be a little more than one mile, but 1000 ft. of elevation loss.
Keep us posted.  Take your time and be careful.
Once you get to the Colorado Trail, you'll want to head south.  In about one mile you'll come to a country road.
We're going to try to have Search and Rescue text you with more specific advice.
Thank you very much.
You're welcome.
S&R and Chaffee County Sheriff are working on this.
This is gt. Avilia's number: ###-###-####. Call or text him.
Before I initiate contact, I receive this message:
Hi this is Chaffee County SAR
Please reply if you receive this.  We have a deputy driving to the trailhead to meet you.  If you need additional help, please text back.
Thanks, I'll let you know when I intersect the co trail
Thank you.  Can you verify that you are parked at the Blanks Cabin Trailhead?

At this point, the deputy sounds his police car siren
Hi I hear your siren
Does it sound close or distant?
Pretty close, and the direction id expect

Just hit the trail.  See you in a bit.
Sounds good.  You'll actually meet with a sheriff's deputy.  Glad you made it down.
Thank you so much for your help
Bob Chiang
No problem at all.  It's always easy when we don't have to go into the field.

At the trailhead, I'm met by a concerned and friendly officer.  I thank him and his organization.  We talk a bit.  He's done this more frequently than I imagined.  He repeatedly checks to make sure that I'm in good condition.   Since he has sworn to protect and serve (no request is too bizarre) , he agrees to help me record my new experience:

He declines my offer of a donation to the Sheriff's Department or Search And Rescue and tells me to be careful driving out: the precipitation has made the road slick.  This is a real concern because Lucile's tires are pretty worn out, but that is a story we'll get to later...













Wolf, Jeffrey; Clark, Kyle (December 22, 2007). "The Newspaper That Time Forgot" 9News