DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

“Tucked within a circle of jagged cliffs, the lake’s blueness is so improbable that, according to local lore, it prompted one first-time visitor decades ago to write an angry letter to her congressman, accusing park rangers of lacing the lake with dye. It’s that blue.”

The National Park Service has a page of news, events, and information regarding Crater Lake.

This is part V of a series on hiking Barr Trail. Read part I, part II, part III, part IV.

To close out this series, I’ll summarize what we learned about gear and equipment needed for climbing a “fourteener.” We had three organizing principles:

• Drink lots of water.
  You will drink 3-6 liters of fluid during the ascent. I slammed a half liter at the inn, and drank five liters while hiking. Staying hydrated is the first and best thing you can do to prevent AMS.

  Remember that water consumption will be affected by temperature. We hiked at 50°F. On a warmer day, we’d have carried more fluid.

  Most of our group mixed some sort of energy powder into the water. I heard good reviews of CytoMax, and I personally liked GU₂O. You’ll be fine with plain water, but one of these supplements may give you an edge. Just remember: if you’re thirsty, you’re already dehydrated.

  There are two ways to carry water on a hike. The most convenient way is via a bladder system such as CamelBak. Six of our seven hikers used these with no complaints. I didn’t want to wear a backpack, so I carried 2 32-oz bottles in my lumbar pack, and 2 18-oz bottles in the hip pockets of my shorts. The small bottles were literally at hand and easy to use; I refilled them as necessary from the big bottles in the lumbar pack. This was slightly tedious, but manageable. One advantage: I could tell at a glance how much water I’d consumed, and how much was left.

  You will most likely be able to refill bottles at Barr Camp, which is 6.8 miles up the hill from the trailhead. The water there is pre-filtered and need not be treated with iodine. But please don’t take my word for it — I suggest you contact Barr Camp to verify that the above is still true for the date of your ascent.
  

• Dress for the weather.
  A corollary to this directive: “cotton is not your friend.” Trekking is a sport that has genuinely benefitted from so-called high-performance fabrics. It’s all about moisture control and heat retention — basically, you don’t want to wear wet cloth in a 40° breeze, or you’ll burn up all your energy trying to stay warm. Invest in polypropylene sock liners, underwear, and T-shirt. You will thank me.

  Foot comfort is critical if you’re planning to use them to get back home at the end of the day. $15 for a pair of real hiking socks is cheap insurance. I like Thorlo because the feet are more padded than the ankles, and because of the extra band of elastic around the arch. As mentioned above, wear polypropylene sock liners inside the hiking socks. Polypropylene wicks moisture better than just about anything else, and the thin slippery fabric helps prevent blisters.

  Get quality hiking boots, and break them in before your long hike. Experts disagree on what constitutes a proper break-in, but for reference, my Vasque boots needed about a dozen trail hikes — or two to three weeks of daily wear.

  Several of our group wore convertible pants (the legs zip off). These make sense, although you could also wear hiking shorts if you carry some kind of long pants that fit over the shorts. You’re likely to need something warm at the summit. Whatever you decide on, you’ll appreciate having many pockets so you need not fumble through a pack every time you want to take a photo or reapply sunblock. Also: unless you’re using a lumbar pack, you might need a belt. On a warm day you might find your pants slipping as you sweat off that greasy burger you ate for lunch yesterday.

  Your shirt should be polypropylene, or some equivalent wicking fabric. Also bring a fleece and a windproof/waterproof jacket. These three layers should keep you comfortable from 40°F to 100°F.

  Bring gloves of some sort, preferably thin and weatherproof as opposed to thick and fuzzy. One of our group spilled water on his gloves and suffered freezing hands for the remainder of the hike. This is a good argument for synthetic fabrics. It’s also a good argument for taking your gloves off when you refill your water bottles.

  Bring a variety of headgear: a bandana or thin stocking hat (or balaclava) for warmth, and something with a brim for glare control. Remember that the atmosphere offers little sun/UV protection at altitude, and the best sunblock is a shadow.

• Prepare for your own emergencies.
  Few single items are large or heavy enough to merit disqualification. So, if you think you might need something, bring it.

  If you’re certain you’ll be near others in your group, you can share this load. If you’re not certain, you should be equipped to take care of yourself.

  Here’s a starter list: spare batteries (camera, headlamp, cellphone, radio); foot powder; dry socks; white athletic tape; moleskin or pieces of plastic grocery bags (for blister prevention); pocketknife or leatherman tool; ace bandage or knee/ankle wraps; adhesive bandages; insect repellent; tissue/wipes; saline solution (if you wear contacts); lens tissue (for glasses, sunglasses, camera); paper towels (especially useful for spilled energy drink, which is sticky); lip balm; sun lotion, wristwatch, compass, 2-way radio, UV sunglasses (on a strap), flashlight or headlamp, aspirin and/or ibuprofin, pen and paper, trail map, drink powder, food bars, film.

  If you are hiking in the dark, get your own headlamp and bring spare batteries. I recommend the Petzl Zipka, which is tiny, lightweight, comfortable, and very bright.

  You will absolutely need sunglasses, preferably wrap-around or with leather blinders on the sides. I recommend wearing them on a neck strap so you can put them on or off quickly.

How much pack space will you need? Our group used various packs ranging in size from 300 to 3000 cubic inches. My pack holds 1100 cubic inches and seems to have been an ideal size: I carried everything I needed, and had no wasted space.

Pack choices are determined by hydration solutions. Or in other words, the first question you should answer is whether you want to use a CamelBak (or similar bladder system). Always a renegade, I had decided early on that I didn’t want to wear a pack on my upper back. Instead I opted for a Mountainsmith Cairn lumbar pack.

There are two disadvantages to backpacks:

• you’ll carry the weight high on your body
• you’ll sweat through your shirt under the backpack. (You may or may not find this uncomfortable.)

The advantages to backpacks are that they offer lots of space, many pockets, and are easy to take off and put on. The last of those brings up the one disadvantage of lumbar packs: when full, they are very tough to put on. On the trail I had to lean up against a tree or a rock to hold the pack in place while I connected and adjusted the waistbelt. Another disadvantage: my lumbar pack was tightly packed, making it difficult to quickly grab any specific item.

No matter what pack you use, you’ll appreciate having commonly-used items hanging on your belt, or in a pocket. Suggestions: lip balm; sun lotion; sunglasses (hang them around your neck); camera.

How much food will you need? I ate four food bars and a few ounces of nuts. Others in the group brought no solid food, but slurped down “energy gel” every 45 minutes. If you opt for the goo, try it out before your big hike. Some of the flavors are apparently disgusting.

Conspicuously absent from this document is any mention of trekking poles. Everyone in my group swears by them, so I’ll say that you should consider trying them. I have no relevant experience.

One final piece of advice: listen to your body. Don’t hike into a crisis, and don’t expect others to bail you out.

This is part IV of a series on hiking Barr Trail. Read part I, part II, part III.

At the end of the day, I had mixed feelings about not hiking back down the mountain. On one hand, we’d enjoyed an unqualified success:

• gorgeous weather
• 0 injuries
• 0 cases of AMS
• 100% completion to the summit (12.6 miles, +7600 feet)

This victory is especially sweet considering the inexperience and less-than-ideal training or acclimitization put in by some of the participants.

I also have to mention that I hiked without pain and without painkillers. I’ve had recent battles with knee and shin problems but neither affected me, proving that the skeletal adjustments I’ve made recently have worked. I used no orthotics, external joint bracing, or support wraps. I must be doing something right.

But there’s that unchallenged part of me that wanted to complete the round-trip. I think I will do that 25-mile hike at some point. I’m not disappointed in our decision not to hike down this time, because even now I can’t imagine enjoying a 9pm finish. Hiking down in those conditions would have been a mistake. But I think it is possible for a smaller group, with similar conditioning and a decent night’s sleep, to finish this roundtrip in 12-14 hours. Maybe I’ll put that trip together in a few years. I hope to conquer a few other fourteeners first.

Getting down the mountain was a challenge, albeit of a different nature than the ascent. Three different people, including the director of Barr Camp, had told us that the staff at the summit house would make a PA announcement to help us solicit rides down the mountain from tourists who had driven there. However, when I approached the clerk at the information counter, I was met with a haughty attitude which I’d previously thought was limited to employees of German railroads. She shut me down, not only refusing my request but acting insulted that I’d had the audacity to ask. Apparently they fear the liability should something bad happen on the drive down the mountain. “But you need not arrange specific rides,” I pointed out, “you could simply announce that there are hikers looking for rides, and leave it to us to —” She cut me off and was rude enough to look over my shoulder to the next customer in line, asking “Can I help you?” as if I’d ceased to exist.

Still, I knew I’d have no problem arranging a ride, because of the awe factor I’d experienced earlier. Some of our group felt differently; they were visibly nervous about the task. Then as some of us were discussing it, a woman approached and offered the two empty seats in her car. What could be easier? Two down; five to go.

I stepped outside and approached the first group I saw. I struck up a brief conversation about the ascent, and then once I had them engaged I set the hook. “You wouldn’t have any extra seats in that enormous maxi-van, would you?” They took three of us. At that point, with five of seven rides arranged in less than five minutes’ effort, I claimed a seat for myself and assumed someone else would find the final two rides.

This turned out to be more difficult than I expected; our last two hikers got rejected a dozen times before finally accepting a ride from some senior citizens who made them ride in the bed of a pickup truck, which was otherwise filled with souvenir rocks. The truck stopped at every vista point on the descent, and again so one of the elderly passengers could lean out the door to vomit. They got dropped off on the freeway a mile outside of town. It was, unfortunately, the worst ride of all. In contrast, we were provided seats, food, conversation (complete with entertaining Fargo-esque accents), and were driven all the way to our rental car.

I was badly in need of a nap at that point, but we drove out to round up the rest of our group. Then came a shower, dinner, and several pints of beer. I still felt glassy-eyed and disconnected, making me suspect that sleep loss was a primary component of my mountaintop fog. I crashed hard at 9:30 and slept the sleep of a guy with no plans at 2AM except “sleep another six hours”.

Believe it or not… I have more to say. Read part V.

This is part III of a series on hiking Barr Trail. Yes, the narrative is nearly as long as the hike, thank you very much. Read part I or part II.

The fries were a highlight of the summit house. The crowd was a low-light. Some of the (nicer) folks were in awe that we’d hiked up the mountain; I could have done with more of these, but still fewer people overall. The density of the room was much more pleasant between the departure of one train and the arrival of the next.

The merchandise in the gift shop was a low-light. Really, how can a shellacked plank of wood with a Pike’s Peak decal on it commemorate this amazing mountain?

The bathrooms were a horror — long lines of unsuspecting people waiting for a cesspool-stinking hell, featuring a slanted floor flooded with two inches of muck. Nature called, so I ventured inside, only to change my mind halfway into the room. My nose is less sensitive than most, as many of my friends insist, but this place was disgusting. But a few minutes later I had to brave it after all. (Nature called back.)

I suffered more ill effects of the thin air and lack of sleep. The best way I can describe it is “spontaneous theta state,” a term I just invented. I sat down to wait for the rest of our crew, and every few seconds I’d hear a voice from a nearby table and I’d have the feeling that I’d just become conscious. It wasn’t a drowsy, sleepy sort of experience. I think my brain was shutting off in protest of abuse, only to be jarred awake partial seconds later by some external stimulus (like a voice), even before gravity had grabbed my head and slammed it into the litter of food-bar wrappers on the table in front of me. I was a little bit dizzy and a lot disconnected. The world seemed very plastic and un-real up there, physically at hand but experientially remote, pausing and restarting as if projected onto my consciousness by a machine with a gimpy power supply. If I didn’t tend to overuse the word bizarre, I’d probably use it here.

At one end of the summit house is an oxygen bar. Of all the junk for sale in the room, this single item had potential to be useful. Fighting through a press of bodies and a funk of gauzy semi-consciousness, I approached the “bartender” and inquired about fees. They charge $6 for 5 minutes, more or less. They provide a nose tube and a seat at the bar. The girl showed me the apparatus — the oxygen bubbles through “flavor” tubes, and the mechanism allows the user to dial up whatever flavor is most appealing. The names scared me; they were a sickly-sweet mix of lip gloss colors and Snapple combinations, like Strawberry-Kiwi-Peach. I asked if I could sample one because I wanted the oxygen but feared that the added scent would make me nauseous. (Plain, odorless oxygen is not an option, in yet-another triumph of marketing over common sense.)

The girl turned on the gas and held the tube up… I took a whiff and staggered back a full step. “Oh my god, that’s disgusting!” I said with a lot more volume than she appreciated. I didn’t mean to scare off the dozen interested potential customers that had gathered around, but I’m sure that was exactly the result. If you end up at the summit house and the oxygen bar refuses your request for a sample, you’ll have me to thank.

Finally I realized that the outside air would be a lot fresher than the murk inside the summit house, which at one end smelled of deep-fried fats, the other of chemical fruit substitutes, and the middle (where the bathroom crowds gathered) of, basically, fermented ass. I went outside to breathe, catch up with my summit partner, and wait for the other five guys in the group.

They came up together, evidence that they’d been supporting one another along the way. They looked good. I was proud of them for making it, because although some had been certain of success, some were not.

One of the five, the group leader and most experienced “peak-bagger,” brought up the rear in silent testimony to his assumed role of coach and cheerleader. He was one of a few who had been committed to hiking back down. My summit partner was prepared to join him, as was another friend, if given a convincing argument. I felt physically strong enough, but mentally and emotionally wiped out after having sat around the summit being dizzy for two hours. I pointed out that even a quick descent would put us back in Manitou Springs after 9:00 PM, too late for dinner, in the dark. It would mean being on the trail for 19 hours. When I’d arrived at the summit, I was looking forward to descending into ever-denser air, but by the time the rest of the group arrived I had convinced myself that the more pleasant descent would be the one in the back seat of someone’s car.

And I guess I ended up convincing the others, too, although that wasn’t my intention. The prospect of rest and food was simply too appealing.

Yes, there’s a part IV…

This is part II of a series on hiking Barr Trail. Read part I.

The temperature on the trail was around 50°F at 2:00 AM and didn’t get much warmer; by the time the sun had come up we were above 10,000 feet where the air temperature would have been colder anyway. Wind temperatures varied from a nipple-stiffening 0° Kelvin (subjective estimate) to occasional teaser gusts of warm air, maybe 65° F. I wore shorts and a polypropylene top, and felt underdressed. At some point I donned a fleece, which I exchanged for a windproof jacket toward the summit.

The final three miles are the hardest on the trail. The grade is steep, the air is thin, the sun is bright (with no tree cover for shade), and we’d been working hard for over six hours on little sleep. The third-last mile took 40 minutes… the second-last took 50… and the final mile took over an hour.

We lost a half-hour in there somewhere, too, when we missed a switchback and tried to traverse an ice field. We were acting on bad advice and tried to climb up a 25% grade of hip-deep snow. Then I nearly sprained my shoulder trying to pull my boot through the leg of my snowpants. All in all this was the sorriest episode on the mountain, genuine evidence of misfiring synapses at high altitude. In a nutshell, we’d overlooked the trail and were cutting the switchback because we didn’t see any other way.

Finally, my companion and I reached the summit at 11:22 AM, 9 hours 12 minutes after leaving the trailhead. This is dreadfully slow — it works out to 1.3 mph, a respectable speed for the “16 Golden Stairs” in the final mile, but an embarrassing average for the day. I’ll have to do it better next time.

The altitude was a bigger challenge than the climb, I think. During the last three miles, I would get winded after two minutes’ exertion. I pushed through, but on my own I probably would have taken many short breaks. I noticed that after each break, I’d feel fine for the first few minutes, and then came a sort of uphill full-body-heaviness, and a realization like I sometimes get when I drink too much and in a moment of lucidity think, “Ugh, I don’t want to drink any more.” That’s what it felt like: I didn’t want to climb any more. But then I’d rest for a moment and feel better. The air at 14,000 feet is half as dense as the air at my house. (My unofficial calculation: at 14,111 feet, the atmospheric pressure is 56% that of sea level.)

The lack of sleep combined with oxygen deprivation to cause a few curious mental blunders. First was the missing-trail syndrome described above. Next, about a half-mile from the summit, I realized with a shock that I’d run out of water. This seemed impossible, that I’d already drunk three liters since Barr Camp, but I checked all my bottles twice — they were all empty.

Then at the summit, in line at the french fry concession (give me a break — this was the only vegan food item to be had), I unconsciously pulled a bottle from my pack to discover that it was still full. A tourist nearby barked out a laugh and made a sarcastic comment about me hauling un-needed water all the way up the mountain. He found this hilarious, that I could be so dumb. He would have been even more amused to know that although he was incorrect that the water was so much surplus weight, I’d been so addled that I hadn’t drunk any because I’d believed the bottle to be empty.

There was even more fun at the summit house; read part III.