Devil's Playground...

Devil's Playground...

Dad died three years ago today. That seemed like a good enough reason to bike to the public library (for a good, free wifi connection) and post the story I wrote in September 2006 when I carried some of his ashes to Devil's Playground on the back of Pike's Peak.

Here is the story:

Monday, September 26, 2005

A few weeks ago when I told Mom that I was going to spend a week of vacation by myself at Rocky Mountain Mennonite Camp, the first thing she said was “Good, then you can scatter Dad’s ashes on the Ridge.”

This has been an ongoing conversation since, I guess, long before he died in April, 2004. She told Pete and me soon after his memorial service that she didn’t know what to do with his ashes because “He told me at least three or four places he wanted them scattered. I never knew how serious he was about any of them, and now I don’t know what to do.” Pete and I advised her to give it time; the right thing would become eventually obvious.

I said I’d be willing, but that she had better talk it over with Pete because we had talked about doing an extended family trip “someday” to Colorado just to scatter the ashes. The three of us had a couple of conversations in the following week, and in the end, decided it made sense for me to bring some of the ashes with me, and then try to hold a family event in one or two of the other locations (Iowa, Illinois, or Indiana?) where it would be easier for all to participate. With Ben heading off to who knows where, Leena up in Waterloo (and heading for Senegal with Gwen in spring, Jake taking off for college next year, it seemed a little optimistic that we could arrange a gathering as far away as Colorado.

Last week I was at Mom’s doing something to her computer and I said, “Well, if I’m going to take those ashes, I better pack them up.” She caught her breath, and said “Yes, we better just do it.” She found a canister that they had used to carry, I think, first aid supplies while backpacking, and we went together to fill it. It took a little gumption, but we did it.

I arrived at camp on Friday, the 23rd. I wanted to give my self a few days to get acclimated before I did a major hike to 12,500’. Yesterday afternoon I decided that today would be the day. I should say that I had some apprehension about doing this hike. More on that later.

I woke about 7am and glanced outside. It was just beginning to get light, but from I could see it looked like we were in store for another sunny day. I’ve been following the Celtic Daily Prayer book while I’m on this retreat. The reading for this morning stunned me: an exerpt from a poem of keening for Columba, and ancient saint of Gael. I copied the poem out and took it with me. More on that later too.

I ate a light breakfast, packed as much liquid as I could carry along with a couple granola bars, a candy bar and as many warm clothes as I could fit in my pack. I was out the door at 7:45.

I elected to walk the 1 ½ miles to the Crags Campground because it seemed appropriate to do this on my own steam. The morning was still very cool (I’m guessing in the 30s) but I could still work up a sweat walking – especially with my pack right against my back.

I made it to the Crags Trailhead by about 8:10, and started my upward journey.

Now, of all the trails around Rocky Mountain Camp, the start of Mennonite Trail, as they call it in some of the guide books, is the one I know the least. I think the last time I hiked it was in Elementary School. That would have been the trip we made with Phil Gunden, I think in about 1966. On that trip we started up the trail together – Mom, Dad, Pete, Phil and I. Soon Pete, Phil and I had left the old fogey’s behind (keep in mind that in 1966, my dad would have been 49 – and I just turned 50) and we headed for the last trees before tree line. I had a hard time keeping up with Pete and Phil, but I figured out about halfway up that they walked faster and for longer stretches, but when they stopped and took longer breaks than I needed. I’d fall behind, they’d stop to rest, and I’d catch up just as they were ready for the next stretch. So I walked shorter distances and took shorter breaks, and at about tree line, I passed them while they rested! (Ok, I never said I wasn’t competitive.) Soon I was a couple hundred yards ahead and I got to the top of the ridge and kept walking. After awhile I looked back and they were nowhere to be seen! I panicked and started back down – at pretty close to a run – and eventually ran into Mom and Dad still on their way up. By that time I was cold and miserable. Mom has a picture of that Dad took of the two of us drinking hot chocolate or coffee from a thermos up on top of the ridge. As a footnote to that story, when we got back to our cabin I spent the night shivering with a fever. Mom and Dad checked me into a hospital in Colorado Springs and I spent the rest of vacation there. So my feelings about this trail were quite a bit different from Dad’s.

Since that time I’ve topped Pike’s Peak two times – both from the East side, and I’ve not climbed this ridge since. As I started up the trail I realized that I had some childhood anxiety pent up from that trip nearly 40 years ago!

So finding the start of Mennonite Trail was my first challenge. I didn’t know where it was! I had checked a 14er’s guide book before I left home that described how it branched right a few hundred yards up Crags Trail, just after some vertical piping. I found the piping, turned, crossed the creek and found a tiny little trail beside the creek. It seemed pretty poorly constructed, but I followed it – and in about 15 minutes merged with the true trail. If I had had to follow this little trail to the top, I don’t know if I could have made it – it had a lot of unnecessary ups and downs. Picture a dark, spacious primordeal forest, with a 2’ wide creek running at the bottom of a steep, spruce-covered forest. I’m on the steep side of the bank.

Even when I got onto the main trail, it was nothing like my 40 year old memory. What I remember was cutting through a stand of trees from Crags Campground into a wide open meadow that led straight up to the top of the ridge. Faulty memory and lots of new trees had me somewhat disoriented.

The trail climbs steadily. Actually that isn’t right; the climb isn’t steady at all. Sometimes it is steep and sometimes it is really steep. Because I was hiking more or less straight East, and because it was still fairly early morning with the sun sun peeking over the top of the ridge, I was walking with the sun in my eyes most of the time. Slowly I emerged from the valley floor and was able to catch glimpses of the top of the ridge.

As I climbed I could hear Dad’s voice chortling in my mind: “Switchback! Switchback! Hey, lookey here: Switchback!” Dad loved the idea that you make an ascent or descent easier by cutting back and forth across a wide trail and he liked to remind everyone about it.

At the start of the hike I kept wondering: “Why do people do this? Why did I agree to do this? Why does anybody – especially a flatlander like Dad or me put ourselves through this? I’m gasping for air. My legs hurt. This is no fun.” But as I began to get above the valley floor and was able to see my destination, I remembered. I found a tremendous sense of joy in the effort. I took a very slow pace – one foot in front of the other – rest when I needed - turn around and enjoy the view. I had forgotten the view from near tree line. It is an amazing thing.

One of my best laughs came when my view finally cleared the Crags Ridge, and I could see all the way down the valley to the camp, and I could pick out Eagle’s Nest and Monkey Rock. The day before I had sat at the top of Monkey Rock and had looked up at the ridge. From where I sat then it looked like I didn’t have that big a vertical climb to get to tree line. Looking down now at Monkey Rock I laughed out loud at how small and insignificant and low it is.

One of the things that surprised me was that up to tree line, most of the ridge was tree covered. I remember a little V-shaped patch near tree line, but below that was bare with stumps that had been logged over years ago. Now the forest is recovering and filling in very well. There is still some open meadow, but it was far more tree covered than I remember. I counted the branches on the trees and most were between 20 and 30 years old, so that fits with my timeline. The amazing thing, of course, is that as you near tree line a tree only adds about 1 or 2 inches per year, so a 30 year old tree might still be less than 5’ tall.

I did get one tree to hold the camera for me so I could get a self-portrait.The sign points down to Crags Campground and up to Devil’s Playground. Now that was something I had forgotten – the place where Dad asked to have his ashes spread was the top of the ridge – known in the trail books as Devil’s Playground. Well, it’s too late now!

Another example of that joyful feeling I had as I climbed was at one point I stopped to rest and put down my pack to get my camera out. In doing so I dropped the pack on a rock, The canister holding Dad’s ashes clanked. “Sorry, Dad” I told him. It seemed funny at the time.

Somewhere near tree line I built my first Inukshuk. My friend Ralph introduced me to the Inukshuk earlier this year. Among the Inuit of Northern Canada, the stone trail markings that we know as cairns are given a primitive human form. Ralph tells me that you find these all over the North, and they are markers for fellow travelers.

Later, while there were still some trees around I stopped to rest again and I looked up and the top of the ridge was more plainly visible. I said “We’re almost there, Dad.” This incredible wave of grief washed over me and I knelt and sobbed for several minutes. I built my second Inukshuk there. It was such a surprise to go from joy to grief in the blink of an eye.

As I calmed down and looked up, I found that a pair of deer were watching me from maybe 200 yards uphill and to my left. Perhaps they were alarmed at my strange behavior. I stared back at them through binoculars, and realized how large the buck was. I worried briefly what I’d do if he got territorial. They watched my climb for several minutes, and then disappeared.

By about 10:30 or 10:45 I cleared the top of the ridge. I could see the Pike’s Peak Summit house and the highway. The wind was blowing very hard. By this time I had most of my clothes on, so I was comfortable – or as comfortable as you can be with a 50(?) mph wind at your back.

I had picked out my target spot in the days before the hike. Now the problem was to find it from ‘within’ the space instead of from several miles away. I thought it might be to my right, but then I realized that that area didn’t have the right contour. So I headed north. The top of the ridge is wind-swept tundra. It is full of life, but that isn’t readily apparent. What lives here is tough.

There are half a dozen clusters of rocks on the north end of the ridge. I picked what seemed to be the tallest one, climbed on top of it and knew right away that I was in the right place. I could clearly see the key landmarks at the camp and, below me, the top and center of the eyebrow. I was sure I was on the point that I had aimed for from below. What’s more, the rock beneath my feet was covered with sheep droppings; I knew Dad would have got a kick out of that. But even more fitting was the fact that these rocks were pocked with holes – each about 12” diameter and 4” or 6” deep. Here indeed were bird baths that would never fit in the back of a Volkswagon!

(The bird bath in the VW story: In 1997 Dad and I took our famous trip to Colorado. On that trip we drove to the Gunnison area and hiked one afternoon on Cochetopa Dome. Half way up – probably a couple of miles from our car – he found a rock that he thought would make a perfect bird bath. It was about 18’ x 8’, and maybe 5” thick, with a high spot at one end. He rolled that all the way back to the car. I thought it was the stupidest thing he did all that trip, and I certainly didn’t want it behind my seat! But he prevailed, and the rock still sits in immediately south of their patio.) (Update 2007: When Mom sold the house last year, I scooped up the birdbath stone and it now waits in storage until I get my own place.)

Now that I had found my spot, I got down out of the wind and prepared for my little ceremony. First I took pictures in all directions – a kind of 360 degree panorama. The wind was so loud in my ears that sometimes I couldn’t hear the camera click.

East









Southeast (Pikes Peak Summit)










Southwest – Towards Sentinel Point. Sange de Cristo Range on the horizon.










West – You can see Old Baldy to right and below center. Mts. Princeton, Yale and Harvard on the horizon.











NW towards camp. Eagle’s Nest is about dead center.










North







Then I gathered stones and built my 3rd Inukshuk.


Then I crouched again in the lee of the rock and got out the poem and Dad’s ashes. I read as loudly as I could to the cars driving up the Pike’s Peak Highway below me:

It is not a little story, this is not a story of a fool.
It is not one district that is keening, nor grief of one harpstring.
He, our rightful head, God’s messenger, is dead.
The teller of words who took away our fear, does not return.
The learned one who taught us silence is gone from us.
Good his death: he went to God: angels met him.
He knew the way he was going.
He gave kindness for hatred, he broke the battle against hunger.
Healer of hearts, satisfier of guests,
Shelter of the naked, comfort of the poor,
Their soul’s light, a perfect sage who believed Christ.
Nor went any from this world who more steadfastly bore the cross.
IT IS HIGH HIS DEATH WAS…

(Lines from the poem of keening for Columcille [Columba of the Church], high saint of Gael, by Blind Dallan Forgaill, Chief Poet of Ireland. 597AD)

Now, I know Dad was no saint. Probably nobody is a saint to those closest to them. But I still felt it was appropriate.

Then I stood as high on the rock as I could and tipped his ashes to the west wind, blowing like 60 in the direction of Colorado Springs. For all I know some are still airborne someplace over Kansas.

Then I packed my gear and began my retreat, snapping a few pictures as I walked south to the trail.








The trip down was uneventful, except I could hear Dad chortling: “Switchback! Switchback! Hey, lookey here: Switchback!”


Footnote – From the camp (specifically Monkey Rock) you can see my target in this photo. It’s the high point directly above the center of the Eyebrow.


Here are a couple other images from the climb up and down of landmarks that I well remember from my last trip up this trail.