The Colorado Trail

I am rapt. Tight and warm in my sleeping bag, I stare out at the night sky. It is perfectly clear. My fellow hikers are nearby, and in the distance we can hear the sound of coyotes. They are neither barking nor howling, but something between the two, as if they are calling to one another. Their calls become louder.

In the corner of my eye I can see our food, in white plastic bags, hanging from a tree. The coyotes are running, beating a path towards us. My heart races and pounds, with excitement and apprehension, and the effects of ascending so quickly to nine thousand feet. My head aches and I feel sick. Tomorrow, we go higher.

The conifers which shelter us are twenty feet tall. Their tops dance in the wind against a backdrop of stars on a moonlit stage. There goes a shooting star! It is too much. My head spins.

Sleep is not easy. There is a low rumbling, like distant thunder. Then, as if the whole mountain is collapsing, a gust of wind sweeps through the trees, passing us by. It sounds like a train. The gusts become stronger and more frequent; and we are lying on the tracks of the main line. This is a ghost train! The trees bend while I lie rigid, waiting for the crash.

I rise with the sun.

The hike up, the next day, is long and arduous in driving winds. “Wail winds wail/ All along, along, along/ The Colorado Trail” (“The Colorado Trail” lines 5-8). The wisps of cloud in the morning sky have become huge and dark. Powdery snow swirls around us, then bites into our faces, as we struggle with freezing hands to set up the tents. The slightest effort saps all our strength and leaves us gasping for air. This, in turn, increases our loss of water with sweat and exhalation.

Once inside, we attempt to melt snow for drinking and cooking food: It takes about two hours to produce one litre. (We had estimated that each person–four in all–needed four litres per day. Even with two stoves, it would be impossible.)

I have no appetite, but manage to eat something. My legs and feet are cold.

We try to get some sleep. Although it is warm in our bags, the fierce wind outside makes it impossible. My throat, mouth and lips are dry while the insides of the tent are wet with condensation; as this freezes, it is spat back into our faces by the slapping canvas which seems about to be hoisted away from us at any moment.

The night is endless. I am waiting for a train to take me out of here, but I know they will not stop to pick up passengers. They are expresses, and their speed is urgent. They are delivering the news: And the news is History. We will not climb the peak. We will go down.

Works Cited

Anonymous. “The Colorado Trail.” In S. Barnet, M. Burman, & W. Berto (Eds), An Introduction to Literature (9th ed.). Boston: Scott, Foresman & Company. (1989). p.411.