Adventures in the Tenmile Range: Battling Nature's Forces
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Chapter 1: The Ascent
As I ascend beyond the treeline, the rain intensifies, drenching me in a relentless drizzle. My so-called "water-resistant" jacket and pants fail to keep me dry, and I feel the chill of the thin, frigid air as I push myself up the slope, trying to generate warmth. The clouds thicken as I climb higher.
Reaching the tundra, I encounter a landscape dotted with stones and clusters of miniature spruce and willow trees lining the trail. The breathtaking views of Buffalo Mountain and Dillon Reservoir to the north, Quandary Peak to the south, and Breckenridge alongside Bald Mountain to the east are all shrouded in a blanket of gray clouds.
Moments pass, and I find myself above the clouds, alone on the mountain. The summits around me are made of metasedimentary rock, with slick mounds of ancient stone and their vibrant lichen becoming perilous under the rain. I struggle to maintain my footing while hoisting my bike upward, gasping for breath with each laborious step. Navigating steep switchbacks through rocky terrain, I finally reach the pinnacle of the Tenmile Range.
"My guidebook states that this is the first stretch of trail above the tree line for several miles," I recall, "offering rewarding views of the surrounding peaks and valleys." Yet, beyond the tundra where I stand, all I can see is a thick wall of mist.
Chapter 2: A Shocking Realization
As I ride along the ridge of the Tenmile Range, perched at an altitude of 12,000 feet, a jarring thought strikes me—if a thunderstorm rolls in, I might be in serious danger. My guidebook warns that summer thunderstorms can develop rapidly, and here I am, riding an aluminum bicycle that could easily attract lightning.
In Colorado, around half a million lightning bolts strike each year, with an average of a dozen people getting struck annually. The consequences are dire, with temperatures reaching 54,000 degrees Fahrenheit and the resulting thunder from the explosive air expansion. From 1959 to 2017, lightning strikes claimed 148 lives in Colorado, and many more were injured.
Some might argue that the odds of being struck by lightning are low—lower than choking on gummy worms or crashing your car. Yet, one doesn't need to be a mathematician to realize that riding a metal bike high in the mountains during a storm significantly increases those odds. This sobering thought propels me to pick up speed as distant thunder rumbles ominously.
Descending steeply along the western slope, I attempt to navigate the rocky terrain with increasing urgency. My bike's brakes squeak, and the wheels slip on boulders slick with orange fire lichen. I spot two backpackers watching with wide eyes as I struggle to regain control.
In a desperate attempt to stabilize myself, I veer off the trail. There's a unique chaos to downhill mountain biking, akin to a Taoist principle of effortless action. I embrace the flow of the ride, my body moving instinctively with the undulating ground beneath me. At last, I manage to calm my wild ride and glide onto a smoother, albeit muddy, stretch of trail.
The backpackers step aside as I approach. "Well done, man!" one cheers over the rain. "Be careful out there!" adds the other with a grin. I nod appreciatively, recalling past mishaps that have left me battered. Just a few years back, I dislocated my shoulder on a nearby trail, a common injury in mountain biking.
According to a 2002 Sports Medicine study, most serious mountain biking injuries occur when riders are abruptly thrown forward off their bikes, often while descending. I reflect on my own experience and the pain that followed, prompting me to slow down and navigate the trail more cautiously.
As I descend through the damp forest and finally reach Tenmile Creek, I realize the peaks above are becoming increasingly ominous, cloaked in darkening clouds.
Chapter 3: Seeking Shelter
I search for a suitable spot to set up camp and discover a bed of pine needles beneath a towering conifer. I quickly pitch my tent, desperate to escape the cold and wet conditions. I toss my sleeping bag, dry clothes, and headlamp inside, then crawl in, seeking warmth.
Though the rain has stopped, the temperature has dropped significantly. I shake with cold, worrying about the risk of hypothermia. When considering dangers in the wild, people often think of bears and snakes, but hypothermia is a serious threat.
Hypothermia is the leading cause of death for those lost in the wilderness. Research indicates that from 1999 to 2011, nearly 17,000 people succumbed to hypothermia in the U.S., with many of them engaged in mountain activities.
As I reflect on the physical demands of mountain recreation—where exertion can lead to sweating and heat loss—I realize that coming to a stop in the cold, especially after being soaked, can lead to dangerous consequences. Hypothermia sets in when the body cannot produce heat fast enough to counteract heat loss.
The body's attempts to retain warmth involve constricting blood vessels and inducing shivering, which consumes a lot of energy. If this continues, the results can be fatal.
"The best way to combat hypothermia is through exercise," the study states.
So here I am, trembling in my tent, engaging in push-ups and breathing exercises to elevate my body temperature. While I consider starting a fire to dry out my clothes, a state-wide fire ban dissuades me.
Cars on Interstate 70 hum in the distance, passing like shooting stars. Eventually, warmth begins to return, and I feel my fingers and toes warming up again. As I settle down with a copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations, I drift into a semblance of sleep, comforted by the embrace of my tent.
Note: This narrative is an excerpt from my upcoming book, The Trail to Nowhere: Life and Death Along the Colorado Trail, set to be published on August 24, 2024. Pre-orders are available now, and you can claim a free copy if you wish to read it before the release. Thank you for your interest!