Just Get Out There - Chicago Basin Trip Report By Heather Hoechst

The thunder reverberates through the ground beneath our shelter. As we lie on our backs, I study the thin sheet of nylon protecting us from the storm raging outside. Lightning flashes across the sky and I instinctively brace for the next crash of thunder. We’re tucked into the Chicago Basin in the Weminuche Wilderness in Southern Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. During the summer, this area is swarming with hikers looking to bag the four 14,000 foot peaks accessible from here, but on the last weekend in September with cool temperatures and storms in the forecast, there are only a few of us here-seeking one last adventure before the snow flies. 

Yesterday morning, we woke up in our warm bed and looked at the weather forecast. Rain. More rain. Lots of rain. Sipping coffee, we tried to get the other to make the decision- “Do you want to go?” “I don’t know. Do you?” “We’re gonna get wet.” “Maybe we should just do day hikes.” “We should go.” “What do you think?” Finally, as he drains the last sip of coffee from his mug, Drew decides. “Let’s go.” 

My summer adventures had looked different this year as I’d spent the last three months with undiagnosed burning pain in my lower legs. Instead of long runs and backpacking trips in the mountains, I’d been riding my bike to lakes for open water swims. I tried to embrace the variety and opportunity to do things a bit differently, but my soul ached to be soothed by the quiet repetitive nature of walking all day in otherwise inaccessible places. It was finally feeling better and I decided I’d rather be wet than still. We started the ritual of packing for a weekend backpacking trip. Shelter, groundcloth, quilt, pad, food, stove, umbrellas, and most importantly, coffee. I broke my own ultralight rules and added extra warm socks and pants. I made sure my Kindle was fully charged for long hours in a tent. When we arrived at the trailhead in early afternoon, the sun was shining and we congratulated ourselves for a good decision. 

The hike into Chicago Basin starts with a 5 mile descent down to the Animas River followed by a long ambling walk along the river to Needle Creek. The aspens had started their annual transition from green to bright yellow and our path was sprinkled with the golden leaves that had already let go. At the very moment that I thought to myself, this is where we should see a moose, we heard a splash and there he was- poised in the middle of the river staring back at us with his broad antlers. He went his way. We went ours. We walked on mostly in silence as the clouds built up in the sky. At the intersection of the Needle Creek trail, we passed up some perfect camp sites in favor of gaining back some elevation for the first night. The trail climbs about 3,500 feet from the river to where it opens up into a high altitude basin around 11,000 feet. As we climbed, we were treated to golden light streaming through the forest and frequent glimpses of both the rushing creek and the jagged peaks coming into view. We reached the first few campsites as the last light was fading from the sky and a few drops of rain started to fall. Shelter up, water collected, dinner made, we stared up at the black sky before crawling into our quilts for sleep. I woke to an unfamiliar sound like something was brushing up on the tent. Through the darkness, I could see the even darker outline of a creature- bigger than a marmot, smaller than a bear, and way too close to my face. I shouted and it ran off just as Drew woke up with a start. What’s happening, he asked? Just saving you from becoming a meal of some unknown creature of the forest, I told him. Sure that whatever it was had long decided that we were too big to eat, we closed our eyes and went back to sleep. 

The morning greeted us with cloudy skies, but no rain yet, so we packed up our rain gear and some snacks and headed further up the trail, content knowing that we would have warm dry quilts to return to should we get caught in a squall. While I had been into Chicago Basin before, it was just passing through on a longer trek and I had not been up to the access point for the 14-ers. Unlike many people, I am not so much pulled by the summits of tall peaks as much as I am by going up and over passes and exploring a large swath of land. Drew, on the other hand, likes nothing better than scrambling as high as possible and had been up these peaks many times. When we got to Twin Lakes, we stared up at the towering summits of Eolus, Sunlight, and Windom peaks. Knowing the weather would likely only hold for one ascent, we chose Windom for its slightly easier technical rating and started up. While I’m generally quite comfortable at altitude and in a lot of mountain terrain, I am admittedly somewhat afraid of rocky scrambles and the exposure that often accompanies these adventures. As we climb higher, I focus only on the boulder directly in front of me, on my hands, on my feet, and on not looking down. Slowly but surely, we pick our way to the summit, which was not actually the summit, and then to the actual summit where I promptly sat down to catch my breath, slow my heart, and take in the views. At 14,089 feet, Windom Peak offers spectacular views of the Weminuche and beyond. I’m always struck by how quiet and peaceful it is up high- time seems to stop and the world both shrinks and grows simultaneously. I am here now. A snack and a deep breath as I gather my courage for the descent, thankful the weather has cooperated and even the wind has stilled. We are alone. Two weeks earlier and we would likely be sharing this adventure with at least a hundred other people. 

We drop back down to the main trail and I look longingly at Columbine Pass to the east, glance at the sky, and look at Drew. His hip has been complaining all summer and I can see that he is not keen on another climb, but it is only 2:00 and he sees the longing in my eyes. With his blessing, I head for the pass, while he returns to camp for some coffee and rest. I don’t know what it is about a switchbacking trail up a steep ascent to a pass, but I am drawn to them like a skier to a perfect line. I love the effort it takes to gain elevation at altitude. I love wondering what I will see on the other side of the pass. I love the repetition of the legs as I swing my hiking poles forward one at a time. It’s a moving meditation that seems to calm my nervous system in a way that nothing else can. I reach the pass and take in the view of Columbine lake on the other side, looking back over to towering Windom. Just at this moment, the wind picks up and I’m hit with some sideways blowing sleet so I flip my hood over my head, get my umbrella ready, and quicken my steps back down towards camp. No sooner than having dropped my pack and removing shoes, the skies open up and I dive into shelter. It’s about 5:00 pm and the storm has arrived. 

We spend the next 16 hours in the tent listening to the ebb and flow of water hitting the nylon. At times, it rains so hard, I am sure the ground must be so saturated that it will soon turn into a lake. When it periodically lightens, we scramble out to pee and stretch our legs. A longer interlude offers a period to make dinner and stand up for more than a few minutes. I read. We talk. Mostly, we lie there quietly and marvel at the rain. I realize that I am more at peace than I have been in months- rather than feeling restless and claustrophobic, I feel calm and content. Being forced to do nothing and wait out the storm turns out to be the medicine I needed. 

It’s still raining in the morning so we sip our coffee on our stomachs and wrap our minds around the damp hike out that awaits us. At some point between our second cup and the oatmeal, it stops. We stuff damp tents and sleeping quilts into our packs, feeling cautiously optimistic. Low clouds hang off the now snowy peaks above us. The air is damp and cool. I look at Drew. “Thank you for getting me out here,” I say. I can’t find any other words to express the wonder and gratitude I am feeling for being up in these mountains. As we descend back down to the Animas, the sky slowly clears and turns that familiar Colorado blue. Not a drop of rain falls the entire way back to the trailhead. I make a mental note that no matter the forecast, when given the opportunity (and it’s safe), just get out there. The worst that will happen is you get a little wet and, if you're lucky, you may find peace on a pass or just passing the hours in a water soaked tent.