© Copyright 2005 Bill Nesbitt

July 8, 2005 — Evan and I got out of the rented Jeep about a mile and a half short of where we probably should have gotten out, but the hike up the rest of the road was nice anyway. The Jeep, by the way, was pretty amazing. Don't know when I've had that much fun driving, but the road ahead looked increasingly challenging, and I didn't want Denise (my wife) any more nervous than necessary on her drive back to Ouray. Before leaving, she took the first two photos below (by the way, that's Gilpin Peak behind us). She says she wants pictures so she can identify us in case of trouble. If she really wants to do this, she should keep the camera.

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Yankee Boy Basin on June 25th wasn't the dazzling display of wildflowers it probably is by now, and there was a lot of snow. A LOT of snow, and we were ill-prepared for it. Nevertheless, it was a beautiful hike through the last couple of miles through the Basin.

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We saw a couple of guys ahead of us trudging uphill through the snow that covered much of the trail. We caught up with them when they stopped to put on their gaiters — they were actually ready for the snow — and we went on past them up toward Blue Lakes Pass, confident they would catch back up and pass us again. We spoke to them, and they said they were from Fort Collins and did this "occasionally."

Soon the Basin turned to a mix of trail and snowy mountainside as we made our way up toward the pass, which stood ahead of us at 13,000 feet. The treeline was long gone by now and the vistas were pretty incredible. We had seen what we initially thought was a person, till it didn't move for awhile and we determined it was a marker (pic 19). From the top of the pass we could see the two upper Blue Lakes more than 1,000 feet below us. By now our feet were cold and damp from the sometimes ankle-deep snow.

Here are photos I took on the way up to the Blue Lakes Pass...

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Then an odd thing happened. The two guys who were now quite a ways behind us turned around and headed back. They had been joined by a woman who had met us on the trail right after we had gotten started. She was out walking with her dog and caught up with the two hikers, then they all turned back. I now wonder if she told them something we also needed to know, maybe that the trail on the other side of the pass was covered with snow, so why bother even trying. At the time we thought they just wimped out. As it turns out, they would be the last human beings we would see until 10:30 that night.

At this point we felt really good and were looking forward to what we thought would be an easy three-hour hike around the three Blue Lakes down through the spruce trees to the Blue Lakes Trailhead. By now (around noon) the inevitable weather was starting to develop over our heads, so our immediate priority was getting to a lower altitude before it started to lightning. So we decided to do what we would normally not dream of: we basically slid down about 800 feet of talus, ignoring the trail and its multitude of snow-covered switchbacks. But since we were by now the only hikers on this trail, at least we weren't setting a bad example for others.

Here are photos of the two upper Blue Lakes taken from the top of the pass and on our way down the other side. Note one of the lakes is difficult to see from high up because of the snow and ice covering it.

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We had no trouble negotiating our way around the upper lakes and down toward the lower lake. Much of the snow we encountered was packed down, but occasionally we got knee-deep into it. It was when we got to the lower lake that we lost the trail and ended up on the wrong side of the canyon. Pic 26 shows where the trail should have been, under a snow avalanche on the west side of the canyon.

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In our haste to lose altitude and beat the weather we neglected to check the map to see where the trail should have been. We simply headed north, following East Fork Dallas Creek down the canyon along what appeared to be an alternate trail. At times, where the snow drifts were waist deep, we would go around it through the trees. At other times we would follow what appeared to be footprints through the snowy sections. For a good while it actually appeared we were following a trail that might lead somewhere. This was definitely a wilderness area — there were lots of fallen trees, especially as we got deeper down the canyon.

Then the "trail" ran out and we had to improvise. The next four hours or so are a bit of a blur. Evan wanted to get down closer to the creek to see if we could hike along the bank to the trailhead. It was swollen and fast, so crossing it by now was impossible. We worked awhile to get to it, but once there, discovered the terrain was so uneven and steep (not to mention all the fallen trees) that following the river wasn't an option. So we went back up till we hit an impasse, then down, then up, all the while meandering northward along the east side of the canyon. At times I would spot what appeared to be a trail and follow it for awhile, only to have it play out. The deer droppings soon led me to the conclusion that we were far from any real trail. I guess if my dog can make a trail in my backyard, a deer can make one in the woods.

You'll notice the lack of pictures from here on. I took the camera from my pocket and put it into my pack. I didn't know what to expect from here on. I only knew I was cold and tired, my feet were wet, my eldest son was with me, and the end of the day was getting closer as the clouds built overhead. We would go awhile, yell, scream and whistle (I have a very loud whistle), listen, hear nothing in reply, and go on. Each time we did this, I would grow a little more exhausted and would sink deeper into despair.

My despair seemed well-founded at the time. We were lost in the wilderness and daylight was fading. But we pressed on, always hearing the creek to our left (though by this time I was no longer sure it was, in fact, Dallas Creek), crossing over and under huge fallen logs, even wading through a large swampy area. Our feet were wet anyway, so it didn't much matter by then. Always, a prayer was on my lips: "Lord, show me a trail. I don't care where it goes, just show me a trail." A few times I would stop to rest and be slow about getting started again. My body was telling me to give up. Evan was always there: "C'mon, Dad, let's go." I now know those words helped save us from a long, miserable night in the forest.

There were a few tense moments. At one point our only viable option was to slide down a snowfield about 30 feet or so. Another time, after we had crossed the creek by walking across the snow that lay on top, we found ourselves once again out of options and had to cross back by scooting across a fallen log just above a small waterfall. A dip in the roaring creek at this juncture would have been most unpleasant. There were a couple of other times when we had to negotiate our way around rock overhangs. The drops weren't that high, but the hillside below was so steep that a fall would have become a roll that wouldn't have stopped for awhile. At no time did I feel like we were genuinely risking death — but that was just from my viewpoint.

We finally stopped on a large outcropping of boulders. By now, I was exhausted and ready to make plans for the night. We were out of water (we had each carried three 24-ounce bottles — plenty, we thought, for a day hike), my lips were dry and cracked, my legs were dead and my spirit was weak. "Lord, just show me a trail." A distant rumble of thunder made me wonder: Lord, was that Your voice? Is an answer near? Or is the answer to be a fearful, hypothermic, mosquito-bitten night out here?

I told Evan we were giving up on the idea of ever getting back down to the creek; our last-ditch effort would be to slant back upward toward the top of the canyon. Daylight was fading fast now and it would soon rain. It had already rained on us at some point, and our ponchos had gotten torn from the underbrush and tree limbs. I mustered my strength one more time and we headed up the boulder field, through some more forest and into a glade. We walked into the meadow a bit, then Evan pointed out to me what would be the first in a series of answers to prayer.

Jeep tracks.

Really more like Jeep tire impressions on the meadow grass from year before last, but they were clearly visible and led through the meadow, so we followed, still heading north with the creek on our left. Now, without even thinking about it, I found an energy that kept me going for the next five miles (or so), at a pace even Evan sometimes had a hard time keeping up with. I don't know if it was the suddenly level terrain, a renewed sense of hope, an excited feeling that God was close by and was answering our prayers while we watched — all of these, I suppose — but we quickly followed the Jeep tracks to a Jeep road which led through a gate to a main road, and we kept walking north. We passed an intersection with a sign that said "Dallas Creek," which, as it turns out, was one and the same as the Blue Lakes Trailhead where the Deputy Sheriff was waiting for us. But we didn't know that then. We only knew that it was getting dark, we weren't sure where we were on the map, north looked easier, and surely somebody would be out on this road who could help us. Besides, our feet were REALLY wet now from having to cross yet another creek where the log bridge had been washed out. I only wanted to hike away from snow-swollen creeks and toward any sign of civilization.

Meanwhile, back at the inn, Denise had made one phone call back to Little Rock, and within the hour, prayers were going up for us across half a hemisphere. Think I'm exaggerating? Ask Denise. These things are NOT coincidental. Not long after, one of the thunderstorms that had dogged us earlier set an incredible rainbow over Ouray, as if to personally confirm to Denise that all would be well.

Denise is such a trooper. She never stopped praying and waiting for us. She had to be strongly persuaded by the Deputy Sheriff to stop searching and go back to the inn to await word.

As it turns out, we were on the East Dallas Creek Road, headed for Highway 62. We still weren't sure of this — we could see distant headlights on a highway ahead of us, but we didn't know how far we had come. As the sun went down and darkness started to close in, my prayer changed to, "Lord, a pair of headlights shining in my eyes would be very nice now. Headlights in my eyes, O Lord, please."

My eyes can only adjust so much to darkness. Soon it was getting to the point where I was starting to worry about seeing the road in front of us. It had thunderstormed on us — us dayhikers in our tattered ponchos — somewhere along the Jeep road and the sky was still cloudy, so there wouldn't be much moonlight. My previously-buoyed spirits were beginning to sink again as my feet warmed up enough to feel how sore they actually were. There were mile markers along the road, so I knew we had at least three more miles to go before whatever, and by now I had about given up on anyone else being on this road. The headlights I thought I had been seeing a mile or so back turned out to be some sort of lights across a canyon at some peoples' house. They were either deaf, didn't care, or were too far away to hear our cries for help. Or maybe they were simply away from home, like us.

By now, if there was a bear or panther, it would definitely see us first.

Then Evan hollered at me, "Dad, behind us!"

There they were, headlights BEHIND us. The vehicle stopped and Deputy Keith Sanders stepped out. I honestly don't remember when I've seen a more welcome sight. He made sure we were OK, confirmed that we were the by-now-legendary "Bill and Evan," and radioed in that he had found the missing hikers. We loaded up and welcomed the prospect of RIDING home. Deputy Keith even treated us to hot chocolate and pizza at Ridgway. We didn't linger long, though — we were anxious to get home.

Denise had called the sheriff's office about five, after waiting for us three hours at the trailhead. Deputy Keith then came to the inn where we were staying, got descriptions from her, and proceeded to Yankee Boy Basin. He stayed there awhile, talked to the campers, decided we probably weren't coming back there, then drove all the way back around to the Blue Lakes Trailhead where he talked to more people and waited for us. After waiting till after dark, he then headed back north toward Highway 62. It was about three miles south of Highway 62 that he picked us up. He was the only available deputy sent to look for us because a fatal car crash earlier in the day had occupied the rest of the department.

Paul, the innkeeper, had also gone out to the Blue Lakes Trailhead to check around. Nice guy, and a good innkeeper. There was no phone in our cottage, so he was the good-news-bearer to Denise that night. His place is called the Main Street Bed and Breakfast, by the way. We were in the Chipeta Cottage. Excellent.

Evan and I arrived at the inn, thanked Deputy Keith profusely, debriefed awhile with Denise and our other two kids, then went to bed and "slept good," just as Deputy Keith had predicted. Best I can figure, we put in somewhere between thirteen and fifteen miles that day, much of it spent fighting a steep canyon wall covered in snow and wilderness forest.

O God — Please let me hike these trails again someday to celebrate Your unmatched grace, and to remember. Amen.

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