DUDE, REIN-O!

(Part two)

Like any backcountry woodsman, my first priority was to replenish our water supply and purify it.  Dusk was approaching quickly.  While traveling back to the pond, we moved slowly and stealthily, with guns in hand.  Every now and then my leader would turn around with a finger in front of his mouth.  We’d stand perfectly still and scan for any signs of movement.  “The ghosts of the forest” could have been moving in the dark timber down the slope below us, what our eyes could not see, our ears would have to step up.  However, no sounds of crashing timber or rustling brush were heard below us.

I had noticed when we first past the pond, that it was frozen.  Since I’ve dealt with that before, I just assumed I could punch a hole in the early November ice with a rock.  It proved not to be very easy.  The ice was a few inches thick, frozen completely through from the center of the pond out to the fingers that snaked through the grass and down the hill.  Giving up the rock, I opened up my leatherman pliers and started stabbing frantically at the surface.  I busted more knuckles than ice and all but gave up when my partner innocently asked, “Do you think it will break if I shoot it with my .45?”

“Will it break?!  Shit yeah, shoot that thing!” I jumped up and got out of the way.  Before the trip, I had rejected the idea of carrying a pistol on the hunt.  I viewed it as unneccessary weight, and a less effective form of bear deterrent than mace.  But Army Guy over here just had to relive the glory days with his in a strapped holster.

He aimed and shot down at a high angle to the surface.  BLAM! SPLASH!  The water blasted up like a fountain 10 feet in the air, leaving a hole in the ice.  One shot was enough, and I was just about to take a step forward when he fired another shot, and another, at the ice repeatedly, shooting well over a half dozen shot before holstering the sidearm.  (VIDEO LINK)

“I think that will do it, I said and drew water into water bottles and hydration bladders.  We sat on a log wait for the chemical reaction to work in the water, in the cold, dark silence.

When we got back to camp, I started to get comfortable. Now that it was dark,  It was going to get cold very soon, and stay that way until well after sunrise.  I was grateful to have packed in a foam bedroll.  It was not very heavy and made the entire night much more comfortable.  I had also brought slightly more insulation than necessary, but I knew the next day would be ruined if I didn’t sleep well tonight.  We built a small fire and remembered a lesson that was given to us by J.L. back at Elk Camp the night before….

“Hey laddies,” the original orator started out after a swig from a Budweiser, “do you know the difference between an Indian fire and a white man fire?”

“No”, we all replied.

He changed his tone to mimick a wise old native of the western slope:  “Indian fire very small…sit very close.”  Then he tossed a capful of Coleman fuel on the flame, causing it to flare up to the height of him, illuminating his face in a blaze of red.  “White man fire very big…sit far away!” and folded his arms in front of him.

Deep in the wilderness, when our small Indian fire was built and crackling away, it was time to eat.  We were careful not to overdo the food packing during the trip, but nonetheless we managed to bring the “red neck gourmet”, which included, roasted Spam on a stick and hot cocoa spiked with a flask of Jack Daniels.  After dinner, I tucked into my sleeping bag with all my thermal clothing on, and pulled the hood of my down puffy over my head.  I gazed up at the stars for a bit.  It was a very clear night, and I could not think of any other place more peaceful to be in but in the deep mountain forests of the North American West.  I don’t know how long I watched the sky, but I slept soundly and warm the entire night.  (Utilizing an old method, I had boiled a bottle of water and zipped it up in an insulated sleeve.  I placed it down between my legs, and when I awoke sometime in the middle of the night with a chill, I unzipped the bottle and replenished the warmth in the sleeping bag, and fell back asleep.)  Occasionally through the night, I heard the coyotes howling away.  I hear them everytime I camp out in the woods, but have never had an encounter with one at any time.

We woke at nearly 4:00 AM, and it was still dark.  I was already dressed and ready to hunt.  My Jet-boil, already loaded with water from the previous night, was right next to my sleeping bag.  I fired it on and brewed two cups of coffee for us in minutes.  My headlamp, navigation tools, binoculars, and rifle were on the other side of me.  I stepped out of my bag and was ready to go.

We hiked through darkness back down towards an open talus field that we encountered the previous night.  We hid in the dense trees at the base of the field and leaned against a log, each of us viewing in a different direction.  Then we sat in utter silence until sunrise.  We realized then that we had made a slight error: today was the first day of daylight savings time, and the GPS had already recalibrated when we awoke this morning, thinking that sunrise was approaching, when in fact we had added an hour to our wait.

I’ve never truly experienced a dawn awakening in the mountains before.  At any time I was up before dawn for a mountaineering ascent, I was moving and staying warm.  I never realized how truly cold it gets just before dawn until sitting motionless that morning.

I first felt the shiver in my toes, and then spread to my legs.  I started wiggling them slightly, careful not to move.  “C’mon, dude,” I told myself, “just ride it out like a wave, and then it will get warm again.”  It was a strange experience, because although the horizon started to glow with a slight dim of sunlight, the temperature was getting colder with each second.

I heard my partner snoring on the other side of the log.  Damning him, I had a smoke to relax, and rode out the cold snap.

Listening to the forest wake up was another new experience.  There was total silence for a long time, and then I distinctively remember hearing the first bird chirp of the morning.  The first official awake animal of the day.  Then another, and another, and soon birds were flying from tree to tree, overhead.  Then the small mammals, squirrels, pika could be heard talking to each other and scurrying around the grass.

My partner was awake and heard the low rumbling sound from far down the valley below.  “I hear a generator,” Construction Guy said. “Someone is running a gas generator.”

“No…listen.  Those are the frogs, down in the swamp at the base of the mountain,” I explained.  True, the massive rumbling sounded very much like a generator, but I knew we were miles away from the nearest Homo Sapien.

Unfortunately, we did not sign a single Wapiti.  Discouraged, we decided to head back to camp and strip some layers, now that the sun was up.

Afterwords, we headed out east from camp.  “Let’s split up,”  Scott said, “do you want to go to the right or to the left?”

“I’ll go this way,” I said and pointed off to the left, down the northeast slope of the mountain.  This was the first time we had split up.  Although I had expected it, I was flush with a sudden apprehension.  “So what’s the protocol?”  I asked.  “If I see it, shoot it?”

“If you see it, shoot it.”

Because the statistical facts of Elk hunting in Colorado state that all hunters start out with a 20% rate of success the minute they buy their tag.  From that point on, we had done everything to increase our chances: hiking in far away from human pressure, tracking through the steep, dark, north-facing timber, and now splitting up to improve the odds once more.  The rest of the odds were controlled by pure luck.

I scrambled down the slope, careful not to lose too much elevation, and sat on a large rock where I had a wide view of the mountainside below me.  I then sat and watched.

I had not sat there ten minutes, when I heard the shot–BANG!

I was startled, then my mind started to race.  We had heard a few shots during the first day of hiking, from many hunters miles away in the valley.  But this one was LOUD.  I knew there was only one other person out here.  Excited, I started running aimlessly in the direction of the shot.  I did not hear a second shot, which was a good sign.

However, there was a second shot quite a while after the first.  I was confused, but headed for it, climbing higher and higher to the south, and finally over the spiny ridge that separated the faces.

“Adam!”  my partner yelled.  I looked down through a grassy clearing, but did not see anyone.

“Yo!  How are you?!”  I asked.

“Bull down, baby!  BULL DOWN!”

I grinned from ear to ear after hearing the news.  If I had any traces of jealousy for my partners success at that moment, they died almost instantly.  I was so happy–SUCCESS.

“Let’s hike up and get all our gear.  We’ve got a lot of work to do!”  He wasn’t kidding.  Now it was for real, and stopped being just another hike in the woods.  I was ready for anything.

We met back at camp and he was fired up, telling his story.   “I was hiking down that field when I saw movement to the side, and I was surprised by a cow.  She was locked on to me and I was on to her.  It was a staredown.  Another cow came behind her, and before I could draw my gun, they bolted.  Then another cow appeared, followed by the bull.  He stopped to look for the disappearing cows, and allowed me a split second shot.  BANG!  Did I hit him?  I tried to reload and the gun jammed!  Fuck!  While messing with the action, I watched him take a few steps, then drop to the ground.  Dead.”

“Wow.  Good job, man.”

We scrambled back down and I had my first look at the game.  It was a middle-aged mature bull, with a wide, sweeping 5×5 rack. 

“Wow…that thing is huge!”  I uttered in amazement.

“Yeah, I’ll give you half the meat if you help me pack it out of here,”  he offered.

Of course I had no choice.  We were looking at at least 200 pounds of raw meat, 6 miles back in the middle of the mountains, and the storm clouds were moving in.  Every working effort put forth by the both of us for the rest of the trip was spent on bringing this meat to the dinner table…

(to be continued)

I’ve never done this before (and now, looking back, I don’t know why!), but I wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper, and they actually printed it! I’m excited, so I’m sharing the news.

Here is my letter.

And here is the original news article.

(PART ONE)

For the many weeks that led up to Elk Camp, our plans got more and more complex.  After researching countless previous testimonials, reading page after page of ungulate ecology, and studying topo maps of various detail, we finally had a plan.

1.  To hike in as far and as high in the mountains as possible.
2.  To get off the beaten path and explore the deepest and darkest woods man has ever seen.
3.  To stay there as long as necessary to hunt and harvest an abundance of meat.

Many skeptics on the jobsite doubted our integrity.

“You’ll never make it!” they said.

While still others encouraged us, “Go get after it!”

On the Friday before the opening of Third Season, my hunting partner and I had left Carbondale and headed toward the Gunnison Valley, over Kebler Pass.  When we arrived in Crested Butte, we found our two Irish Boys waiting for us at the bar, fresh from Chicago.

When we told them our plan, JL took a long, slow swig of ale, as if digesting the seemily outrageous scheme we had just presented to him “You’re going to do what?!  You’ll die, dudes!”

“Nah,” Scott reassurred him.  “We’ve got it all figured out.”

Fortunately for us, JL had found an excellent location for Elk Camp.  Up near Ohio Pass, a side road flattens out in the middle of the aspen forests.  In fact, they were the tallest aspen trees I’ve ever seen, and they went on for miles in every direction.  It felt like a spiritual place.

After we set up camp, Scott brought out the Mojo Stick, which he tied to a tree to watch over our camp, and bring us all good harvest in the days to come.  A blessing was then done by our resident Chaplain and concluded with a toast of Wild Turkey bourbon.

While relegating around the campfire, we started to put together our packs for the morning expedition.  The only rule I set was to be completely prepared to spend at least three nights out in the wilderness.  I had brought my 65 Liter backpack, the largest I own, into which I stuffed the warmest technical clothing and sleeping bag needed for a frigid night above 10,000 feet in November.  Much water was not necessary, for I knew that we would never be far from water when high in the rockies.  The most valuable item in the pack, however, were vials of Aquamira purification, to make any of the mountain stream and river water drinkable.  We had a variety of basic dried food, and I brought along the Jet Boil for optimal boiling of water for all backcountry cooking.  I added a first aid kid, three forms of fire starting, maps, compass, gps, two way radios, camera, knives, tools, game bags, rope and other miscellaneous items and I was all set.  Lastly, my hand-me-down .30-06 rifle was strapped to the outside of the pack.

DAY ONE

I couldn’t sleep much at all that night.  I thought it was very similiar to the anticipation I’ve felt before an early spring mountaineering attempt.  Like those cold mornings, we woke before dawn.  Because the pack was all set, I put on all my clothes and wandered into Jack and JL’s tent for some fresh coffee.  Like good backcountry travellers, we then informed our friends of our plan.  We had decided to start off at the Swampy Pass trailhead and pack in along the trail thru the border into the West Elk Wilderness.  Upon reaching swampy pass, we would explore the basin south of the Anthracite Range.  We did not plan to return the first night.  We told our friends that if we missed the second night, do not worry, but after the third night, things may not be going well.

We said our goodbyes for our friends as they sped of on their new 4-wheeler.  Throughout the rest of the trip, I found myself constantly thinking for their safety, and wondering how their hunt was going, while on our own.

At the start of the hike, we were overtaken by a pair of Oklahoma boys on horseback.  We exchanged plans, and they said “we’re on radio channel 2, holler if you need help”.  I appreciated the comradarie and let their horses pass.

The sun had started to rise quickly.  Out to the southwest, the dominate rock formation known as “The Castles” came into view.  For the entire hunt, this amazing formation formed the backdrop of our trip, always in sight and an excellent navigation tool.

From the start of the hike, the chances were slim that we would see any wildlife.  It was unseasonably warm at low elevation.  Since we didn’t plan on shooting anything that morning anyways, we moved quickly along the hiker’s trail, stopping many times to adjust our backpacks or have a snack and safety meeting. The weight in my pack was not nearly as much as the recod 60 lbs I carried into Rocky Mountain National park to climb the Spearhead a few years ago, but it was still a lot to carry for the ten miles we had done by the end of the day.

At mile marker four, we reached the boundary of the West Elk Wilderness.  Other than the two Okies we encountered at the trailhead, we would not see another human being for the entire time in the wilderness.  I was happy for this feeling of independence, which mean we were left to survive with everything we had and everything God has given us in our surroundings.

By mile six, we had reached Swampy Pass, marked by a wooden sign.  This moment in time marked the end of our planned route.  Now we had some decisions to make.  Instinct would tell us to look for a steep, shady slope with heavy evergreen growth.  We started to follow a game trail up a hill north of Swampy Pass, heading toward the Anthracite Range, but then stopped.

“It is too sunny here!”  I shouted, “all this vegetation is burnt”.  We were on an open slope with short shrubs. 

“We need a north-facing slope,” Scott suggested.  He was referring to one facet of information that is shared by both snowsliders and hunters: that the north face is the coldest and darkest, creating an ideal climate for both light fluffy powder in winter and old bull elk the rest of the time.

Together, we identified a large rolling knoll not too far across the valley to the south.  It looked only a few miles away, but we would be heading directly through a dense evergreen forest through the bottom of the valley.  Our goal was to be on top of it by sunset.

Once we got off the trail and into the timber, signs of wildlife sprouted up everywhere.  Near a stream, we saw dozens of hoof prints on the muddy banks, as if a stampede had come crashing through here days ago.  However, the mud was frozen solid as we climbed up the mountain.  We also hiked through some bedding areas, where the old rotten timber of downed trees had nearly disentragrated into soft beds of sawdust.  As we climbed higher and higher (the GPS read 10,800 at the top), so did the frequency and amount of droppings in the grass.

Scott speared a fist size pile with his hiking pole.  “That’s a bull.  And he’s not far,”  the master hunter before me said.  This is when I started to get the feeling of anxiety that would control my mind for the next 15 hours.  At any given moment, it was possible for us to come upon an unsuspecting Wapiti, where the element of surprise between two vastly different mammals would become crucial.  I did not know if I was quite ready for it. 

(I have seen elk up close only once before, in a hot summer at Rocky Mountain National Park.  We had been hiking down from a climb on Lumpy Ridge, when my friend ahead of me stopped in his tracks.  Two big bulls were standing ten yards from us, gnawing voraciously at lush greeen leaves.  They all but ignored us then, but when I took one step too close, one left the food and swept his large antlers around and stared me down, before turning away and crashing through the woods at high speed.)

When Scott and I reached a small alpine pond near sunset, I knew we should set up camp near the water supply before it got too dark.  We scrambled across the slope to find a small flat ledge of grass, surrounded by a few downed trees that would provide back support and firewood.  Finally, after 12 hours of hiking, the heavy backpacks dropped to the ground. 

“I don’t want to wear that thing again for at least a day,” I said.  We both knew that the hunt was going to take place right here on the mountain side, within a few miles from camp.   After establishing the bivouc, we had about 1/2 hour to go before dusk.   I planned to return to the pond we saw earlier, to replenish water, and we used the opportunity to hunt with rifles in hand until the sun went down…

(TO BE CONTINUED)

I’ve now seen the changing of the seasons in this quiet mountain town. For many months, the locals have had the streets to themselves, allowing each and every person his own little breathing space, free of congestion or obstruction. But now the streets are beginning to crowd again. In the coffee shop this morning I saw a gray haired couple in matching Descente ski jackets. The commercial sector is bustling with delivery trucks, as the expanded retail staff sets up their merchandise for the upcoming season.

I have really enjoyed living and working in this unique town, which is a stark contrast to familiar metropolis living. I take time to read the local newspapers daily. Current events have been dominated by many intense political debates. Many have called increased attention to the integrity of the city council and the mayor (who some have accused of running an oppressive dictatorship). A major new developmental plan near the original ski lift (Lift 1) has been the talk of the town, as every citizen feels a right and responsibility to weigh in on the new concept of the historical area of town. Under the current plan, there will be a plethora of hotel and guest rentals, an apres’ style pub, and a ski musem. It may well be the largest development ever concieved in Aspen.

Others just want to say their piece about the traffic. The uniqeness of Aspen is its unaccessability. There is only one way in and out of town in the winter time, where a four lane state highway suddenly funnels down into a series of city streets, taking multiple right and left turns as it meanders through town. The “dreaded commute” is of no worry to those who live in town. In fact, they are the true independents, who lead a simple life of work and play close to home. Although it has become monotonous, I still enjoy each ride on the 30 some miles each way through the valley, noting every mountain and river that I’ve passed hundreds of times before.

I wasn’t very excited for winter up until this week. I have really enjoyed this summer, full of fresh air activities and travelling. But I remember that winter isn’t exactly a time of seclusion and complacency. There are 6 long months of cold and darkness and snow to come, and I plan do to as much skiing, snowboarding, and climbing as humanely possible!

Imagine being 27 years old and about to embark on a two year transcontinental road trip with a bunch of your best buds. You think you have all the supplies you need, but don’t know exactly who you may encounter, or need to purchase along the journey. 

Now imagine that the President of the United States has signed and given you an official Letter of Credit to all tribes and nations of the world, which grants unlimited expenditures, payable by the United States of America.

In today’s times, any store clerk or cashier would laugh at a supposed forgery, but not in 1903, when President Jefferson drafted the letter of credit to Captian Meriwether Lewis. To date it is the most powerful letter of credit ever issued by the U. S. Government.

I think that act shows the true passion that Jefferson held for Western Expansion, and to ensure that the United States would be forever one nation stretching from coast to coast. I do not take that for granted.

(source: Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose)

Well I have done it. I voted. It was all over when I breathed a sigh of relief after dropping the lid on the U. S. Mail box in front of Aspen Mountain. These past weeks have been the most mind-boggling times that I’ve ever experienced. I was truly one of the “undecided” that the candidates have been fighting so hard for my vote. I waited until the final minute to make my vote. I have consulted many friends, family members, and all sorts of workers on the jobsite with many different opinions. Each time I would think I had my mind made up, I’d start to look at things in a different way, and spinning my brain and getting more confused and worried each time.

But now I am done worrying. It is all out of my hands now. Whoever becomes our next President will have to live up to the promises that he has made all of us.

I am leaving for Elk Camp this morning. In a few hours, I will be completely cut off from the outside world. No cell phone, no television, no radio. To appreciate this country to its fullest, one must not just be in the woods, but in a United States National Forest, one of the most free and public lands available to citizens, where we live by the law of the land. Although I am tempted to bring the Sirius radio in the truck, I’d rather not hear any information for the rest of the election. There may be riots and outrage and mayhem, but I won’t know until November 5th when I emerge from the wilderness. When I emerge on November 5, the election will be over, and I will reassimilate back to society, to start the new chapter in American History with everyone else.

Until then…good luck and try not to go too crazy if your candidate loses.

-Adam

Sunday morning started out like a simple, lazy autumn day.  Ironically, both the Bears and the Broncos had a bye week, Vanessa and I got up relatively early and took a walk down the street to Cafe Europa.  We ordered coffee and some breakfast, and I went back out to the street to get a copy of the Sunday edition of the Rocky Mountain news.

For the next hour or so we sat and read, comparing articles and discussing the events.  First there was a lot of print about the many amendments and referendums on the Colorado state ballot.  The sources had done a good job explaining what each of them meant, and how they would affect things.  We also browsed through the ski industry forecast, discovering new things we did not know (like that Snowmass and Beaver Creek are the only two ski areas in Colorado with over 4,000 feet of vertical gain).

It was a relaxing morning, and we had just about finished up when Vanessa found a small bulliten posted near the bottom corner of an inside page.  “Barack Obama is holding a rally today at 11:30 in Civic Center Park.”

“Huh?”  I asked after she read it aloud.  “He’s here in Denver?”

“I guess so,” she said.  I don’t know why it is hidden here in this tiny section of the paper.

We turned to a cafe patron with a computer and asked him for the time.

“11:30,” he said, then followed up with, “what time is Obama speaking?”

“Right now!”

Quickly, Vanessa and I made the decision to hop on our bikes and head down to Civic Center Park, only a few miles from where we were.

When we emerged from the riverfront bike path and onto the streets, I heard loud sirens and saw an ambulance.  My heart skipped a beat for a second.  “Oh no…someone shot him!” I thought, but then calmed myself back down, realizing I was jumping to a conclusion.

I always enjoy the “bike-friendliness” of Denver, and today was no different.  Together we rode under the sunny sky past the Art Museum and Denver Public Library, and turned onto Broadway.  The police had completely blockaded every street within blocks of the park, so it was great to ride a bike right down the middle of a four-lane street with no cars!

When we approached the park, I saw a large crowd ammassed.  The city had set up a row of portable toilets.  Suddenly this didn’t seem like such an “impromptu rally’.  We dismounted our bikes and mingled through the lightley sparsed crowd in a tree filled area that forms the “center” of the park.  (This is the area directly across from the Capitol Building, which is usually occupied by vagabonds and transient people.  It is a known area to buy some cheap weed if your desperate and feeling risky!)

Across Lincoln Street, to the east, I saw that the crowd had spread its way all the way up the steps of the State Capitol.  Everyone was looking to the east, toward the City & County of Denver Building.  My view was obstructed by the trees.

“There’s a lot of people here,”  I said to Vanessa.  “I bet there’s at least 10,000.”  (Later I heard that there were 100,000 people there.  I had no frame of reference while secluded under the trees!)

Eventually, Obama took the stage (about 1/2 hour late).  He was greeted by a patriotic soundtrack and loud cheering.  We couldn’t see him.  I snaked through the crowd, trying to get a view, but it was useless because I didn’t even know which direction to look.  On top of the C & C building, I saw a team of Police snipers on the roof, monitoring the scene for any sign of disorder.  I got a kick out of that.

Finally, after failing to get a visual on the candidate, we retreated to a set of loudspeakers where we could hear his speech.  It was a typical speech where he promised to cut taxes for 95% of Americans.  He asked those of us who made less than $250,000 a year to raise our hands.  Everyone in the crowd raised their hands.  The demographic makeup of the crowd was a great representation of Denver.  Black, White, Hispanic, Asian…everyone middle class.  Everyone was so excited, happy, and optimistic.  I have never seen so many smiling faces, faces that yearn and hope for a change.

When Obama said “95% of Americans make less than $250,000, and that includes 99.9% of plumbers!” the whole crowd erupted in laughter.  I thought back to two pipefitters on my jobsite in Aspen. At first glance, one might categorize them as some overall-wearing western slope rural white boy hillbillies. You would never think that they would be in support of Barack Obama. My, how looks can be deceiving. These two have been the strongest proponents of Obama since the day they stepped foot on the job. They’ll even pass out a “Building Trades for Obama” sticker to put on your hard hat if you want one. While I am not one to “choose sides” in the workplace, I still enjoy talking politics with them and many other workers throughout the day.

My friend had said to me later, “I was watching McCain on TV talking about how he was going to help Joe the Plumber, and I said, Hey! I’m Joe the damn plumber…er, pipefitter!”

I finally understood Obama’s appeal this day.  I understand why so many hard working people have so much hope in him: because they are sick and tired of the way they have been treated by the ‘elite’.  The working class has seen nothing but rising debt and inflation for the last thirty years, a result of “Reaganomics” that has not worked.  Our nation has erupted into a class war, one where the poor masses are overpowered by the rich few.  Now Obama is proposing drastic liberal economics and wealth distribution.  Who can say that it will work or not?  But in this poor mass are faces of all colors and creeds, coming together in one huge rally to send a message that they are willing to take the chance on him.

I also understood the importance of his late-campaign rally.  The race has got to be much closer than the polls show.  I knew that Colorado is a swing state, but always assumed that the C & C of Denver would be a ‘lock’ for the Democrats.  Apparently I was wrong, because Obama said he has not assumed victory in the liberal city.  He made the case for everyone to campaign for the next 9 more days, to win Denver and win Colorado.

After his speech, the crowd quickly dispersed.  Everyone was all smiles.  I felt blessed to have witnessed such an event, for such short time.  Seeing the happiness on the faces of so many regular “Joes and Janes” made myself happy.  I can only imagine that if he wins, regardless of the policies he wins on, the whole world will breath a sigh of relief and rejoice, and the overall ‘mood’ of planet Earth will take on a major boost of endorphins.

This post is a test of a live feed into Facebook.

Pyramid Peak 01, originally uploaded by Adam Reiner.

I took this shot coming into work this morning. This is Pyramid Peak, the only 14er visible from Highway 82 near Aspen. It is only October 7, but an early storm has dusted the entire mountain with snow.

IMG_0051, originally uploaded by Adam Reiner.

I took this photo back in the spring time, from the hill below my house. In the foreground, on the far right, is Mt. Sopris.  It is 12,953 feet tall and has a larger vertical rise of any mountain thousands of miles away from the Pacific Coast.  A climb of it is a classic mountaineering experience.  I have not done so.

Of to the left in the background is the knife-shaped ridge of Capitol Peak, named for its resemblance of the U.S. Capitol Building.  I climbed it in the summer of 2007.  To the left of Capitol is Mt. Daly.

Sopris can be seen prominently from all parts of the lower valley.  From the first turn out of Glenwood Springs, the mountain is in your full frame of vision.  The snow has melted by September, but soon some light precipitation will dust the upper heights.