I had been told by many a Colorado aficionado not to miss driving the Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park; the road that leads you upto the Alpine tundra, 12,000 ft above sea level. It’s a 48-mile stretch of the highest paved road in the United States. I was super stoked to do this after I had acclimated to higher elevations for a few days.
I was staying at Estes Park, already 7000ft above what I was used to in Texas. It was day 4. I was all geared to go until I read one of the reviews that said that a party of four was so petrified on their way up that they were seen begging the ranger to drive their car down the mountain for them. I spat up my drink reading it, and simultaneously felt sorry for them, secretly not trying to get psyched myself – what if I have a panic attack on a hair pin bend over the tree line, where there are no rangers to even beg to take my wheel? My husband had done most of these (treacherous) drives on our past trips. And here I was -bravely? soloing.
Should I just skip this?
I’ve driven to Pikes Peak with my husband at the wheel, a 14er, although I almost lost my breath and voice at the same time once we reached the top. I’ve hiked up the Harding Icefield Trail in Seward, Alaska, and hiked down the mountain in the twilight with the fog covering our path, and my knees singing an excruciating opera, and cried in pain at night. Yet, I’ve never done of any of that on my own.
So here was my chance to claim one for myself, I countered.
I looked for and read more positive reviews, and phoned a friend who assured me in somewhat ambiguous terms that it’s “nothing scary”. She said there’d be a couple times when I’d “realize” how high up I was, and that’s it. That WAS scary in my books. But I decided to test it anyway.
6 am , I was on the road. Once inside the park, I passed Sheep Lakes Meadow and scanned for animals. Just the verdant expanse bordered by the mountains in the nascent dawn was like tonic for my nervous soul. The road curved like a melodic meditation around the mountain. The familiar ponderosa pines accompanied me sedulously, promising they’d come a long way with me. The predawn light started dancing over the mountains as I passed the first overlook, making everything blurry in the valley. I had traveled several thousand feet up in a matter of minutes. I had this panic-ridden feeling about my rickety rental with 50,000 miles on it stopping half-way through on a hair-pin bend. Breathe in.. breathe out.
The showy aspen and pines handed me over to the gentle spruces and firs with their bottle brush branches welcoming me tenderly; their perfectly conical shapes, quietly pointing that the way up was the answer to all my suspicions.
The second overlook, at approximately 9600 ft was Many Parks Curve. The sun broke free over the Mummy Range, and Bighorn Mountain, and Moraine, Horseshoe, and Estes Park below, rising steadily over the peaks, reminding me how fast we’re turning on this planet, blissfully fooling ourselves that life “crawls” along.
I crawled along upwards, diligently following speed limits. The road lulled me into a vigilant trance. I was alert, yet at peace.
Forest Canyon Outlook. I was now teetering at approximately 11,000 ft.
The sun was steadily rising, casting a bright light, but the air was freezing. I could feel the intensity of the sun’s UV up here.
Just as I turned around, I noticed something fat and furry move. A marmot! And then another popped up and then another. They were busy licking lichen and moss off the rocks, digging in the tundra, catching the morning light, and generally being impervious to all things human, including our picture-taking antics.
The mountains were now treeless on the drive up, only covered in rocks, lava, ice, and some tundra flora.
The rangers had told me at this point I should keep an eye out for mountain sheep and even goats. I didn’t want to keep my eye anywhere but on the road. The road was the only thing keeping me ON the mountain. The sheep and goats would have to wait; even for a wildlife lover like me, they were definitely low priority right now.
I was entering what felt like the entrance to a secret dynamic cave. I imagined explosives blasting the formations out into the void, and my heart skipped a beat. The Rock Cut section gets its name from the blasting of the projecting rock that allowed for the construction of Trail Ridge Road in 1931. Horace Albright, the director of NPS back then correctly predicted the “sensation this new road is going to make…with sweeping views of the Rockies in all directions”. I got off at the pull out and headed up the well-paved, interpretive trail.
The tundra flora spread far and wide, undulating with the rounded, alpine tops and rocky outcrops of the mountain as far as the eyes could see. A different world. I had to turn around three quarters of the way up on the paved path when I realized I needed water and hadn’t brought any. At that altitude, and alone, I wasn’t taking any chances.
The Alpine Visitor Center sat on my right. A huge sprawling building with a café next door. OK, good, not just a hanging hut. I put on my layers and started climbing what looked like the stairway to heaven. Not bad at all…yet.
One, two, one, two….. Breathing the oxygen that has spread out at that altitude is a challenge. It’s like trying to stuff a bucket of cheerios in your tiny mouth. A third of the way up, a little sign told me that it wasn’t just me. And to support that pacifying sign, many a fit-looking person followed– looking like they were questioning their “athlete” identities. After a breathless second stretch, I hit the summit, 12,000 ft above seal level.
I met a local enthusiast on the way up who was missing his Wordle for the day, and I told him the word was “zenith”. He was devastated on top of being out of breath, and I was surprised that as an avid wordler he neither realized that “zenith” has six letters, nor that it might be something I’ve made up while headed to the highest point in the vicinity. A lack of oxygen can do that to a person, I suppose. He did, however, turn out to be extremely well-informed on the topography and flora and fauna of Colorado, and shared a bunch of great tips with me.
Once at the zenith, I decided to admit to him that I didn’t know what today’s wordle was. And that I had lied a very bad lie. To thank me, he took a nice panoramic shot of me, and told me that iphones are the bomb, even when they’ve aged like mine.
Back down, the café and gift shop were open. I spotted some crafty, replacement sheep in there for the actual mountain sheep that I didn’t see. But with the actual mountain through the window for a backdrop, they almost did the trick.
However, since I could only buy the sheep, and not the backdrop, I didn’t buy them.
After spending money on some other lifeless stuff, and a bad veggie sandwich at the café, I popped into the visitor center. It made up for everything with great views of the mountainside.
A ranger showed me the Westward way down, like my friend had suggested I take, to see lush greenery and moose, but neither of them mentioned that I should turn around to get back and not leave the park, because well, the only way back to the town of Estes Park was up Trail Ridge (yikes) on the right which is death-side, by the way, which was through the national park again, which meant I’d need a permit to get back in between 9am and 3 pm were I to leave through the park’s West gate.
I left the park.
And entered Grand Lake. A beautiful town, but quite different from Estes. It had a country vibe to it, and the lake was already buzzing with activity. I wish I had brought a change of clothes that were more appropriate for lakeside rec. I looked like a vagabond in my cold weather hiking gear, who had just discovered paradise.
So I took off my layers and took a sunny selfie.
By now, after the early rise, changes in elevation, and hanging on the edge, I had a massive headache. I decided to head back. I turned on google maps. In, .7 mile, turn right on Trail Ridge Rd.
What?
I begged Siri for alternative routes. She only had one that was three hours long. I pulled out my physical map. No way around the mountain but over. Dang! I pulled over and popped into a hair and nail salon called Forget me Knot. And forget it, I will not. An elderly lady was sitting under the warm hood with foil in her hair. The owner smiled and inquired. They were the nicest people who told me in the nicest of ways that I was 5&cked. It was 11 am. I was stuck until 3. They suggested I could try begging the ranger explaining to him that I was just passing through.
I phoned the traitor friend who’d led me to believe that sighting moose on The West side was my salvation. She tried to assuage her guilt by trying to find me some sort of permit, but there was none left for the day. Her husband suggested I go to a ski resort nearby to ride a gondola and drink bloody marys to kill time until 3. I was appreciative for this wisdom, and his deep desire to fill my time that he thought would otherwise be wasted. I chose instead to drive around aimlessly for a bit, and felt better. And wiser.
I tried my luck with a ranger who wore an expression more stony than the mountain that stood behind him. I told him that my head would burst from all the elevation changes if I didn’t get back to my hotel right away. That I was done with the park for the day, and had no intention of parking anywhere (which you’d later see was an unintended lie). He just looked at me blankly, and said “No exceptions”.
“So you want me to turn around?” I inquired with a hint of ‘what kind of monster are you?’ He nodded, more like a moose than a monster. I was seriously tempted to just take off straight into the park, and imagined what it would be like to be chased by park rangers on Trail Ridge. Would they do that? Would they put their lives (and mine) at risk for a mere time permit infraction? Then some bright mountain wisdom dawned on me with good timing, and I turned around, obeying the ranger lord. I had realized they’d just arrest me when I got off the other side of the bloody mountain.
I turned around, and found another resort, Winding River. Not sure why it’s called “resort” because it’s mainly cabin rentals and campgrounds. I told the manager that I was going to sleep in her parking lot. She told me to knock myself out. I did– to the sounds of neighing horses, squealing kids, a babbling stream, and the smell of cattle poo. It was heaven.
I woke to the sounds of buzzing hummingbirds and sparrows.
I used the resort’s guest bathroom, and visited with the farm animals, including the three not-so-little pigs and miniature horses.
I dipped my feet in the cold stream and hobnobbed with the international guests. I bought a cold Frappuccino from the make-believe resort’s vending machine and thanked them profusely for their kindness. They smiled and said it was 3 pm — time for me to leave.
I left.
The new ranger told me with a big smile that he didn’t need to see my park pass. It was National Parks Day. If only he knew what a pill they had been about the time permit earlier. Then he would wipe that look of magnanimity off his rangerly face. I nodded and said “Wonderful. Thank you”, and starting driving back up death road again.
I spotted the famous moose (real one) mom and calf duo by the river. It was an endearing and beautiful sight with the backdrop of the forest and mountains. I parked.
Even though acres of trees had been burnt by the 2019 fires, the wildflowers and young spruces had burst open everywhere like a balm to the scorched earth. Salvation, indeed.
Milner pass was like a postcard. The greenery was indeed more lush on the Western side. I stood on the great continental divide and tried to visualize myself as the water that travels through America from Alaska to Cape Horn, dipping into both the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans on my way there.
After that, I just remember being on the top of the mountain again, the clouds in front of me, my senses heightened along with the altitude, wondering if this is literally the highway to heaven (or hell, if I don’t make it). Butterflies in my stomach, I stole a look to my right for just a tiny fraction of a second, and my knuckles gripped the wheel. My ability to keep my eyes looking forward, and not look down again, and consequently keep the car on the tar, would be what subsequently made it possible for me to write about it.
Once I was past the pinnacle, I drove like a maniac. I had a rush from riding the heavens that had to be burned. Once the buzz faded, I returned to speed limits, and said hello to the spruces and firs again, and then to the ponderosa pines and aspens that sedulously accompanied me back to my inn. I could hear their sighs of relief as the Westward wind blew.
