Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, the blog that's back with a sore back. It took some convincing on B's part, but after a few days of cajoling, he allowed me to go on an overnight backpacking trip with my friend Mel on Sunday and Monday. My pack weighed in at thirty pounds (I never can seem to get it under that), and as out of shape as I am, I am still feeling it.

Mel planned the route, and I packed my backpack not at all sure how far we were going, or where. A few minutes before we left, she decided on Kroenke Lake, above Buena Vista by Mt. Harvard. We were hoping for clear trails, and anticipated rain, since the radar showed a storm system over the area. At nine o'clock, she picked me up, and, trunk full of gear and backseat full of tussling dogs, we headed out. The four of us got to the trailhead after a bit of jostling, and one iffy washed out place that almost had us parking the Saturn and walking the rest of the way to the trailhead, which we cleared with a bit of precision steering on Mel's part, just as the rain began in earnest. We sat in the car, windows steaming up from dogs already wet from a romp in the parking lot, and ate our lunch as water streamed down the windshield in front of us, obscuring the woods around us. At last, it slowed to a slow drizzle, so we got out, fed the dogs, shouldered our packs, locked the car, and hit the trail.

We started at 9,500-ish feet elevation, and two and a half or three miles later, at maybe 10,500 feet, we hit snow on the trail. It started slowly enough, a few drifts that we had to walk over, trying to step lightly enough that we didn't break through the snow. The dogs romped and rolled in it, soaking themselves, and splashed through the shallow stream crossings, soaking themselves even more. We met a couple buried under large backpacks, who had obviously spent the night higher up, and they told us to expect a lot of snow. They said they had not found the lake, only some wetlands, and, tired of walking in the snow, had camped there.

Since peak runoff has begun, the streams were dangerously fast and swollen, and many of the log crossings on the deeper portions were treacherous. However, the dogs were brave, and with their mommies holding tightly to their leashes, they followed us across, delicately tiptoeing behind us, then leaping the last few feet to dry ground. One crossing in particular was rather frightening, logs and debris washed against the skinny log lain across the swollen, rushing stream, another log propped at waist height off to the side to steady oneself. We almost considered turning back, but the dogs cautiously felt their way across to safety on the other side, unfazed by the danger.

Just after the stream crossing the trail all but vanished under the rotting snowdrifts. We followed footprints, occasionally hitting dry spots that confirmed we were still on the trail, and trudged on, sinking into the snow, buried under parkas tented over ourselves and our packs. Finally, no footprints were left except the four sets created by the couple we had met earlier, coming and going. We followed them, and did not realize when they veered from the trail, by this time far under a nearly unbroken snow field. They stopped in a dryish clearing above a wetlands, about 11,500 feet, and we wondered down to the water in hopes of looking up the valley and seeing the lake. No luck, so we returned to the clearing and began setting up camp. I took off my pack, and Andy, soaked and exhausted, immediately climbed on top of it and tried to balance on top of it as it rocked and wobbled under him. His determination to stay on the warm, dry spot left by my back was soon outweighed by his exhaustion and lack on balance, and he opted for the rock beside it, curled in a shivering heap, looking like a drowned rat. The rain that had been coming and going all day went momentarily, allowing us a chance to set up camp in a mere drizzle instead of rain.

I took the tent out of my pack, and set it up, and the four of us immediately crawled inside, soaked and stinking of wet dog and wet polypro, and got as dry as possible with the aid of a camp towel and dry pants and socks. At last we were warm, so we crawled back out, took off our dry socks and slid bare feet into soaked shoes, and went down to a small pool in the wetlands below us and pumped all of our water containers full with Mel's filter. At last, even wetter, and colder, since the wind was howling through the wetland meadow far more than through our camp, we made our way back to camp and boiled water for tea and dinner. We tied up the dogs so they could not knock over the campstove, much to their dismay, and rehydrated beans and rice, finally warming our insides a bit. By the time we were finished eating, we were feeling quite buoyant. We shared desert, warm chocolate mousse, with the one spork mel had brought (like an idiot, I had not thought of eating utensils), then let the dogs back in the tent and crawled in after them. Andy was just about finished off by that time, and he was in doggie heaven when I squeezed him into my mummy bag with me, sharing my body heat with his small, shivering pile of yellow fur and elbows.

As we zipped the zipper, the rain began again, and the temperature dropped more. Soon, a bit of grapple was beginning to sling itself against the tent. There was no reason to do anything but lie in the tent, a two man backpacking tent that feels like small quarters with two people in it, let alone two people and two tussling adolescent puppies occupying the bodies of nearly adult dogs. We had a long session of girltalk, and at eight o'clock, crawled out of the tent, brushed our teeth, took ourselves and the dogs potty, pulled our stocking hats tightly onto our heads, and zip ourselves into mummy bags for the night. More tussling puppies, more girltalk, and as the light faded, the dogs calmed, and words slurred, and the rain lulled us to sleep.

At midnight, the freezing rain turned to snow, tapping loudly on the tent, waking us up. The dogs woke up too, and, upon realizing they were sleeping in a pile with their humans, began wagging tails, licking hands, sitting on faces, and, inevitably, a game of biting and tussling began in the pitch dark. We grabbed at fur, not sure which dog we had ahold of, and forced them down between us until the calmed down again. I found Andy and forced him into my mummy bag with me, a tight enough fit that it acted as a doggie straightjacket, and with his fur being sucked up my nose with each breath, we finally drifted off, toasty in our tent overstuffed with warm bodies. Several times during the night I was awakened by Andy's paws in my ribs, or by snow sliding off the tent, and finally I became a bit claustrophobic sharing my mummy bag with a yellow beast, and ousted him. When I opened my eyes again, the interior of the tent was gray, not black, and Raisin was standing on my face, asking to be let out. We let her out, and I poked my head outside...to a white world. Gone was our dry clearing, hidden under two inches of fresh snow. We pulled our sleeping bags back over our heads and waited for the sun.

Three hours later, the sun peeked between the trees surrounding our campsite, and we sat up and found breakfast in our packs. We packed up camp hastily, stuffing yesterdays soaked clothes, soaked sleeping pads, empty food wrappers into our packs. I rolled up a tent much heavier than the day before, soaked as it was, and stuffed it into my pack, we located all the missing pieces of our campsite hidden under the snow, and followed our trail out, our tracks from the night before marking our route, only barely visible as vague indentions in the snow.

We did more postholing on the way down than the way up, either because of heavier packs, or because our footsteps we heavier stepping down than up. Once, I went in all the way to my butt, my foot stuck down in the snow, balanced on a sidehill, thrown off balance by thirty pounds of unaccustomed weight on my back. I floundered like a flipped-over bug for a bit. The dogs were no help, with wet noses and tongues sliding over my face and wagging tails whacking me upside the head.

We made it back to the bad stream crossing in good time, relieved to be off the snowbanks, only walking in the fresh snow from the night before. I snapped the leash onto Andy's collar, and tried to coax him onto the log he had so confidently crossed the day before. He was having none of it, throwing himself against the leash and digging in his heels. I was slipping on the icy log myself, my hand growing numb from supporting myself on the snow-covered waist-high log, so in the name of not losing my precious Andy to a raging, swollen downstream, I picked him up and tucked him under one arm and bent double under the weight of my pack, so it centered on top of my feet, not behind them, and picked my way across the log, Andy smart enough to not squirm and throw me off-balance into the stream that was even faster and higher than the night before. On the other side, I dropped his leash so he could run on down the trail, and turned around to a terrifying scene. Raisin, who had just stepped onto the log, slipped off on the upstream side, and, although Mel had ahold of her collar, was instantly pulled under the debris piled against the log, only her head held above water by her mommy, who was struggling for balance. I quickly fumbled my way back across the log and grabbed her collar, allowing Mel to grab the halter on her back where her pack had been. (Mel had removed her pack before the stream crossing and clipped it to her backpack to allow Raisin better balance, leaving only the pad to which the pack, a saddlebag sort of affair, attached.) And no sooner did Mel have ahold of a terrified Raisin, petrified into stiff-legged paralysis, than I saw yellow behind me out of the corner of my eye. I turned and was horrified to see Andy, curious about all the attention Raisin was getting, prancing onto the icy log. I screamed at him to stay, get back, no, no, no. He stopped, confused, and realized there was no turning around on the log. I let go of Raisin's collar and grabbed his, picking him up by it and hurling him off the log and onto the bank, and Mel began picking up Raisin's stiff-legged fifty pound dead weight and setting it down a few inches further down the log, moving down it herself, picking up Raisin, repeating the process until both were safely on the bank. We stood, all four of us panting, and let our heart rates slow a bit, then Raisin began running in manic, excited circles, a big smear of slimy green algae across her face. Andy joined in the chase, oblivious to the adrenaline rush the humans were experiencing, and we all hit the trail, which was finally dry. The sun ocasionally shone through the clouds and dappled the trail, we met several day-hikers and a group of Indiana boys trying to bag a bunch of fourteeners, never mind that it is May, far from ideal climbing conditions. We got back to the car and bounced our way back to Buena Vista, stopping the the Evergreen Cafe for lunch. We actually though it was a different restarant, and when we stopped stupidly inside the door, we were immediately greeted by the manager, which made backing out difficult. We sat ourselves at the bar, checked the menu, and realized we were in perhaps the most vegan friendly restaurant in town. Every meat was substitutable by tofu or veggieburger. Seriously, if you are ever in BV, you have got to go there and get the hummus flatbread. It's black bean chipotle, and totally amazing. Actually, the cooler had quit the night before, and they had had to throw out the tahini, so they couldnt fill my order and asked me to order something else, but by the time I got my tacos one of the many high-schoolers working there had made a run to the store for more tahini, so they gave me a plate of chips and hummus anyway. I have been wondering how to make it myself now.

We got back to Summit County early in the afternoon, and in order to fly the white flag after taking the time off from work, and leaving Bobby in a dirty house with undone dishes and without my help at work, I went in to work for a few hours. I came home to a sparkling clean house, and a husband on a rampage, tackling room after room, organizing, cleaning, storing items still not put away from when we moved in. I have my work cut out for me, trying to keep it sparkling now. Because I think we all know, when men clean... it can be a scary thing. One had better not undo all their hard work.

And today, we emptied out the trailer, bringing into the house all the mouse-soiled, cobwebby, filthy items stored in our garage in Kansas for four years. Wedding presents, small items of furniture, bakeware, clothing we had forgotten we owned... all in piles in the kitchen and living room, and all causing untold stress until it is all cleaned, sanitized, and squared away in permanent homes. We took the day off to deal with it, and I even cooked lunch. We haven't both been home for lunch, simultaneously in, I cant even remember. A year? Two years? Maybe it happened at some point last summer, but if it did, I don't remember it. But at any rate, it was heavenly. It was even such a novelty I invited Marci for lunch to witness it.

The piles are still not all gone, and now, piles of laundry await me. If I could have tomorrow off yet, I might actually gain on it a bit. I'm not pushing my luck though. We plan to be gone for B's cousin's wedding in Castle Rock on Saturday, and June second is our seventh anniversary, for which B tells me to find a sitter for Andy and prepare to be gone overnight to some undisclosed location. My, he's getting so good at this whole romantic surprise thing. Who'da thought he had it in him?