The northern Park Range of Colorado is bounded by the Sierra Madre Range in south central Wyoming, by North Park and the village of Walden to the east, and Steamboat Springs and the Piceance basin to the west.  I had never hiked or camped in the area, an odd state of affairs considering the mountains are only 150 miles from my home in Denver.  I had seen pictures of the high, majestic peaks and wanted to hike into the Mt Zirkel Wilderness.  It was named after its highest peak in honor of Ferdinand Zirkel, a German geologist, a well-known mineralogist and petrographer.  A geologist!  That immediately grabbed my attention.  I planned to stay at Big Creek Lakes campground for a few nights, hike the local trails, and experience some earth history. 

It was an arduous 20-mile drive on a dusty gravel road.  I was surprised to see the wildfire damage as I approached the campground.  The Big Creek fire had incinerated more than 38,000 acres of Routt National Forest in 2016.  Thanks to firefighters, the campground was spared, but the nearby region was littered with blackened stumps and dead spindly trees waiting to tip and fall on windy day in the future.    

The summer morning was sunny, a cloudless turquoise sky, upper 70s, surprisingly warm at 9,000 feet.  The trailhead was a short downhill walk from my campsite.  I noticed that only a few sites were occupied, mostly anglers hoping for their bag limit.  I spotted a boat at the far end of the lake, no doubt someone trolling for lunkers.  A single vehicle was parked in the day use area, a white gas-guzzling Forest Service pickup.  A maintenance crew was probably out repairing the trail.  I didn’t expect to see many hikers.

I don’t mind hiking in burned areas.  Wildfires are part of the evolution of forests, but this was a conflagration, related to years of mismanaged fire suppression and climate change.  After seven years though, saplings were everywhere and local alpine shrubs and wildflowers were covering the landscape.  The forest was on the mend.  Here and there, the firestorm jumped a ridge or somehow missed a grove of trees.  But mostly, tall dead trunks stood steadfast in the light breeze.  The morning was calm, but I was cautious as I hiked through the dead zone.  I’m always concerned about falling trees.  The first half mile followed the shore of the largest lake.  I jumped a few rivulets and managed one log crossing using my hiking pole for balance. 

I saw the woman and her dog about 30 minutes into the hike.  I always attempt to be conversationally creative when meeting people on the trail.  She was a few hundred feet away when she saw me.  She stopped suddenly, stepped several feet off the trail, and severely shortened her dog leash.  That seemed odd to me since most hikers are more casual, laid back, not seemingly worried about their obedient dog. The woman was 50ish, wearing long hiking pants, glasses, a dark fleece, a short-brimmed hat.  I was concerned about the dog as I approached and moved my hiking pole closer to my body out of sight.  Some dogs don’t like poles.  I was once attacked by a canine when I had an outreached pole.  Her dog looked like a shepherd mix, a serious intelligent breed.  The woman too had a serious demeanor, unsmiling, in a way that seemed like she didn’t want to encounter other hikers.  The dog didn’t growl but appeared to be on high alert.  I stopped as we met, and said: “Good morning, beautiful day”.  No immediate response, then seconds later, bluntly: “So far anyway”.  She was a bit hostile sounding, or maybe just upset by something.  Regretfully, I then said: “Right, we might have an earthquake any minute now”.  That was not the right thing to say.  Good schmoozers know better.  I should have ignored the comment and moved on.  I sometimes blurt out stupid comments, not thinking while attempting to trail schmooze. There wasn’t a response from the woman as she moved away.  I walked on.  I pondered that encounter, then just let it pass. 

Twenty minutes later, I saw the Forest Service crew, five young men in uniformed shirts and hats walking briskly toward me.  They were carrying a lot of gear, a small chain saw, a gallon gas can, some shovels and spades, a hand saw.  All were wearing full-sized backpacks.  They had no doubt spent the night in the wilderness.  As I approached the first four, I stepped aside.  All were in top physical shape.  I said hello and they responded in kind.  They were in a hurry, so no additional conversation seemed appropriate.  I continued to wait for the last crew member to pass, a tall red-bearded fellow with red suspenders.  I decided to say something funny to make up for my earlier failure.  I’m always looking for a victim.  As he approached, I blurted out: “Old age treachery steps aside for youthful vigor”.  That’s about as stupid as saying an earthquake is imminent in northern Colorado.  He responded: “I’m hard of hearing”, and then “Don’t worry, It’s an easy trail”.  He thought I was asking about the route and wanted to assure me that it was clear sailing.  I mouthed a “Thank you” as we parted.

Thankfully, I didn’t encounter other humans on the trail that day.  I was in negative territory.  My only companions were Proterozoic igneous and metamorphic rocks and Pleistocene glacial moraines.  In another hour I reached the far end of the burned area.  I found a comfortable granite slab and stopped for lunch and an opportunity to reflect on the local inhabitants, 1.7 billion-year old remnants of the North American craton.  I marveled too at the beauty of a rushing waterfall, a pair of playful ravens, and the mesmerizing afternoon sky.  Leaving this beautiful scene required some willpower, but it was time to head back.

Late that afternoon I reached the empty parking lot.  I wasn’t totally exhausted and decided to take an alternate route back to my campsite, one circling the campground via the far side of the first lake.  The previous day, I had noticed a large, 75-ft pole near the campground entrance and suspected the Forest Service had planned it as an osprey nest pole.  I was right. I grabbed my binoculars as I approached.  There were two adults standing in the nest watching me.  The nestlings appeared to have left.  They had apparently fledged, off to fish on their own.  Soon, one osprey flew into a nearby conifer and started peeping and squealing in typical osprey fashion.  I thought I might do some raptor schmoozing, maybe try to communicate using bird calls to make up for my earlier human failures.  I pulled out my cellphone, and with the aid of my Sibley bird app, started mimicking their calls. The squealing immediately intensified as the second osprey flew from the nest and circled above me.  I got the message.  I had inadvertently pressed the osprey alarm call and made them very unhappy.  I closed the app, stored my phone, apologized for my malevolent behavior, and headed back to site 34.  It had been a bad day schmoozing.