Colorado 2007

Authors note: If pressed for time and only care about the photos, the images linked below can be found here. Otherwise, enjoy...

Friday: Paul Suwalski's Twisted Sister Death March; actually a guided, group hike up Twin Sisters Mountain .  A bit soft, by our standards, but we're severely time constrained (Kid Camp for The Child is 9 to 4 today) so we can't afford to get lost (which we almost always do), nor are epics desirable (although they do make for good trip reports).

After depositing our offspring in Kid Camp, we met our hiking crew at the van.  Our guide, Paul, was rail thin with a craggy face and calves like fireplugs from thirty years roaming the hills.  He exuded the cool confidence of someone who's spent half a lifetime escorting flatlanders around these mountains.  

Bo spent the morning running wind sprints and pumping iron before joining us. With his high-and-tight haircut and mirrored sunglasses he was a dead give away as ex-Marine and Mississippi State Trooper.
"When do we leave?" he growled.  "We're already late and I will not stand for tardiness."

"What's our plan?" asked Sarah a 40 year old, recently divorced, senior partner at KPMG.  "We need a plan, a timeline and milestones. I have a massage scheduled this afternoon.  I can't be late; I need to relax."

The Reverend Enos Dalrimple was on his first vacation in many-a-year and his first hike at altitude. Dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt buttoned to the neck and cinched with a bolo he seemed ill prepared.  Just entering his 7th decade and recently arriving from sea level he was out of breath and we hadn't even started moving yet.

Misty and Babette rounded out our troupe.  Two 16 year old gals from Boca Raton traveling with their families, although they clearly wished they weren't.  Both sported Save Britney  belly shirts, pierced navels in front, tramp stamps in back and shorts cut so low and tight that it left little doubt as to their grooming habits. Judging by his pursed lips and icy stare, the Reverend did not approve.

"Do you have everything?" said Babs, looking at me as I shouldered my pack.

"Well, I've never had any complaints," I replied

"We'll start slow and then ease off," said Paul as we began our march up the trail.     "Everyone pick a trail buddy," he continued.  "I can't keep and eye on all of ya, so ya gotta watch out for each other."

Gravel crunched under our feet as we made our way, single file, up the trail.  Babs took it slow, as is her wont on these long hikes, and hung back a bit with the Britney Twins and The Reverend.  I was feeling good so I kept up with Sarah, our hyperkinetic divorcee, Bo the Marine and Paul our guide.  I chatted with Paul; Sarah tried to flirt with Bo. 

“Women,” he said shaking his head.  He was a man on a mission and was in no mood for discourse of any kind.  He plugged a set of headphones in his ears, a slug of chew in his cheek, screwed a scowl on his chiseled face and kept marching.

"How many rests do we take and for how long?" asked Sarah shifting her attention to Paul

"You'll know 'em when you get to 'em," he replied.

After 40 minutes of hiking we stopped. 

"Ok folks," said Paul, "time for a Separation.  This is where the boys separate from the girls and everyone separates their pee from their bladder. If you gotta do something else, see me.  We're in a national park and the Department of Interior has some very specific ideas as to what you can and cannot do with your shit."

Misty and Babette gave each other a knowing look, giggled and dashed off into the woods.

"Where's the bathroom?" asked Sarah.

"There is no bathroom," said Babs barely containing her laughter, "you pee in the woods".

"No really, where's the bathroom?"

"Nature is your commode," said Paul waving his arm in an arc. "That's why I love this job. You get to pee outside with the animals."

"I'm going to need mentoring on this," said Sarah, brow furrowed. "Babs," she continued, "please assist me."

After a few minutes we regrouped, except for the two teenagers.   "Look around and enjoy the view,” said Paul, pointing out the photo ops.  “That's Longs Peak over on the right; The Diamond is that sheer wall extending from peak to ground."

Misty and Babette came stumbling out of the woods, arm-in-arm, barely able to stand such was the intensity of their snickering and giggling.  The sweet smell of the pakoloco weed followed closely behind.  

And thus was the pattern.  We'd stop for a rest, water and "separations" every 40 minutes or so.  The Parson, always the laggard, would stagger upon our group just as we were departing.

"Reverend," said Paul as we neared the tree line, "you might want to think about stopping here.   I'll leave you plenty of food and water.  We'll pick you up on the way down."

"Paul," replied the Reverend between breaths, "I've prayed over this. The Lord is my rock and he wants me to summit this rock.  Unless he takes me unto his domain, I shall summit".

We plodded along, the group contracting and expanding like a slinky as each person found, then lost their own rhythm.

At the next separation and photo opp, the men did their thing on the side of the trail, Babs and Sarah The Consultant went off into the woods in one direction for more mentoring and the Brittney Twins staggered off in the other.

While we waited for Misty and Babette to rejoin us, Paul squinted at the gathering clouds.  Late afternoon thunderstorms are common in the Rocky Mountains and being caught above tree line during one would be tempting Zeus's wrath.  

Bo paced in circles, Sarah was attempting to persuade her Blackberry to communicate with The Collective and the rest of us were just getting antsy. 

“Where are the girls?” we all thought.

Misty and Babette, emerging from the trees, and feeling the effects of the hot sun, had doffed their belly shirts revealing bikini tops, stretched like spinnakers in a gale, barely containing their ample feminine attributes.  Bo choked on his chaw; I stared, slack jawed (until Babs, after rolling her eyes, jabbed me in the ribs); Paul just shook his head; Sarah scribbled something in a notebook and the Parson gave a glare that could freeze brandy.

We rounded the last switchback and headed for the crowd at the summit.  We got the obligatory summit shot (note the clouds) and headed back down the mountain.  It was rapidly becoming a dark and stormy afternoon as a low, dark cloud headed our way. We double timed it down the trail; even Misty and Babette seemed to realize the danger, their barely clad bosoms jiggling like the packing jelly on a canned ham as they bounded down the rocky trail.

As we descended, The Parson was still on his way up, wheezing from the 11,000 foot altitude; his face the color of pumice.  Paul tried to convince him of the danger, pointing to the clouds while thunder punctuated his sentences.  The Parson would have none of it.

"If The Lord wishes to smite thee, then his will be done," he shouted, shaking his fist at the sky.

"Like, what ever," said Misty to no one in particular.

"Were going down," said Paul.  "Parson, you're an adult.  Do what you will".

We continued down the trail.  Babs, Paul and I donned our rain gear (no one else thought to bring any) as it started to drizzle.  The hail began a few minutes from the trailhead and looking back we could see lightening near the summit.  We all scrambled into the van and waited for The Parson.  No one spoke.  Even the Stoner Chicks understood the gravity of the situation.

"We should have identified the Critical Path," whispered Consultant Sarah.

The Lord must have been in a good mood that day, because fifteen minutes later The Holy Roller Hiker came sauntering down the trail. Soaking wet, but mighty pleased with himself.  

Authors note:  We did climb Twin Sisters Mountain with a group guided by a guy named Paul and one of the participants listened to his iPod.  Misty and Babette are two girls I knew in high school and, at that time, were quite attractive.  The rest is a complete fabrication.