Cloistered

With the exception of two somewhat ill-advised mountain adventures that probably had the health equivalent of chain-smoking in a bar for ten hours, I've spent the past week indoors. And despite the awesomeness of these adventures, this cloistering has me feeling particularly gloomy, approaching the lows I was experiencing back in April when it felt like the whole world was closing in. I don't need to rehash everything that's going on in the world right now, but I think many would agree this year has not made a marked upswing in four months. And now Colorado is on fire. 

When it comes to respiratory health, I fall into those "sensitive groups" who are particularly affected by poor air quality. I grew up in the polluted Salt Lake valley and suspect that I've long been more susceptible to respiratory issues, but my sensitivities deepened after I contracted pneumonia in summer 2015. My allergic asthma developed shortly after that. This is likely a permanent issue that I can trace precisely this illness, which started with a measly cold during the Tour Divide and got real when X-Rays detected fluid in my lungs. My brush with pneumonia and its consequences is exactly why I'm boggled that Americans won't take the coronavirus more seriously. It's not a binary of surviving or dying; there is a vast spectrum of possible health outcomes within "recovery," many of which we don't even know because it's all so new and long-term impacts can't be studied yet. Do you really think your baby shower is worth risking permanent lung damage for your friends and family? 

But I digress. I'm just trying to make the point that I understand lung damage. My own might mean I'll have an even worse outcome with coronavirus, so I try hard to be careful and limit my time indoors with anyone who isn't Beat. My social interactions remain April-level stunted. I'm not yet willing to go to a friend's house for dinner, and I'm dragging my feet on inviting my parents to Colorado so Beat and I can stage a wedding ceremony. The outdoors remained a sanctuary, but right now, I don't have that. Outside has become a noxious place, a lung-searing plume of smoke with no end. I fantasize about getting on a plane and escaping to somewhere far north, somewhere where it's already almost winter. Planes aren't really an option right now ... although I'd almost rather take my chances with coronavirus and a long quarantine than this scary tinderbox of a summer. 

After my all-day hike last Sunday, I felt particularly bad. Wheezing woke me up Monday morning, I was coughing, and I had a headache. I started to wonder if I'd caught the 'rona, but no, it was just the fallout of inhaling large quantities of particulate matter from the Pine Gulch fire. Now that fire is at 80,000 acres and closing in on the podium spot for the largest wildfire in Colorado history. Since last week, three more big fires have erupted; one that's kept I-70 closed for more than five days, one that's raging north of Rocky Mountain National Park, and one just west of here. Every morning we have neighbors hitting the panic button on potential blazes in our region, but nothing has come too close ... yet. 

Meanwhile, I needed two days of recovery from my Pawnee Peak hike just to feel like I wasn't breathing through a smoke pipe. On Wednesday morning, I'd acquired another one of those timed entry permits to Rocky Mountain National Park. This year, to limit crowds, the park is issuing a fixed number of permits to enter any point of the park at two-hour intervals throughout the day. I think it's a great system, as it keeps crowds down to a more palatable size compared to the overwhelmed national forest trailheads in the region. But for obvious reasons, these permits aren't easy to acquire. I snatched up several for random days this month and next; 6 to 8 a.m. August 12 was one of my allowances. The weather looked stable, hot and dry ... terrible conditions for the wildfires, but exactly what you want for a long adventure above treeline. I decided a trip to RMNP was worth taking a few more huffs from the stovepipe (because just like a bar hopper, I all too often make decisions based on what I want versus what I need.)

Beat and I decided to aim for Mount Alice, a 13,300-foot summit on the Continental Divide. Thanks to its long approach, Alice is one of the more remote peaks in the region. The air quality was surprisingly good. There was a hint of smoke taste in the air, but the sky actually looked blue, versus the sickly brown color that has greeted us many mornings. My entry permit allowed us to park at the edge of Wild Basin, where six miles of trail leads to the shoreline of Lion Lake number one. Beat and I snowshoed to this spot last winter — from the highway, so the approach was closer to nine miles. Just reaching Lion Lake is a huge day hike in winter conditions, and we reminisced about the strenuous snow slog as we marched up a comparatively easy ribbon of dirt and rocks. Past Lion Lake, the trail ends and the laborious boulder-hopping begins. 

The majestic Chiefs Head, another 13er that looks particularly inviting for another 2020 adventure. I have my stupid birthday coming up this week and hoped to carry on a tradition of summiting a mountain. A crazy early start (to avoid thunderstorms, with fingers crossed and rain dance activated in hopes the storms actually arrive) to climb a RMNP 13er would be perfect. We'll see. I may end up indoors and depressed instead, so I don't want to talk up my potential birthday adventure too much. 

For now, Mount Alice was proving to be the wonderland I thought I wanted but actually needed — grand mountain skylines, wildflowers, gurgling cascades, and expansive isolation — the good kind of isolation. The air was tinged with smoke, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it had been on Sunday. I found I could hike hard without wheezing. And I could see I was going to need my strength as we approached Hourglass Ridge, the crux of the route. Hourglass Ridge was rated as Class 2+ with a few exposed chokeholds. Approaching from the northeast, perspective foreshortening made the lower face of the ridge look vertical. I was plenty nervous. 

Beat's route-finding put us on a confidence-inspiring path, out of sight from the dizzying exposure to the west, but also avoiding the chossy garbage to the east. We clambered up a ladder of relatively solid boulders (Beat pointed out the lichen as evidence of stability — a helpful route-finding tip I hadn't considered before.) The ridge was strenuous — rising from 12,400 feet to 13,300 feet in just over a quarter of a mile — and completely satisfying. 

Views from the top of Mount Alice, looking toward Chiefs Head, Longs, and Mount Meeker. We tagged east and west summits and found but didn't sign the summit register (the "register" was crumpled pieces of individual notepaper stuffed inside of a plastic canister. As a person who respects archiving, I didn't see a point.) We ate our lunch and connected with the one other hiker we encountered beyond Ouzel Falls. He was completing the same loop in the opposite direction and tacking on Chiefs Head for good measure. We compared notes and decided the descent down Boulder Grand Pass sounded fine ... in hindsight, I should always assume that everyone hiking these types of mountains has a higher tolerance for exposure than I have. 

The tundra walk along the Divide. It looks so flat and inviting, but the constant boulders and ankle-turning tussocks make it surprisingly strenuous and slow. Isolation Peak is in the background. That's another 13er I want to ascend, but not from this aspect. 

Before heading down, we decided to tag a 12er, Tamina Peak, for good measure. Tamina didn't look like much from the ridge, but there were some surprise class-three moves near the summit. 

Views back toward Mount Alice from Tamina. Alice is an impressive mountain from all aspects. Afternoon weather was beginning to build; time to head down. 

We had fantastic views of the RMNP patriarch, Longs Peak, and his little brother Meeker. 

The wind picked up as we descended toward Boulder Grand Pass. Gusts were strong enough that I needed to remove my hat and sunglasses as I teetered uncomfortably while trying to balance over rocks. Thanks to perspective foreshortening, the views over the edge made it look as though the chute went straight down. Indeed, it plummets more than 400 feet in the horizontal space of about 1,000 feet. And it was loose, chossy and terrible. I was plenty nervous and had to empty my bladder (my real bladder, the one inside my body) before starting down. More surefooted folks would just run down this stuff, but I am the type who would absolutely lose my balance, tumble headlong, and keep tumbling. Gravity is never my friend when it's with me, only against me. 

Our shoes filled with rocks as we crept down the slope, but it went without incident. We arrived at the shoreline of Lake of Many Winds. The aptly-named alpine tarn was mesmerizing. As the swirling wind swept across the surface, the water rippled in a triangular pattern that resembled the surface of a geodesic dome — back and forth, expanding and contracting. I should have taken video, but this photo shows the contrast between dark and light water moving toward the outer edge. 

Looking back toward Boulder Grand Pass. It feels steeper than it looks — and every bit as chossy as it looks. If I had approached the pass from this direction as I'd originally planned, I likely would have opted out, especially with that snow cornice reaching to the edge of the gully with no way around. The somewhat hidden couloir to the right is the correct route. 

Now there was nothing left but a nine-mile hike out, past more gorgeous alpine streams, wildflowers, and Thunder Lake. We decided to loop through the Ouzel Falls alternate for good measure, even though it added a mile and some climbing. We passed some pretty waterfalls, but also had to deal with all of the crowds concentrated along a single mile of trail when everywhere else had been effectively deserted. Still, it was a great day. My throat was a little sore by the end, but I had no regrets.

I took another lung recovery day so I'd be in as good of shape as possible to join my friend Betsy on her first ride up Mount Evans on Friday. Since there were no thunderstorms in the forecast, I encouraged a later start. Smoke tends to settle in near the ground with overnight inversions, and early mornings seem to have to the worst air quality. We set out from Idaho Springs a little before 10 a.m. I wore a KN95 mask for the first five miles, but struggled to draw enough air through the mask to feel properly oxygenated, even at a fairly easy pace. Finally, I just decided to risk inhaling smoke rather than climb to 14,000 feet while dizzy and discombobulated from further oxygen suppression. 

We had a great day. It was pure fun, pedaling and catching up on life as the lovely alpine landscape rolled past. The views were hazy and dull, and I found myself frequently apologizing to Betsy about that. "You should see this on a clear day!" But with a continuous warm breeze, temperatures were pleasant and the air quality was better than I expected. Betsy was stoked to reach the summit, her first self-powered 14er. 

Beat and I were actually thinking about returning to Evans, yet again, today. He recently built up a new gravel bike that he's itching to ride, and we wanted to ride somewhere high in the mountains (because in addition to being smoky, it's been terribly hot), but also free from weekend traffic. And we both love this climb and could pretty much ride it every day if time and energy allowed. But we woke up to some of the worst air quality yet. Boulder's air quality index was "unhealthy for sensitive groups" and a few monitors near Idaho Springs were in the red, meaning unhealthy for all. We opted out. It's just not worth the risk. So I find myself stuck indoors in a way I wouldn't be if facing a whiteout blizzard or temperatures of 40 below. August is the cruelest month. 

This week has me thinking back to a proposal I was working on in March 2019, back when I was spending the month on a writing retreat of sorts in Nome, Alaska. At the time, Nome was experiencing one of the wettest, warmest, windiest, and objectively worst-weather months on record. I was attempting to train for the White Mountains 100, hoping to run well and set a hundred-miler PR. But the weather often thwarted any hope of "running." I'd head outside to find the wind had buried every road in town under knee-deep spindrift. As I pushed through the gale, freezing rain would coat every inch of clothing. Even my best waterproof coats and pants were useless. I'd be encased in glare ice and shivering within an hour. Nothing I tried kept me warm, and I'd head home after three or four miles of useless postholing while slamming into snowbanks because visibility was zero. (And I mean zero. I'd carry my Garmin eTrex on these "runs" just to assure myself I was still on the road and not wandering out to sea.)

Anyway, it got me thinking about weather conditions that keep you indoors, no matter how determined you are to go outside, and how this is going to increasingly be a problem as climate change advances. I was drawing up a proposal to research all of the potential scenarios and how outdoorsy types might deal with these realities — not only the warm winter hurricanes that increasingly impact coastal Alaska, but also the extreme heat and wildfire-ravaged air that much of the West is experiencing now. Fitness types can survive and even thrive in a virtual Zwift world, but what about those who need the outdoors as much as they need oxygen? It's an interesting concept, one I'll probably revisit if smoke keeps me inside this week, which seems likely.  A strategy for loving an increasingly difficult and inhospitable outdoors is a concept I need to face, for my own sanity as much as anything. 

Dystopian paradise

You know you've had quite the weekend in the mountains when you wake up and feel like you've smoked a case of cigarettes.

I had a lovely weekend: explored more than 50 miles of gorgeous alpine landscape, ascended more than 12,000 feet of vertical gain, sharpened my ever-dulling skills on challenging but less consequential technical terrain, and dipped my filter bottle in a half dozen sparkling mountain streams. But on Monday morning I'm experiencing physical fallout one might not normally expect. My legs are streaked with itchy heat rash from exceedingly hot temperatures combined with all of the protective clothing I need to wear when spending a full day in the sun at 11,000 feet. My airways are burning and breathing is labored from the high volumes of smoke I drew into my sensitive lungs. My muscles and even my Achilles tendon are fine, but my lungs will probably need at least a couple of days of recovery, especially if the outdoor air quality doesn't improve. 

For me, the Colorado summer has a strange dynamic of beautiful and terrible. Feeling drawn to mountain adventures that are both exhilarating and terrifying. Crossing clear mountain streams and pristine tundra while baking in 90-degree heat. Joining an almost ridiculous influx of traffic and crowds for a rare patch of peaceful solitude. Racing the clock of afternoon thunderstorms — the lackadaisical weather that can become deadly in a heartbeat. August often brings wildfire smoke, blue skies choked with haze, and outdoor air I can't breathe. This year we also have the weirdness of the pandemic: limited entry at trailheads, shying away from travel, hiking while hiding our faces, and looking away while passing others.

In past years, I worked through the August doldrums by looking forward to adventures in the Alps and training for upcoming winter races. Since I don't have that this year, I am hoping to squeeze in as many local mountain adventures as I can justify — within the constraints of trailhead access, time, and apparently my lungs. On Friday I scored a timed entry permit into Rocky Mountain National Park. I decided to spend the day in Glacier Gorge, the stunning granite gorge I'd viewed from above while perched at Keyhole. It is, of course, one of the most popular attractions in the national park. But some places are worth showing up precisely at my allowed 8 a.m. entry time, parking four miles away, and standing in the sun for 45 minutes while waiting for a spot on a socially distanced shuttle. 

The trail is lined with scenic waterfalls, and for the first two miles was predictably crowded with a near-constant flow of hikers. I wore the cotton face mask I use for shopping, which caused me to feel increasingly desperate. I know, the current research on COVID-19 points to an infinitesimally low chance of outdoor transmission, but I do care about optics and decided to stick with it. Once I was past Mills Lake, I could finally rip that thing off my face. The beauty of the day finally started to open up. 

I passed my second alpine Lake, Black Lake, where the trail became faint. I clawed my way up the steep drainage of Glacier Creek. Above the cascade was the most lovely alpine basin. If there was a trail to follow up there, I didn't find it. I hopped between granite slabs and balanced on spongy tussocks, working my way to the head of the gorge at Green Lake.

Green Lake was a lovely spot, and I had it all to myself. I sat down for a snack and spent most of my visit staring at Pagoda Mountain, tracing lines in the rock and chossy gullies that might be in my abilities to ascend. Even though I am a scaredy-cat when it comes to mountaineering, it's still a fun puzzle for me to work out. It's even more fun when I don't intend to make myself do it ... not on this day, at least. On this day, I decided, I would visit every alpine lake I could manage in the amount of daylight I had left. 

I picked a different line across rock slabs and tundra to Frozen Lake as the heat of the day started cranking. Lake number five. I passed a few lovely tarns along the way, but decided that if the lake didn't have a name on the map, I wouldn't count it. 

The upper gorge had an impressive view of the west face of Longs Peak. I spent a little too much time staring at it, trying to find Keyhole, and marveling that crossing below this face this was a thing that casual hikers did every day. 

Dropping back to Black Lake. The granite shelf just beyond the lake holds two more lakes with no access trail. My GPS showed a "Shelf and Solitude" route, but it didn't seem possible to ascend those cliffs. Still ... worth checking out, right? I can always descend if I can't find a way up. Where the route cut off trail was right in the middle of a swamp, scrambling over tree snags and crossing the braids of Glacier Creek. I was skeptical, but just beyond the creek, I found a faintly beaten path that jutted directly up the slope, into the thick pine forest. 

The Shelf and Solitude Route was amazing, really. The dirt path was so faint that I couldn't be certain it wasn't an animal trail, and it was littered with fallen trees that were often not trivial to climb over or around. I veered off of the route frequently, dead-ending at another rocky outcropping that couldn't be climbed without ropes. But if I came back to the route, I'd see it again — an almost imperceptible ribbon of dirt winding through a narrow notch and continuing up an almost vertical ladder of roots and deadfall. It was terribly strenuous, gaining 1,000 feet in 0.3 miles. But it went! I arrived at the shoreline of Shelf Lake, exhilarated to be there.  

From Shelf was a perfect granite slab to ascend to Solitude Lake, where I planned to enjoy what would clearly be a deserted shoreline and eat my lunch in solitude. 

Interestingly enough, there were two other people at Solitude Lake. I found a spot to sit near the opposite end of the lake. I sat and nibbled on my sandwich as I observed the gully winding toward the sheer walls of Powell Peak and wondered at the crazy routes that might lead there. As I was packing up, a man started walking toward me. I'd put enough distance between us that it took him about five minutes, so I waited because I figured he needed something. 

"How did you get here?" he asked as soon as I was within earshot. He was young, probably still a teenager. 

"I took the trail," I said. "How did you get here?"

"We climbed the drainage," he said. "It was crazy. There were waterfalls; we were scrambling up these rocks." I imagined the sheer waterfalls I'd observed above Black Lake and shook my head in disbelief. "Where's the trail?" he asked. 

"It's over there, left of the creek," I said, pointing beyond a knoll that blocked any view of the route I came up. "It's faint and there's deadfall and it's not that easy to follow. I have the route on my GPS. Do you want to follow me?"

"My girlfriend's tired; we're going to rest longer," he said. 

"OK. Well, if you go behind that knoll, you'll see this gully with a bunch of yellow wildflowers. If you start down that I think you'll find the trail. Good luck."

As he walked away, I felt envious about the brazenness of youth for climbing straight up a waterfall, as well as gratitude for the wisdom and patience of age that allowed me to find a safe route. I hope they found it for the descent, which proved difficult, even on the trail. 

With the continued nice weather and pep in my legs, I decided to descend to the main trail and take another spur toward more lakes — The Loch and Icy Brook drainage. Icy Brook was a series of waterfalls, and the ascent actually did require scaling them. But it was a more established route, and while strenuous, at least it wasn't dangerous. 

Lake of Glass in the late afternoon. For this part of my route, I hadn't looked too closely at a map and neglected to notice a lake called "Sky Pond" on the shelf above this. A missed opportunity. Next time. 

The sun was sinking lower on the horizon, but I was intrigued by the views down the canyon and thought I'd have the daylight for one more drainage and a tenth lake for my alpine lake extravaganza.

Views downcanyon toward The Loch. The last diversion veered left, up Andrews Creek.

The climb to the end of Andrews Creek proved to be the most strenuous part of the day. After a short section of loamy trail through the forest, the route shot straight up a talus slope on big, blocky boulders. I'm so slow on this type of terrain, employing all of my limbs as I strain sore shoulders and battered quads. After a 49-minute-mile that I was pretty sure was going to cause me to miss the shuttle, I arrived at the shore of Andrews Tarn. Behind it was an impressive-looking Andrews Glacier. So many Colorado landmarks that are still marked as "glaciers" on maps are little more than thin snowfields if not bald scree slopes. Andrews looked like it might actually have a crevasse or two. 

The talus descent was just as slow as the climb, and evening shadows were growing long. But it was a gorgeous and peaceful place to spend the evening hours, and the air had become almost cool. Worth it. 

The last light of evening over The Loch. 

While descending from The Loch, I encountered a herd of cow elk all over the trail and uninterested in moving out of the way for me. I cut the switchback to get around this cow. About a half-mile later I passed another young couple who asked me if I saw the "deer" and how did I get around them? They had been hiking up the trail in hopes of watching the sunset over The Loch, but the elk scared them away. 

"They're definitely not shy but you can just walk around them," I suggested. "They're pretty docile."

At this point, I did the math and decided if I could log three 15-minute miles, I could reach the trailhead by 8. My quads were aching and I don't run all that well on rocky trails, but I managed to keep my timeline, arriving at Glacier Point at 7:57. Unfortunately, I learned there that the shuttle stopped running at 7:30. It was 3.5 miles to my car, and I thought if I could log them as 10-minute miles, I could get there by dark. Pounding pavement for a half-hour at the end of all that was painful, but satisfying. 

For Saturday night-Sunday, Beat planned an overnight 50K on the Pawnee-Buchanan loop with his friends. I went to sleep after checking his tracker, which must have kicked the old "dot-watcher insomnia" mentality into gear because I woke up a couple of hours later and could not fall back asleep. Finally at 3 a.m. I decided that perhaps I should just motivate for my own mountain adventure. In hindsight, I should have taken advantage of my early start to grab a weekend parking spot at one of the more popular trailheads. But weirdly I picked one of the more obscure places to start a long mountain hike, the CU research center below Niwot Ridge.

When I left the house in quiet darkness, I didn't notice the smoke. A massive wildfire is burning on the western slope of the state, and amid a high-pressure system and record heat, the smoke has spread far and wide. Perhaps it was worse at higher altitudes, or perhaps I was just oblivious when I left the house. But as soon as I hit the trail at 5:15, I knew it was going to be a rough day. The acrid aroma of wildfire smoke permeated the air. A burning sensation seared my lungs with every breath. I'd made all of this effort to put myself together and drive out there, so I decided to stick with it at least to the ridge.

The initial climb was not fun. Within a mile, I felt sick to my stomach, although I couldn't tell if the nausea was caused by the heavy smoke or just the usual morning malaise. But I did notice that I had no oomph at all. If I boosted my heart rate above 110 — pretty much the upper end of zone one — my airways tightened and I started wheezing so much that I had to take a puff of the inhaler. I still can hike uphill in zone one, but it's not my briskest effort. And I felt pretty terrible doing it. 

Smoke filled the sky above Lefthand Reservoir. This is the view east from 11,000 feet. One a clear day you can see a hundred miles across the plains. On this morning, I could barely see the foothills. 

I had already resolved to tag Niwot Ridge and head down. But the rising sun brought a breeze that aided my breathing, probably by clearing out some of the smoke that had settled overnight. There was still a surprising amount of smoke in the air for such high altitudes. One has no hope of escaping noxious air when it's wafting in from hundreds of miles away. I'll concede — I'm not a summer person. But what is there to like about a season that can render the entire outdoors into something toxic? 

Still, I took heart in that breeze. And I'd enjoyed the solitude and diffused light of my morning wheeze up Niwot Ridge. And with easier breathing, I began to feel better. I decided to descend toward Long Lake and make another climb to Pawnee Peak. 

The air became less hazy just as the heat started cranking. Brainard Lake is another popular destination, and I thought these trails would be inundated with humans. Surprisingly they were not that crowded on this Sunday morning. I wonder if it's because people hiked about a mile before deciding it was too hot and smoky. 

I enjoyed the relative solitude on the climb to Pawnee Peak. This is a view of Shoshoni Peak, which I find to be humorously ungainly for a craggy mountain. Perhaps I'll ascend this one next time. 

I crested the Continental Divide at Pawnee Pass. The views to the west were completely shrouded in brown pollution. Gross.

Pawnee Peak — not quite a 13er (12,943 feet.) On this day I packed a peanut butter sandwich that I was really excited to eat. But my water, which I hadn't frozen overnight as I usually do, had the mouthfeel of lukewarm coffee. Gross. I also took out a tissue to blow my nose and extracted gobs of smoke particles and snot the color of black coffee. Double gross.

Even at nearly 13,000 feet, the wind was still barely a breeze and the temperature felt oppressively hot. I even rolled up my long sleeves to enjoy my lunch. But I can't expose my skin to the sun for long, not with the harsh UV at 13,000 feet. Even sunscreen isn't effective enough for me, so I have to cover up. Long sleeves, long pants, cap, and the neck gaiter that now doubles as a face mask. I wouldn't choose this if I didn't have to, believe me. 

I was all but begging for wind as I headed down along the craggy rim of the Divide. It never came. I am going to remember this day, come winter. 

The wheezing started again as I descended. Not a great sign. But I still had to make my way up and over Niwot Ridge, and it was only slightly longer if I explored a new-to-me route up Niwot Mountain. Okay, it was five miles longer. It meant another 25-mile day. Why do I make these choices? I crawled along Little Raven Trail, which is a ski trail in the winter and represents happy memories of being flattened by icy gales while fat biking around Brainard Lake. That's all I could think about as I picked my way through the dappled shade, sweat-drenched and slightly delirious, stumbling over every other rock. I passed Lefthand Reservoir and started up the steep slope — no trail to speak of, just rock piles and grassy tundra with stunted coniferous trees providing no shade. I sucked my water bladder dry — even though I'd refilled it in the creek above Lake Isabelle — and turned to the dregs left in my water filter. A half-liter left. That wouldn't take me far, but it would have to.

My lungs were burning, my breathing had again slowed me to zone one plodding, I was thirsty and nearly out of water, and roasting in the sun. It must have been close to 90 degrees at 11,000 feet (it actually was 88 degrees at 9,000 feet when I returned to my car two hours later.) I stopped to pull a rock out of my shoe and noticed that my lower calf looked swollen. When I pulled up my pant leg, I saw the blotchy, swollen red welts that signify heat rash. This was going to haunt me later tonight. And why can't I be nicer to my lungs? I understand the price I'll have to pay for that burning feeling as well. This was my fault, of course. I made these choices. And yet ... I couldn't help but look out over the snow-streaked slopes of South Arapahoe Peak and smile. 

"Niwot Ridge," I thought. "I love this place."