Southern Hospitality On Schofield Pass

Yesterday we went to the top of Paradise Divide to have a picnic and take some photos. I mention that we took photos of Paradise Divide, and am apologizing because I took pictures of nothing else. You are just going to have to let my words describe the rest, which is a shame because the visuals were pretty impressive.

We drove up the Slate River Road to the top of Paradise Divide where we had a lovely lunch and enjoyed the specatular views. Then we headed over Schofield pass to see where an avalanche had blocked Gothic Road at Emerald Lake. We did not know how far we could get but wanted to explore. When we got to the road (and by road, I mean narrow dirt track with huge rocks in the middle of it, a solid rock wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other) that goes over Schofield Pass, we began to see hikers. That is the road that is supposed to lead to the drop-off and pick up area for people who have made the eleven-mile hike from the Maroon Bells in Aspen to Mount Crested Butte. With Gothic Road blocked, it is more of an eighteen-mile hike that includes scrambling over avalanche snow.

We first met a man who appeared to be a very fit sixtyish. He flagged us down and asked how far it was to Emerald Lake. Evans told him that he wasn’t sure, but that the road was blocked and we were going to see how far we could drive. It was about two more miles from where we had first passed him. We drove back and told him what we had found. He explained that the people who had put this hike together had terrible communications and they had “lost” about eight of his group. By this time, he was joined by a woman who appeared to be about his age. She was wearing a flowered skirt, a tennis jacket, a bucket hat and carrying a pack that I could not have lifted. He was fine. She looked completely done in. They (he) seemed determined so we told them what we had seen and we drove back up the road. She did not speak. I am pretty sure she had a nosebleed.

We had passed three younger women sitting at the top of Schofield Pass when we drove by the first time. As we drove back, they flagged us down. They had also made the trek from Aspen I am assuming on their own. I don’t think they were the “lost” hikers. They packed a bit lighter than the first couple, but two were carrying plastic cups of red wine, the third was drinking white. We told them they had about three miles to get to the avalanche site and they begged a ride. Who could resist? We loaded their gear in the back and drove them to the edge of the snow. On the short trip, we learned one was from Nashville but had lived in Colorado for about twenty years. There is always a Nashville connection.

Once again we started back the way we had come. When we came to the parking area that should have been the pick-up point if the road had not been blocked by thirty feet of snow, we saw a group of six women. They frantically flagged us down. Two were about my age and the other four were probably in their late thirties or early forties. They asked the same questions. How far were they to the pick-up site? What did we mean there was an avalanche? Would we take them there?

Now, we were driving our Nissan Xterra, which is a wonderful car for four people. The cargo area was filled with all our fishing gear, waders, coats, hats, nets, the trash from our picnic, in other words, it was full.

We looked at these women. One, in particular, had a strong southern accent. She was about my age. I saw true desperation in her eyes. I do believe if we had said no that woman would have carjacked us with a rock. We began moving what we could. I hauled as much as possible into the front floorboard and put Percy on my lap. We loaded six women and their packs into our Xterra. Three in the way back with the hatch open and three in the backseat. We slowly began driving back toward the avalanche site.

After about a mile, Evans explained again that the road was blocked. They would have to hike another couple of miles before they would have cell service and they had no idea where their pick-up vehicles were since the road had been blocked. We were at a turn off that would either go to the avalanche site or back up and over Paradise Divide, about a sixteen-mile journey on narrow, bumpy, treacherous roads. There was no way those women were getting out of our car. Evans (somehow) closed the back hatch and we headed over Paradise Divide.

As we drove we learned that they were mostly from Boulder, although one had just moved from Boulder to Oregon. She was originally from Louisiana and her friend had flown in from New Orleans the day before to do this hike. That poor woman went from sea level to Aspen, Colorado and immediately hiked over eleven miles at twelve thousand feet. No wonder she looked frantic. I am surprised her body had not just shut down. It takes me a week to acclimate and I have been coming here for a while. I said that she surely needed oxygen. They all laughed that she had gone through four cans. I did not see the humor.

We slowly drove back across Paradise Divide, through Washington Gulch, and into Mount Crested Butte. Evans tried to hit the potholes, rocks, and creeks as gently as he could, but it still could not have been comfortable for the three in the way back. We discussed all the great places to eat in Crested Butte and why it was such a great town. We also instructed them to go to Slow Groovin’ Bar-b-que on their drive back to Aspen.

The two older women were staying at The Grand Lodge, which is across from our townhouse. The other four were meeting a support vehicle next door at The Nordic Inn. When we got to The Grand Lodge, we helped the two women out of the car. We basically peeled the poor New Orleans woman out of the back. She stood and stared at me while I held her pack and finally said, “I am so tired.” I just shook my head and said, “I know you are.” I know she questioned every decision she had ever made that had led her to that point.

We loaded the younger women back in the car and took them next door where one of their husbands was waiting. They were laughing and discussing having dinner at Bonz, a great restaurant and Tequilla bar in town. I wondered if the other two were planning to join them. I am guessing New Orleans lady took to her bed after a long, hot shower. I know I would have done.

I am an idiot for not taking pictures. The Avalanche is pretty darn impressive, even when you don’t have to hike across it. I have no idea why the trip planner was unaware that a thirty-foot avalanche plug is blocking Gothic Road when it has been all year and will be for the rest of the summer. I have never been and will never be as cool as the three wine-drinking hikers that first flagged us down. I want to know if that woman in the flowered skirt killed her companion when she got her strength back. But my real hero is the lady from New Orleans who would have thrown herself under our wheels rather than walk one more step. She is a woman after my own heart.