HIDDEN GEMS

by JENNY JOHNSTON

If you have an appreciation for wildflowers, head to Crested Butte this summer for the most spectacular display of wildflowers. Crested Butte is the “Official Wildflower Capital of Colorado” for good reason: the mountains come alive in summer with a palate of colors. Numerous loop hikes await for all skill levels, providing an unrivaled visual experience not to be missed. The wildflowers are worth a visit with or without a festival, but Crested Butte has an annual festival UTAH'S OLDEST ROCKY ››

MOUNTAIN JUNIPER

LOGAN CANYON

Estimated at over 1,500 years old, a Rocky Mountain juniper tree located in Utah's Logan Canyon in the Cache National Forest is believed to be the oldest living tree of its species. Standing firm about 5 miles up the 11-mile Jardine Juniper Trail, the Old Jardine Juniper reaches over 40 feet and has a 23-foot circumference. The reward for ascending more than 2,000 feet to find the gnarled and weathered tree is a peaceful experience along an uncrowded trail.

The tree stands as a stark image against the ridgeline and canyon below, having survived everything Mother Nature and multiple civilizations have thrown its way. The ancient juniper stands as a wonderful reminder that perseverance is beautiful and that the stories embedded in one old tree can make a difference thousands of years later.

The Colorado Plateau is home to some of the country’s most superlative features. Be it the tallest, longest, highest, oldest or most, adventure seekers have limitless opportunities to explore. While beauty can be found dispersed out our back doors, some of the most spectacular adventures are best appreciated with some space between you and the crowds.

While large-scale gatherings are avoided during the COVID-19 pandemic, these adventures across the region offer explorers the opportunity to take a step back – away

from crowds – to take in nature’s scale and majesty. devoted to the wildflowers. In its 34th year, the Crested Butte Wildflower Festival is currently scheduled for July 10-19. The annual tradition offers a variety of wildflower-based programs, from guided hikes and art workshops to photography and culinary experiences. As of this writing the festival is still scheduled but due to COVID-19 concerns the number of events has been reduced. For updates and to purchase tickets visit

www.crestedbuttewildflowerfestival.org.

At 1,500 years old, the Jardine Juniper was around long before the colonization of America. photo by Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest

It’s easy to conjure up images of horses when you think of Colorado’s rich history. Remnants of the state’s storied Wild West, wild horses still roam freely in the southwest corner of the state. Maintained by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), four herd management areas (HMA) range over 400,000 acres in southwest Colorado.

While these BLM areas will require a bit of effort to reach, this most wild adventure is absolutely worth it. The Spring Creek Basin HMA, located in Disappointment Valley between Norwood and Dove Creek, provides wild mustangs nearly 22,000 acres to run free. According to the BLM, “legend says that in the early 1900s, a Montana rancher came to Disappointment Valley with a herd of stolen horses that he raised to sell to the U.S. Cavalry and other groups. When the law began to close in on him, he gathered some of his horses and quickly left the area. Local ranchers managed the remaining horses by culling undesirable horses

and adding their own stock, and now the BLM manages the herd under the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act of 1971.”

Despite the name of the valley they roam, this experience doesn’t disappoint! While wild horses may not drag you away, they will certainly beckon you back. From inner peace seekers to photography junkies, the wild mustangs provide a visual wonderland and a spiritual experience when viewed in their natural splendor.

A herd of wild mustangs running free in the Spring Creek Basin Herd Management Area in southwest Colorado. photo courtesy Jerry Sintz

A set of dinosaur tracks in the Jurassic Moenave Formation at the Moenkopi Dinosaur Tracks. photo by United States Geological Survey Staff

WATERFALLS PAGOSA SPRINGS ››

While Bridal Veil Falls near Telluride has the record as Colorado’s tallest free-falling waterfall, dropping 365 feet, deep in southwest

Colorado’s San Juan Mountains are what is believed to be the two tallest cascading waterfalls. According to the World Waterfall database, the

West Fork Chama Falls and Banded Falls each cascade an approximate 700 feet from a hanging basin above the headwaters of the East Fork of the Chama River.

The database reports 10 other falls within a 5-mile radius, making this area a waterfall-viewing paradise for hikers and backcountry enthusiasts.

Reaching the falls requires some effort. The area is not heavily trafficked and the steep trails are a bit tricky to find. The reward for your effort is an unparalleled nature at its finest.

Access the falls via the West Fork Rio Chama Trail, beginning at

Forest Trail 738 and ending at the junction of Trail 741. To find the trail, the U.S Forest Service recommends traveling from Chama, New

Mexico, north on Highway 17 to the Chama River Road 121. Turn left onto Road 121 and travel north about 6 miles to the Rio Grande

National Forest boundary where you take the left fork and travel about one mile to the trailhead. On the hike, Trail 740 branches off

Trail 738 about two miles north of the trailhead.

In this time of social distancing, perhaps there is no better time to reflect on space and no better place than the middle of nowhere to realize that the empty void is actually full when you stand amidst wild horses, the tallest or oldest trees, in the footsteps of giants and at the base of a tall waterfall.

JENNY JOHNSTON resides in Durango, Colorado, and is an outdoor writer and mother to two children who would much rather be outdoors exploring than inside watching her write. Look for her and her youngsters in the backcountry near you.

Dinosaur tracks are frequently a roadside attraction, but if you truly want to walk in the footsteps of these giants you need to get off the beaten path, away from the museums and crowds, and step back into time onto the Moenkopi Dinosaur Tracks. Located just west of Tuba City on the Navajo Nation (look for a primitive hand-painted sign on the side of Highway 160), the trail offers hikers to truly follow in some giant footsteps!

More of a walking experience than a true hike, this 30-minute stroll along the sandstone allows adventure seekers to walk in footprints 200 million years old. You’ll also see fossils, including turtle eggs, and some purported dinosaur poop await!

The West Fork Chama Falls: Seen from the West Fork Chama Trail. The waterfall cascades about 700 feet from a basin near the Continental Divide and usually runs dry by the end of summer. photo by Doug Scott

story & photography by ANDREW GULLIFORD

In over two decades of rafting the Green River through the dark red canyons of the Gates of Lodore, I have come to expect laughter and giddy excitement while crashing cold waves on hot summer days. However, accidents sometimes occur out of nowhere, taking a simple summer adventure to an ordeal that has gone terribly, tragically wrong. On a wild river each of us is responsible for our actions. But when deep sobs and the guttural cries of grief arise when all passengers are not accounted Plan for for in the aftermath of a flipped raft trapped in a cottonwood tree, everyone takes a hit to the heart. everything

I don’t blame the river. I don’t blame the canyons. I don’t blame the tree. As Laurence Gonzales writes in to take eight "Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why," “Plan for everything to take eight times longer than you times longer expect it to take. That allows for adaptation to real than you conditions and survival at the boundary of life and death, where we seek our thrills.” expect it

The river’s edge hummed with the excitement of students airing rafts, checking kayaks, packing provisions, counting PFDs and checking on helmets and paddles. We laughed and joked, swapped river stories, and when everything was ready, we walked to a large tree. Once assembled, we stood in a circle to listen to the safety talk.

Everyone had rain gear – that was the consensus, anyway.

The trip leader explained that we would scout all the bigger rapids by pulling to shore and walking beside them to learn the way of the water and path of the currents. By name, the

Green River’s largest rapids are Winnies Rapid, Upper and Lower

Disaster Falls, Triplet and Hell’s Half Mile, all christened by famed river runner Major John Wesley Powell. ››

CAMARADERIE & TRAGEDY at the GATES of LODORE

Before entering the swift-running water near Triplet Falls, a swimming rock perfect for cannonball splashes provides a delightful diversion on a hot summer day.

The canyon of Lodore abounds with prehistoric Fremont and historic Ute Indian rock art that includes both pecked petroglyphs and painted pictograms.

It seemed simple enough. The college students were eager to hit the river, and the Gates of Lodore beckoned. A tiny white cloud appeared above the canyon walls. The sky was blue, the river a deep pine color verging on brown. Sun shone on the rafts. We cast off one by one, catching the current in a curving thread of boats. Off we floated, channeled between the towering, red canyon walls, leaving the campground for the next batch of floaters.

We had new inflatable rafts to haul our gear, duckies or self-baling inflatable kayaks for one to two people, and hard-shell kayaks for experienced paddlers who wanted to dance around the rocks and rest in eddies. We had Gortex clothing, neoprene wetsuits and river booties, special life vests, lanterns, river sandals and enough food for two trips. We had cotton clothing in dry river bags and we wore polyester shirts and shorts that would dry quickly in the sun, if there was any. That tiny cloud had grown, crowding the blue sky.

A light rain began to fall. Small rivulets of silver rain began to roll down the cliffs. It was much too early to camp, so we kept floating, a more subdued group, huddled on the rafts in our rain gear. The wind picked up.

A college professor, my job wasn’t to paddle or to cook but to interpret the environmental history of the river and explain how the magnificent canyons of the Green and the Yampa were nearly lost to large concrete dams in the 1950s. I had several historic tales to tell, but it was raining, and we had miles to go as the oars slipped quietly through the gray-black water. And most of us were soaked.

Through two days of rain we ran the Green. We ran Triplet Rapids, avoiding the wall and the Birth Canal. At Hell’s Half Mile we played through the autumnal rock garden and avoided tagging the boulders, in particular Lucifer, the rock in the middle. Camping at Rippling Brook we climbed to the microclimate and ecosystem of the 75- foot Rippling Brook Waterfall. Then, Indian Summer returned. Despite the discomforts of rain the college trip ended safely.

This was a typical trip, ending with boatloads of worn but smiling faces. Another, a commercial trip laden with adults and grandchildren that launched on high water when other companies had canceled, had a different ending.

When we pack for a summer rafting trip we take clothing, a camera, river gear, sleeping bag and tent. We pack beer, extra sunglasses, a jacket for the cool night air. But we never pack for death. We never plan for a tragedy, a whitewater death by drowning. Instead, our lives change the instant the raft overturns.

Hours later the helicopter comes by low and slow, looking for a shadow, one that shows the form of a body pinned underwater by boulders.

When our raft slammed into the submerged tree, the commercial river guide yelled, “High side! High side!” The command meant to move quickly to the upside of the raft to prevent water from spilling into the low side and flipping us. But in a tight canyon with the river roaring at 9,000 cubic feet a second, it all happened too quickly – with all of us tossed into the icy water. I blew out the back and swam to a fallen tree lying near the tip of an island. I clambered onto an old cottonwood tree, cold and

Triplet Rapids provides plenty of thrills as river guides plan their moves to avoid being slammed into the wall at river right.

alert, looking for my companions. Six of us had been on the sweep raft, the last of five rafts in the group. I saw no one.

It was the first day of the trip and the first rapid on a four-day trip. In those seconds after the accident, as I tried to understand what had happened, I heard only rushing water. Then I saw it, the upside down raft bobbing furiously where it remained caught in what river runners call a “strainer.”

In 20 years of river-running I’ve been involved in plenty of flips, but I knew this one was different. On the island where I attempted to warm up, I saw the couple who had been at the front of the raft hobbling along the shore. They were barefoot − the river had ripped off their sandals. We hugged, shook hands, found our guide.

We walked the island looking for a way off, but the channel on both sides roared too swiftly for a safe exit. We noticed another of the river guides on the far shore, signaling to confirm that three of his five passengers were accounted for. The head count continued, until instantly we knew: one of us was lost.

Families want their taste of adventure, cold water splashed on hot skin, yells and shouts of excitement, a reason to hang on to the “chicken line” as rafts tumble through rapids. We crave adventure until we face danger. We seek a brush with death, not its embrace.

Our group had planned this trip months in advance without knowing that a record snowpack would force the dam above to release huge amounts of cold water, to both save the dam and irrigate fields of crops. These pulse floods are healthy for the environment to re-establish habitat for endangered fish and bird species. But with high flows there is no margin for human error. No room for mistakes with paddles or oars.

Everyone on our trip had wanted adventure, but now as four of us stood on the island, shivering, scratched, barefoot, with bright sunshine ebbing toward late afternoon shade, we were grateful simply to be alive.

The following days were a haze, blending together. Through them were the unshakable deep wails and sobs of grief from the man whose partner was missing. “Why her, God? Why not me? Take me, I’m older.”

TOP: The Gates of Lodore include 500 million-year-old canyons and mandated river camp sites to ensure group privacy. BOTTOM: Rafts glide slowly beneath Steamboat Rock in Echo Park which became a national rallying cry for environmentalism in 1956 to stop a dam scheduled to be built here.

The inevitable questions arose about the random nature of death − who dies, and why?

We were trapped in a canyon, but also trapped between competing interests in the American West − farming and irrigation versus river running. Even to retrieve a body the Bureau of Reclamation would not slow a scheduled dam release. How often does a drowning occur? Only rarely. At the put-in, the head guide had announced that statistically we would be launching below the most dangerous part of the trip. We had taken the highway, arriving by van.

This summer rafters will launch with nervous expectations. Once they arrive within earshot of the roar of the rapids, it is time to wrap protective arms around those they love and extend a wish for all a fun, safe passage. River trips are pure joy, a seasonal adventure that will carry most of us through a lifetime of fun and reverie.

But I know how quickly a whitewater adventure can become shattering tragedy and loss.

Carolyn Wilber crosses a patch of snow on Deadwood Mountain in the La Plata Range while leading a hike for the Durango’s Seniors Outdoor Club. The club arranges around 200 outings a year for people ages 50 and above. In this photo, taken near the top of Deadwood Mountain, Lake Nighthorse is seen in the background. For more of Chris Blackshear’s photography visit his photoblog at www.photoblog.com/steph4100/.

photo by Chris Blackshear

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life, Y “You ready?” I gleefully ask my partner Eric, as I close the heavy truck bed of his Ford F-150. Oneby-one, I clip each shoe into the pedals, cruise my

STILL FULL OF Stumpjumper across the dirt lot and start an abrupt 300-foot climb toward the bizarre rock formations Magic that tower above us. From our doorstep in Crested Butte, we can drive 30 minutes south through the wide U-shaped valley, surrounded by Gunnison National Forest, along Gunnison River’s cottonwood trees bedecked by remarkable American bald eagles. On the south side of Gunnison, our drive ends at Hartman Rocks Recreation Area: this high-desert, sage-speckled mecca for mountain biking. It feels unbelievably luxurious to shred How time in the outdoors provides sweeping singletrack here, minutes after a thunderstorm balance during a pandemic and when the earth is muddy most everywhere else. These trails, on the other hand, are perpetually dry. I’m eager for my mind to be lost in this unearthly terrain — to indulge in play. And for my attention to be held in continuous single-pointed meditation, as I steer through technical elements. Eric and I have bickered on-and-off, all morning. We’re acting irritable—and the root cause isn’t actually us. It’s an undercurrent of loss and uncertainty that we are learning how to process, even amid the warm advent of summer. I set our miscommunications aside and adopt a light tone as we kick-off our ride. A month ago, Governor Jared Polis lifted the statewide stay-at-home order that was in place to slow the spread of novel coronavirus: COVID-19, which causes a wide range of flu-like symptoms from fever to fatigue. The illness is exacerbated by respiratory inflammation, which is worsened at higher altitudes; for others, it leads to death. The trailhead parking lot is a hard place to withhold from high fives and hugs! We love running into our friends here, even when we need to stay a bike’s length (or more) apart. In a patchwork approach, each county now has individualized restrictions, based on local needs. Gunnison County’s first public health order, issued March 13, barred non-resident visitors. And if we venture beyond county boundaries for more than 24 hours, we need to self-quarantine upon BY MORGAN TILTON return. All travel should resume normalcy by August, if COVID-19 doesn’t resurge. ››

Hartman Rocks is a gem of fun trails, incredible sunsets and fascinating geological history wrapped in a high-altitude desert climate at the foot of snow-capped peaks.

I love the quiet and slow pace of off-season in mountain towns — but experiencing this stilled chapter during a period typically full of vitality and economic prosperity is eerie in essence. The big picture is hard to digest. Many have lost their jobs. This year, the tourism sector alone will forfeit more than $60 million, according to Gunnison County officials.

I wonder how the deficit will affect our town later this year and in years ahead. Our community is resilient and has beautifully banded together during this unpredictable time, and we will continue to find creative solutions. Simultaneously, there are days when I feel defeated by the trials of this global pandemic. As the future remains nebulous, I am even more appreciative for the haven of our backyard and public lands.

From a bird’s eye, Hartman Rocks is characterized by a curling crescent of bulbous granite that stretches six miles. We start on the northeastern edge and ascend to the center of the mountainous bow. The interior of the ridgeline holds 45 miles of wide dirt roads and 45 miles of well-crafted trails in a 14,000-acre otherworldly landscape.

I relax my grip, as my bike ascends the rolling switchbacks of Jack’s Trail, strewn with slickrock and fine pebbles. We’re 1,200 feet lower in elevation here than in Crested Butte, which sits at 8,909 feet. The season has turned from spring to summer, and like nature, all states of my human experience are impermanent, I remind myself. All of the highs, and all of the lows.

At the top, we pull up to the BLM ranger-managed map to note any closures. A posted sign reminds folks to follow social distancing guidelines. I’m thankful that the county leaders support communitywide outdoor recreation for our mental, physical and spiritual health. The trailheads have all remained open. We decide to trace a loop from Sea of Sage to the furthest end of Lower Luge and Luge. To reach the route’s start, we chug slightly uphill on a broad road, due southeast.

Over my left shoulder, I stare at the iconic geological spine of Hartman Rocks. The obscure shapes fluctuate from colossal freestanding boulders to spires reminiscent of hoodoos. The outcropping resembles the arched, texturized back of a stegosaurus. My legs begin to pump, my breath evens and my brain reaches a presentness. I start to feel an immersed relief from the chaos.

The landscape is delicate at Harman Rocks: remember to follow Leave No Trace principles. Only venture, camp, motor, and start fires on or in established paths, roads, camp sites and fire rings.

As you bike at Hartman Rocks, keep your eyes and ears open. The BLM-managed recreation area is inclusive to a spectrum of recreationists including hikers, dogs and dirt bikes, all of which may appear from around a corner on the singletrack.

Less than a day after Gunnison County’s first public health order, ambulance sirens alarmed the quiet town street in front of our house, an emergency response to our neighbor, the first tragic COVID-19 fatality of our community. I realized the destructive potential power of this outbreak. I worried about my parents, single and living in isolated towns and my grandparents with fragile health. And, when will I be able to see them again?

With a continuum of heavy news, my sadness grew for people suffering around the planet. I realized, I need to healthily channel that external stress and compartmentalize my awareness of these tragedies. Within a pandemic, the natural world remains abundantly beautiful − and life, still full of magic. As I accept the paradox of my existence, I find humility and peace in myself and where I live. I can refocus on nurturing my home, loved ones, self and place. The whole process is uncharted and messy, but it starts with a mountain bike ride in this sacred expanse.

We turn off the road, away from the rugged ridge, and hop onto a fluid descent, for a couple of miles. After a sudden 90-degree turn, I take a deep breath and focus on my skyward momentum. Near the crest, my eyes light up when I see a vibrant mix of soil. The finegrained orange, rose and green-hued pebbles mark one of my favorite spots at Hartman Rocks. Right after, the ground levels out and the white-capped West Elk Mountains brightly fill the horizon.

The glorious sight is breathtaking and makes me appreciate the juxtaposition of mountains and desert. I shift my weight into my pedals, drop my seat and accelerate northbound down the narrow, smooth, rollercoaster track. I try to focus on the scattered rocks and not get distracted by the sharp peaks in the distance. Suddenly, I can’t stop smiling, so I giggle and joyfully holler. I feel completely free.

MORGAN TILTON is an award-winning travel writer specializing in outdoor industry and adventure coverage worldwide. She lives in Crested Butte and grew up in the San Juan Mountains, where she first learned how to mountain bike in Telluride. Now, she doesn’t know how she ever rode without the luxury of full-suspension. On a summer day, you can catch her riding or running laps up Tony’s Trail, right in her backyard.

In addition to amazing mountain bike trails, Hartman Rocks Recreation Area holds 50 designated dispersed campsites, and a myriad of climbing routes speckle the fine granite: bouldering, sport, and traditional.

Many sunglasses are so sportspecific that they lack the versatility for everyday wear. This is not the case with the Leandro Glacier glasses. These sunglasses from the Serengeti Signature Collection have a seriously cool vibe that’s at home on the streets of Paris and the glaciers of Chamonix.

The Leandro’s backcountry chops are apparent in their secure fit, removable magnetic leather glacier shields and crystal-clear optics that don’t distort colors. The stylish shades feature Borosilicate mineral glass lenses that, according to the specs, are a full 20% lighter and thinner than the competition. The thin, elegant frames are made of a gorilla-strong injected nylon and stainless steel that’s flexible and comfortable.

Leave the side shields on for skiing, mountaineering and windy days when dust is blowing. They are easy to remove when you’re biking, hiking, hanging out on the beach or zipping around in your sports car (note to self, these sunglasses will make you want to buy a sports car.)

Hinges have hidden springs for a snug fit and soft nose pads provide no-slip comfort. Curve is BASE 6, which means the lenses are flatter than traditional wrap around sunglasses.

Our tester wore his first pair of Serengeti sunglasses at a paragliding World Cup Championships in Digne, France. "They were the best sunglasses I'd worn," he said. "And now, nearly 30 years later, they have only gotten better." www.serengeti-eyewear.com

Full disclosure, the original Jetboil has been our go-to camp stove for nearly 20 years. It accompanied us on many backpacking trips, alpine climbs and big walls. Generally, we’re reluctant to mess with perfection, but in the spirit of open-mindedness, we took the new MiniMo on a week-long trip to Utah’s rugged Wasatch mountains.

The result? An immediate upgrade to our backcountry kit. The MiniMo features Jetboil’s proprietary “FluxRing technology.” The corrugated aluminum band increases the surface area on the bottom of the pot, providing more heat with less gas. Basically you get the heat transfer efficiency of a large pot with the portable, packable 1 liter Jetboil container.

The MiniMo’s canister is lower in height than the original. This makes it less wobbly, and easier to eat out of (i.e. your spoon handle doesn’t disappear inside). There’s also a plastic cover for the FluxRing that doubles as a measuring cup. Testers love the secure pot-to-stove mating—you use the insulated handle and sleeve to pick up the entire assembly, even when the stove is lit.

Water boils in just over two minutes with only half the fuel consumption of traditional stoves. Plus, there’s a rectangular wire adjustment that lets you go from a light simmer to a full boil, which makes cooking up a gourmet backcountry dinner easier (and more efficient) than ever.

The stove itself has a regulator that adjusts for cold and altitude. The pushbutton ignitor never failed us, even in 25-degree, snowy conditions at 8,500 feet.

When we wanted more than coffee and cocoa, we brought along the lightweight Summit Skillet. A pot support (included) turns the MiniMo into a regular gas stove surface for any pot. The ceramic-coated (non-stick) aluminum skillet is big enough for grilled cheese sandwiches, spaghetti sauce and rice and beans. And at 10.6 ounces, it won’t weigh down your pack. www.jetboil.com

SUMMIT SKILLET $ 50 00

A headlamp is one piece of equipment that won’t gather dust. It’s essential gear for alpine starts, camping and backcountry missions that push the daylight envelope. And it’s ideal for post-sunset garden forays, bedtime reading and walking your dog on moonless nights.

The key to buying a headlamp is finding one that’s light and compact, but still bright enough to light up a trail. We like the new Cosmo as it’s the size of a big walnut. It’s compact enough to slip in a pocket, but with 225 lumens it throws out enough light for night hikes. And while many new headlamps are as complicated as calculus, this one has only two buttons.

The locking mechanism is foolproof, which is nice when your headlamp is bouncing around in a pack or duffle. Two buttons adjust the light from close-up to distance modes, engage the red night-vision mode and activate the strobe.

A multifaceted lens ups the optical efficiency so you get more light with less drain on the AAA batteries. Plus, the headlamp is submergible.

It’s designed to operate in at least 3 feet of water for 30 minutes—which makes it ideal for canyoneering and wet-weather hikes. Just remember to open up the battery compartment and dry everything out afterward.

The Cosmo weighs 2.93 ounces (with batteries) and has an average run time of 6 hours on the brightest setting (200 hours on dim). www.blackdiamondequipment.com