As is so often the case in the mountains, the change hit hard and fast, abrupt as an avalanche sweeping down the slopes. Or, as the case may be, sliding from my sheet-metal rooftop.
It’s transition season in the high country, springtime to most folks in the northern hemisphere, “mud season” to Rocky Mountain locals. We’re headed into May, traditionally the most awkward month of the year for those with a passion for playing in the outdoors at elevation. Boats and bikes replace skis and snowboards on the roof rack, climbers scan for weather windows to take their skills off the artificial wall and on to real rocks, and the line of cars headed out to the Utah desert for some sandal weather grows longer by the minute.
Sturdy ski legs support feeble torsos for those of us lacking the gym gene, and after six months of primarily downhill travel, the cardio probably could be a little better. That’s what makes this particular mud season such a doozy. For the moment, at least, there is no time for transition. I’m already behind.
Beyond a standard, season-long ration of tele turns, the closest my flaccid physique has come to a bona fide workout this winter was after the aforementioned snow slide off the roof. Seems this season’s above-average snowfall in my hometown of Minturn proved a little too much for my apartment’s sloping summit, culminating in an avalanche with about a 4-foot crown that came crashing down with enough force to spill over the covered porch. More than anything, it made me rethink my kayak storage options.
It took a solid four hours of ice chipping to free the boats from their frozen tomb, two more to clear the chunks of debris from the walk. That’s a decent amount of time to consider the strain of neglected shoulder muscles necessary to actually move a small plastic vessel downstream without being summarily swallowed by the same stack of snow as it melts into river form. So maybe it was a good thing after all.
The rivers are rising as fast as I’ve seen in my 15 Aprils on Colorado’s west slope, flowing at fun levels in several spots, already hazardously high in others. Four days of paddling so far have served only to reiterate just how abrupt this spring swing already is as I frequently find myself at the mercy of a twisted torrent. I’m hoping the transition to pushing pedals won’t feel quite as uncomfortable, although a well-founded fear of coronary collapse on par with the symbolic snow slide has thus far limited my bike-riding efforts to the occasional spin to the coffee shop.
After a full winter of fine-tuning skiing and snowboarding skills, accepting this new role at the bottom of the spring sports pecking order can stretch the boundaries from humbling to humiliating. But like every journey, the transition begins with a single step.
And like every Rocky Mountain mud season, the switch to spring (and ultimately summer) is bound to include more than its share of steps backward, when the snow once again falls as hard and fast as it managed to melt last week. No where else is the cyclical nature of all things as evident as it is in Colorado’s high country come spring.
So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading out to join that westbound queue of cars on its way to the Utah desert. I’ve got more than my share of steps to take on this journey. But first I want to slip into some sandals.
Scott Willoughby can be reached at 303-820-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com.
