Scholar of the Year (Sort of)

I'm a pretty good student: I do my homework, go to class (most of the time), and I generally do my best. I've always received A's and B's in classes, with the exception of Quantitative Literacy a few semesters ago, but we won't talk about that. I've never considered myself to be an outstanding student because I've always had friends who were much more devoted, smarter, better at sucking up to teachers, etc.

In the past few months I have received a few notable letters: the first came from the National Dean's List organization congratulating me for being accepted onto the list. Only 1/2 of one percent of college students make it onto the list, the letter said, so I should be extremely proud of my accomplishment. They even suggested that I inform my local newspaper. What?!

Today I received a letter--no, more like a packet--full of information from the International Scholar Laureate Program. The opening line of the enclosed letter reads: "as a result of your exemplary academic record, leadership potential and community service . . . you have been nominated to represent John Brown University this winter at the 2005 International Scholar Laureate Program." Hmmm. Community service? I haven't done any of that since I returned to the United States in 2000. So, I've been chosen to join 23 other students from around the nation for a time of "discovery and mentorship" January 5-9, 2005 in Arlington, VA. They will send me a "press release to distribute to the local news media." Alright, why would the media care? I suppose it is an honor to be one out of twenty-four people chosen, but I still can't understand why I was chosen.

I am suddenly reminded of a tragic episode of the Brady Bunch in which Jan is notified that she won an award at school, but when she goes onstage to accept the award, the school principle says: "The winner of this award is not Jan Brady." It was all some crazy mix-up, and the award went to someone else, and Jan cried. She cried a lot. I'll never forget her tears. I don't want that to happen to me. If I show up to the International Scholar Laureate Program and they say, "wait a second. That letter was supposed to go to Andre Wegnarl. Sorry for the mix-up," I'll feel pretty bad. I know I'm a good student, but what is all this about?!

Puppy Trouble

Spanky has been very sick today. This afternoon she threw up on the carpet, then a few minutes later threw up again. I left her outside for awhile in the hope that she would get everything out of her system. Rascal wanted to go outside, as well, so I let him out. When I let them both back in twenty minutes later, Rascal was acting strange. He kept following me around and looking up at me as if he was trying to communicate something. I soon found out what: Spanky had thrown up all over his backside, and his fur was covered with white chunks. He was miserable and shaking, the poor little guy. I gave him a quick bath and then put Spanky in her cage, where she will remain the rest of the evening.

Oh Great, More News

I received my new graphics card in the mail on Monday. It's an ATI Radeon 9600 XT with 256 megs of RAM. After testing many games (Battlefield 1942, UT2004, DOOM 3, Far Cry, Thief III: Deadly Shadows, Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic), I can say that it was a good purchase. I'm so happy that I can play DOOM 3 and Thief III now!

Life was great. Until . . .

Yesterday I needed to free up disk space to install a game, so I uninstalled DOOM 3. As it was unistalling, Norton Antivirus kept popping up saying "Waiting for a scan of (such and such a file)." After a few occurrences, it stopped. I later decided to uninstall another game, and an error message popped up saying that the Installshield iKernal.exe was corrupted. I attempted to uninstall a few more games, and the same error message appeared. In addition to no longer being able to uninstall anything, I couldn't install anything for the same reason. I was very screwed. I think that somehow Norton corrupted the file by trying to scan the crap out of everything. I don't know the reason for sure, but I blame Norton. So at 3:30 PM, I began searching on the internet and on Microsoft's site for help with the problem . . . alright, this is getting boring . . . I basically followed all the instructions I could find on how to fix it, and nothing worked. So I decided to reinstall Windows XP. I backed up all my important files by moving them via our wireless network to our family PC, and burning the files on CDs. This process took a very long time. I formatted my hard drive in the meantime (a two hour process), then began the installation. Once it was complete, I spent another few hours getting my wireless network running again and installing Windows updates and drivers. So, I basically worked non-stop from 3:30 PM until nearly 1:00 AM. I still had a few more updates to work on this morning. The point of this terribly drawn out, utterly boring narrative is to explain why my Friday night sucked.

Ovlovteen News

Ovlovteen has finally hit it big: go to http://www.purevolume.com/ovlovteen and check out the band profile, photos, and even download three songs from the new album The Timely Death of a Famed Wiggle Worm. Support the band! Buy our music! We need groupies! Sure, our music may suck terribly, but . . . listen anyway!

Mas Noticias

I ran into Yvette's dad at the library a few days ago. I hadn't seen him since Christmas, and coincidentally I haven't spoken Spanish conversationally since then (lack of opportunities . . . hmmm, I guess that's not really true, since I had two Spanish speaking suitemates at JBU. Oh well). We chatted in Spanish for about ten minutes. It was strange, because I could understand everything he said perfectly, but I had trouble thinking of timely responses. As I answered one of his questions, I made a terrible grammatical error. He looked at me as if he wanted to say, "Wow, that was one huge grammatical error. I have no idea what you just said." He asked another question to help clarify what I had just said, and this time I managed to answer coherently. As the conversation continued, I grew more comfortable, and I even enjoyed it. He's a cool guy, and I'm glad I ran into him.

Last night I had another sleepwalking adventure, or so my parents told me. My dad was typing something on the computer sometime after midnight, and I rushed out of my room and whispered, "Dad! There's a lady outside having trouble with her kid!" My dad asked me what I was talking about, and I said, "Yeah, evidently some lady is having trouble with her kid outside." I walked back into my room and shut the door. My dad was understandably perplexed, so he went outside to see what I had been talking about. When he didn't see any women or children, he guessed that I must have been sleepwalking. I really need to stop doing things like that, it's creepy.

Nothing and Everything

Once again it's time for another "I-have-a-lot-of-news-but-I've-been-really-busy-and-this-is-my-first-chance-to-post-so-here-it-is" post. Good luck.

Well, I made it through my first 20 hour work/school week, and I am still very much alive . . . exhausted, but alive. I've decided that I will not do any homework until tomorrow night so that I can fully enjoy my weekend.

Josh and I wanted to climb Mt. Elbert (the tallest mountain in Colorado) on Sunday, but the weather forecast calls for rain and snow. I was looking forward to it, but I'm also glad for a chance to rest.

Last weekend I bought a copy of Battlefield 1942 and both of its expansion packs (Road to Rome and Secret Weapons of WWII) for $30. To make things even better, I split the cost with Joe. We played a few games last weekend, but we have not had any spare time to play during the week (when I return from work around 9:30 PM, he's normally in bed). The online play is the most intense gaming experience I've ever had.

As I've mentioned before, when I shipped my $300 monitor from JBU to Colorado Springs, it was somehow damaged in transit. I called UPS the day after I discovered that it was broken, and the woman I spoke to apologized and made it sound as if they would reimburse me. That was in May. I called in June and they told me that I had to talk to the shipper (JBU), so when I called JBU, they told me that I needed to take it up with UPS. In July, my dad spent a few hours on the phone (over a period of weeks) trying to work everything out. He even did a three-way call between himself, UPS, and the JBU post office. He talked rough to a few UPS people for all the run-around and spoke to multiple high-up managers. Every time it was the same crap: talk to JBU, etc., etc. A few days ago my dad called one last time and spoke to a manager. It seems that they refuse to take responsibility because the box was not packed according to their guidelines. Wow. Why did it take them four months to tell us this when they knew all of the details from the first day I called?! Now, let me explain how I packed the box: I used the original box plus the original styrofoam, but I placed a few shirts and a pillow in the box just for extra padding. I packed the box better than when it was shipped to me originally! UPS told my dad that the presence of the pillow and clothes constituted "poor packing." They reacted as if I had filled the box with open cans of tuna and razorblades and pointy rocks and fireworks and baby iguanas. A pillow! A freakin' pillow! Soft enough to sleep on! Yes, I am bitter. No hope for humanity.

Mt. Democrat (14,148 ft.)
Mt. Lincoln (14,286 ft.)
Mt. Bross (14,172 ft.)
9-6-04

Before I launch into my customary trip narrative, I’d like to briefly mention the history of these peaks (namely Lincoln). All three were heavily mined in the 1800’s, and dozens of collapsed mineshafts and other structures still remain near the trails. In the 1860’s, miners often raced each other to the summits and back to their mining camps. After one such excursion, a miner returned to camp and was so exhilarated by the climb that he called a meeting to name the mountain he had just ascended. Someone suggested calling it Mt. Lincoln, after the current president, and it was unanimous. The miners sent a load of gold worth $800 to president Lincoln as well as news that the mountain had been named after him. The president dispatched a messenger, and the message he delivered was one of the last things Lincoln wrote before he was assassinated. Ah, patriotism.

This fourteener trip was very different from previous trips, mainly because only my Dad and I went, but also because we had surprising and intensely frustrating setback. We left home at 3:30 AM (I only got about three hours of sleep). I noticed that we only had half a tank of gas remaining before we were out of town, and I mentioned it to my Dad. He said that we had more than enough to get us there and that we could find a gas station later. The drive to Alma was oddly enjoyable. For one thing, we passed less than a dozen cars the whole way. There’s something magical about being exhausted, having a terrible stomach ache, and knowing that you have one heck of a hike ahead of you. The coolest part of the drive was when we stopped on the side of the road about 20 miles from Fairplay (potty break). The only light we could see was from the moon and the stars, and we couldn’t hear anything except for the wind. It’s wonderful to leave the city every now and then.

It was freezing in Alma (below freezing, actually: 28 degrees). We brought all kinds of winter gear (I even brought long underwear, just in case), so we were well-prepared. We realized that the dirt road to Kite Lake was 6 miles, and we only had enough gas to make it three miles. Since it was 5 AM, there was no activity in town, and the nearest gas station was in Fairplay (six miles away). We parked in front of a liquor store (the highest liquor store in America, a sign on the window read). Dad scouted around town for a little while (it didn’t take long, since the population is about 100 people), and he confirmed that no one was around and there were no gas stations. Side note: I just noticed that I tend to use parenthesis way too often (oh well). I suggested that he call AAA. The person on the phone said that someone would come by to bring us gas in less than an hour, guaranteed. It took two and a half hours. I brought a book with me, but I wasn’t feeling good and I only read about ten pages. For most of the time we waited for AAA, I kept my eyes on the highway, hoping that the guy would show up soon so we wouldn’t get caught in a thunderstorm before we could ascend all three summits. When he arrived and added a couple of gallons to our tank, we drove up the dirt road and parked.

We hit the Kite Lake trail at 8:30 AM, and I was immediately dismayed by the number of hikers around us. It was labor day, so I had been expected to meet a few people on the trail, but I was not ready for that many. Two groups of about 20 people each clogged the trail more than anyone else, and every member of the group seemed to be carrying a walkie-talkie and shouting into it incessantly about llamas and alpacas. I’ve always been a fan of inside jokes, but that llama thing went too far (note: if you are confused right now, don’t worry, it’s not important). Near the summit of Democrat, I became so irritated as a group passed us that I said to my dad (in a loud voice), “I used to think climbing mountains was all about solitude and enjoying nature. Now I feel like I’ve come to someone’s family reunion.” A lady nearby overheard and gave me a nasty scowl. I smiled back.


Ice crystals


Mt. Democrat

We ascended Democrat first, then returned to the saddle connected to Cameron, then we hiked over to Lincoln, and finally Bross. Democrat was the most difficult of the three, mostly because of the seemingly infinite switchbacks and class 2 boulder field (although it was nothing compared to Mount of the Holy Cross).


Andy on Democrat (sexy pose)


Dad with Bross in background

I found Cameron to be the next hardest of the peaks, but unfortunately it is not an official fourteener, despite the fact that its summit is at 14, 238 ft. It is not a true fourteener because it only rises 157 ft. from the saddle it shares with Lincoln, and to be a fourteener it must rise at least 300 ft. My Dad was disappointed by that fact, and he’s decided to embark on a campaign to make the peak official. He plans make t-shirts that say “Cameron Counts!” I’m sure he was joking.


Mt. Cameron . . . the non-fourteener

Lincoln is the prettiest of the three peaks, and from the summit it has an excellent view of Quandary to the north (a fourteener I hope to climb early next summer).


Mt. Lincoln

You can also see Bross perfectly, but I must say that it is the most unimpressive mountain I have ever seen. As Gerry Roach, author of Colorado’s Fourteeners, said: “this rotund peak challenges photographers to make it look dramatic.” From the photos I took, it appears that I failed. Bross is, by far, the easiest fourteener I’ve ever climbed. The summit is perfectly flat and large enough to play football on, I’ve often heard people say.


Mt. Bross in all of its . . . grandness


The summit of Bross (future home of the Denver Broncos)


Dad and Andy on Bross summit (Lincoln in the background)

After a brief rest, we headed down toward the valley. The descent was much more difficult than the ascent. The trail was steep and gravelly, and I almost slipped a hundred times. I actually enjoyed this part of the trip, because I’d rather slide down a mountain than walk down (sliding is less tiring, you see). My dad hated it, though, because he has low-cut trail-runner shoes and had to stop to scoop out rocks every few minutes. My boots kept out every single pebble.


The long way down


Mine shaft of Doom

When we were back at our van, I was tired. My eyes felt strange, and I looked in the mirror and discovered that they were terribly sunburned. I should have worn my sunglasses the whole time. My feet didn’t blister up, though; I guess I’ve done so much hiking this summer that my feet have toughened up.

School and other Crap I've Avoided Talking About

After three weeks of classes at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, I am ready to report that all goes well. I honestly prefer John Brown University in just about every way, but UCCS is still pretty cool (the thousands of lovely ladies on campus and the excellent view of Pike's Peak make up for most of the school's shortcomings).

On the first day of class, I arrived on campus 40 minutes before my first class was supposed to begin. Unfortunately, I spent that whole time hunting for a parking place. UCCS has numerous lots on campus (and a few off-campus accessible by shuttle, I recently learned), but every parking place was taken. I wasn't the only one who couldn't find a place; the traffic looked like a small-scale rush hour freeway. In short, I missed my first class. That irritated me, but I got over it. I now try to arrive on campus at least a half hour before my class begins, and I haven't had any more problems. When I returned home, I learned from my Dad that I would not be able to purchase the Jeep I wanted because no insurance company wanted to insure it. Evidently, the maximum lift insurance companies will allow is four inches or so, and the Jeep I wanted had a 5.5 inch lift. Even though I was disappointed, I am very glad that he called about it, because we planned to purchase the vehicle that very afternoon.

Commuting to school is more difficult than living on campus. For example, I have a four hour gap between my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I don't know whether I should sit around on campus or drive back home. The first week of school I came home between classes, but I'm now realizing that I won't always be able to. It takes me about 20 - 25 minutes to drive between home and school, which equals much time and gas. Looks like I'll have lots of dead time.

I don't really care to talk about my classes because it's Friday afternoon and I'd rather think of other things. I do like them all, though. Next week I'll begin working 20 hours per week. Up until now, I've been working 16, which is quite enough. Tuesdays and Thursdays will kill me: I'll leave for class at 8:30 AM, finish with classes at 4:20 PM, then drive directly to work, so I won't be back home until 9:30 PM (when I'll eat dinner). I guess I'll have to adopt the Guatemalan routine of eating dinner terribly late. After a few weeks I'm sure I'll get used to it.

Clichéd and Stolen Titles: an Author’s Worst Sin (Next to Plagiarism, that is)

Book titles are important.
That is my only point.

Interesting titles can encourage people to read a novel, but bad titles can cause people to overlook a novel, at best (at worst, it could push someone to write a discourse similar to what you are now reading). If I notice that a novel’s title is an unimaginative cliché, I won’t bother to even read the synopsis, much less the novel itself. If the title is poor, should I expect anything better from the novel itself (I have read exceptions, but in a broad sense, this is true)?

The clichéd title trend disturbs me. Even worse, some authors actually steal titles from classic literature or use well-known quotes. I would love to ask a few authors: “Who do you think you are using a Shakespeare quote for the title of your crappy mystery novel?” just to see how they would defend themselves. Now, I admit that the first story I ever completed (not including the ones I wrote in elementary and middle school) had a clichéd title: 'Victim of Circumstance.' I recognize my error. It’s easy after writing a story to settle for something that quickly comes to mind and leave it at that.

One obvious problem when using a cliché for a title is that other books (and maybe even movies, computer games, diarrhea medicines, etc.) probably have the same exact title. I’ve seen at least five “Flash Point”s by as many authors, and the same goes for “Trial and Error,” “Pandora’s Box,” “Chain Reaction,” ad infinitum. Imagine this scenario: you’re at a party conversing with an interesting girl. She says that she recently read a great novel called “Shock Wave.” You read a novel of the same name just last week, and you tell her as much. As your conversation continues, you soon realize that the “Shock Wave” your acquaintance refers to is a gothic-erotic-vampire-thriller of the sadomasochistic variety (only sold in 'specialty' bookstores). The one you just read, however, is an historical fiction novel about the Thirty-Years War. You have nothing at all in common with her, and despite the fact that she’s beautiful, you halt the conversation and run to your car, fearing for your life. All of this could have been avoided if the authors had decided to be creative and think up fresh titles. Don't worry, I don't even understand the logic of that last statement, but for the sake of my argument, let us pretend that it makes perfect sense.

Perhaps it is a combination of laziness and an inability to be creative that pushes authors to resort to clichéd titles. Stuart Woods in his condo by the beach: “It’s time for me to face the facts: my career is almost over. I’m one hundred twelve years old, barely lucid enough to string a sentence together without help, and only old ladies read my books anyway. I’m dead in the water for sure. Yeah, that’s what I’ll call my new book: ‘Dead in the Water.’ I really just don’t care anymore.”

Anne Kelleher contemplates the completion of her latest novel: “Hmm, well, I guess it’s finished, for better or worse. Thank goodness for editors who know how to improve this poppycock. Now what about a title? Let me look at my bookshelf here. Well, there’s a good title: The Once and Future King, by T.H. White. Way over my reading level, but still . . . my book is about a guy who once loved a woman, and later in the book he loves her again. Yes! I’ll call it ‘The Once and Future Love!’ Breathtaking! Fabulous! I’m so very, very clever!” Curse you Anne, and may your putrid romance novels mildew and rot on the bookshelves of your witless fans.

The foremost transgressors are popular romance and mystery authors who write for people who buy paperbacks at airports between flights and don’t really care what they read as long as they read something. Looking over my booklist, I only spotted two clichéd titles, so it seems that I’m working well to avoid them. Am I making this more of an issue than it is? Sure, but it’s fun. Here are a few examples of this grave sin:

Clichéd titles:
Hide and Seek, Ian Rankin
Cruel and Unusual Punishment, Tamar Myers
Guilt by Association, Gilbert Morris
The Quiet Game, Greg Iles
Open and Shut, David Rosenfelt
Mistaken Identity, Lisa Scottoline
Cry Wolf, Tami Hoag
White Lies, Linda Howard
Balance of Power, James W. Huston
Desperate Measures, Kate Wilhelm
Winner Takes All, Nora Roberts
Every freakin’ travesty that James Patterson has ever written

Stolen titles:
Paradise Lost, J.A. Jance
Perchance to Dream, Robert B. Parker
Once and Future Love, Anne Kelleher
I’ve seen a few more, but I think I’ve made my point, so I’ll stop now.

Gray’s and Torrey’s Peaks
8-15 & 8-16-04

My Dad’s friend Dan picked us up at 4:30 PM on Sunday. I had never met Dan before, but he was a cool guy. He’s climbed a few fourteeners in the past couple of years, so when my Dad told him about our plan to climb Gray’s and Torrey’s, he was eager to join us (and he even offered to drive). On the way there, Dan and my Dad talked quite a bit, and I read Albert Camus’ The Stranger and occasionally entered the conversation when it became interesting (e.g. when the subject switched to mountain climbing or philosophy).

We reached the Bakerville exit and proceeded up the dirt road. I was a little surprised that Dan drove so slowly; after all, he had a good 4 wheel drive and no one else was around, but I guess he wanted to be cautious. When we came upon the nastiest section of the road, my Dad and I were dismayed to see that its condition had worsened in the few weeks since we’d last been there. Dad I and got out of the SUV and began piling rocks in the deepest holes and Dan tried for a good fifteen minutes to drive across it. We tried numerous approach angles, but the road was too steep and the washout too terrible. We continued piling rocks into the road until at last he made it over, and we continued on. Behind us a rather naïve group of people in a Ford Mustang decided to pass over the washout but realized how bad it was when they were closer to it.


Dan and Dad attempt washout repair

Near the trailhead we found a good-looking campsite and began pitching out tents. I chose a fairly flat area about fifty feet from the spot Dan and my Dad selected. As I pulled my tent out of the bag it began to rain, which encouraged me to hurry. In my haste I didn’t do a very good job of setting a couple of the stakes, which cause a section of my tent to collapse later that night, but it wasn’t a big deal. On the Mount of the Holy Cross trip I learned an extremely helpful lesson: always bring plenty to eat. For this trip, my Dad and I actually ate a little too much. We brought sandwiches from Albertson’s, ramen, Pringles, and Dan passed out hot chocolate and blueberry scones. I went to bed feeling very full.

Oddly, I have never been more comfortable in a tent than I was that night, and I have never slept as poorly. For the first time I brought my foam sleeping pad (it’s normally too bulky to bring along, but this trip we were able to store our gear in Dan’s SUV). I was warm, the rain wasn’t leaking in, and I had plenty of room, but I still only slept one or two hours at most. I think my insomnia resulted from excitement and the simple fact that my campsite wasn’t as flat as I had first estimated. I fought gravity all night and tried to keep from rolling down the (small) hill. Next time I’ll bring a pocket level and check the site before I pitch my tent.

My watch alarm went off at 4 AM, just forty-five minutes after I finally began to sleep well. I unzipped my tent and discovered that it was very cold outside. I suited up, complete with gloves and a warm hat, and began rolling up my sleeping bag and disassembling my tent. It only took a few minutes, then I walked off (with the aid of my trusty 38.5 pound Mag-lite flashlight) toward Dad and Dan’s tent. They were making breakfast, and I drank some coffee and ate a breakfast bar. I helped my Dad pack up his stuff, then we proceeded to the trailhead.


Early morning light on Gray's and Torrey's Peaks


We’re all wearing blue to frighten bears

The first couple of miles went by quickly, thanks to the easy trail and the sun rising at our backs (much better than in our eyes, I would say). After a few more miles the trail became noticeably rockier, and Dan and Dad began to lag behind. I patiently slowed my pace and waited for them, but then I saw a group of mountain goats about a mile ahead of us, and they encouraged me to rush ahead to get some photos (Dan and Dad, not the mountain goats). In case I have not mentioned it before, one of my mountaineering dreams is to observe mountain goats climbing on a cliffside and stand close enough to take good photos. So, I raced ahead and made wonderful time up the series of switchbacks, but by the time I reached the location where I had seen the goats, they were gone. I looked around for a long time, but I couldn’t spot them anywhere. I did find plenty of evidence of their presence, though, including thick tufts of white fur tangled around bushes and large pinecone-like spoor (I didn’t eat any, though).


Mount Kelso (13,164 Ft.) in background


Dad and Dan lag behind . . . very far behind

I sat and waited for at least half an hour for Dad and Dan to catch up. As they came nearer, I noticed that a girl was talking to them, and soon she passed them and approached my location. When she was close, I greeted her, and we talked for a few minutes. She was really nice (in more ways than one). I mentioned that I was waiting for the guys she just passed because I didn’t want to reach Gray’s summit without them. She thought that was really nice. Ah, nice. Dad, Dan and I made it to the summit alive, took a few minutes to rest, then headed down to the saddle connected to Torrey’s Peak. I noted that I was higher than I had ever been in my life: 14, 270 feet.


Andy on Gray's summit (Torrey's in the background)

Clouds began to form over Gray’s Peak while we crossed the saddle, and I hoped that they would stay far away from Torrey’s, at least for a little while. A few minutes later the clouds looked much worse, so my Dad suggested that I go ahead of them. I met up with the girl again, and I learned that her name was Katy. We hiked together all the way from the saddle to Torrey’s summit, and I enjoyed her company. She was from New York and had decided to drive down to Colorado to climb a few fourteeners. Wow. I was impressed. Not many pretty girls drive hundreds and hundreds of miles to climb mountains, of this I am certain (and she’s even climbed more fourteeners than I have). When we reached the summit we rejoiced much and took photos for each other. As I’ve mentioned, she was quite attractive, and I wanted to take a picture of her just because . . . um, well, just read the previous statement. I thought of saying– this is terrible, by the way, and I would never recommend saying anything of this sort– “Hey, mind if I get a photo of you? I just want to prove to my friends that there really are beautiful women who climb mountains.” I rehearsed it a few times, then began to wonder what the heck I was thinking. How could I even consider something so lame?! Must have been the altitude.


Torrey's Peak


The guys on Torrey's Summit

Dan and Dad showed up, and there was much more rejoicing and photo-taking. The clouds continued to approach, so we prudently decided to jog back down. We took another trail down (we didn’t want to ascend Gray’s from the saddle again), and we went very fast. Katy stayed with us for a little while, then she bid us farewell and took off when we stopped for a rest. *sigh* Dan noticed three Ptarmigans foraging in the bushes by the trail, and he took photos of them. I had never seen Ptarmigans, so it was cool to be so close. They were not concerned by our presence in the least, and they allowed Dan to approach within a couple of feet. By that time I was tired and didn’t feel like pulling out my camera.


Dad on the return from Torrey's

Near the end of the trail (or beginning, I should say), I jogged far ahead of Dad and Dan and went off the trail and followed the stream back to the trailhead. It was a fun detour, and I didn’t fall in the water even once. By the time we returned to the SUV, I had the worst headache I think I’ve ever had. I know, I know, “Drink more water!” I drank so much that I had to "step off the trail" every twenty minutes, but the pain still did not abate. The ride back down the dirt road made it even worse (surprise). The three of us dreaded passing over the washed out area that had given us so much trouble on the way up. We were too tired to spend twenty minutes rearranging rocks. We drove for a couple of miles, and as we came around every bend, we would say, “I remember that the washout was right here.” But it wasn’t. We finally realized that while we climbed during the day, a park ranger or someone had graded the entire dirt road and smoothed out the worst places. We didn’t have any trouble getting down. Dad and I were especially amazed by this, because we knew that the road had been awful for over a month at least.

The drive home was long and my head felt too bad to read any Camus. We stopped at a gas station in south Denver and my Dad bought me some painkillers. I really enjoyed Gray’s and Torrey’s Peaks. They were the easiest fourteeners we’ve climbed, but they were still challenging, and the scenery, as always, was well worth the effort.