Rocky Mountain High

© Patti Poulin / RumBum.com

Ice climbing in Colorado

Bound for the majestic San Juan Mountains in southwest Colorado, all I could focus on was the destination. This is completely against the motto that I've clung to ever since my the infamous Albuquerque meltdown – it's the journey, not the destination. I had long dreamed of Colorado but for some reason had never made it into the land of towering 14ers and microbreweries. What was even more exciting was the fact that I was about to be introduced to a new sport, one that I had never even considered before – ice climbing.

Getting to the small mountain town of Ouray, Colorado meant first traveling for hours across the vast, yet dramatic, desert also known as Najavo land, or the Four Corners region. Being that it had been an unusually temperamental winter, the area was blanketed with snow, making the red soil even more vibrant, and the formations that jutted toward the sky even more spectacular.

Tall Tales in Telluride

A full day’s drive brought us to our sought after destination, but not without a pit stop in Telluride so I could take a gander at this celebrated ski resort town I had only read about it magazines. Snow packed peaks towered above the quaint town as we drove in down the main road in search of a parking spot. I had long given up driving rights before heading into the mountains – a born and raised sunshine girl has no business driving on icy and snow packed roads.

© Patti Poulin / RumBum.comPressed for time (we were supposed to meet friends in less than and hour), we parked the car and walked into the Sheridan Bar for one, and only one drink. I couldn't get over the history of the town and the Sheridan was no exception. The bar was one of those places where you walk in and can feel that something out of the ordinary was sure to happen while you were there.

The scene was lively, and what had to have been some of the town’s most colorful characters seemed to be waiting for naïve and wide-eyed tourists like Doug and me. Immediately, a local man offered us a free beer, and we accepted. (Though we should have know – beers are never free.) This one came with almost an hour of crazy stories about the town and its residents. What was even better was the multiplication of the storytellers over the course of only minutes; the more they drank the more insane their stories, and the more they poked fun at each other.

Because we had at least another hour ahead of us to meet our friends, we had to leave before we – or they – were ready. Part of me really wanted to stay behind, hear more stories, maybe just set up camp in my car and never leave. Little did I realize at that point in time that the welcoming attitude and vibrant individuals were not confined to the town of Telluride.

Forging a New Path in Ouray

We arrived in Ouray well after dark and completely exhausted from the fourteen hours of driving, despite our Telluride detour. Unable to take in the area in which we had just arrived, I shoved off for bed in anticipation of morning and what it might bring. I had seen mountains in my life, but never had I seen or been prepared for the beauty that I was about to encounter.

When I left the east months earlier in search of adventure, I had an unspoken notion that maybe my travels would bring me to a place that I couldn't live without. I had longed for this place but I had no clue where or if I would ever find it. (I honestly believed it would be somewhere out of the country.) Waking up that morning and stepping out of the yurt we were sharing with three other friends, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and discovered the breathtaking mountains, covered with fresh powder. Something stirred within my soul and I felt completely at ease – with myself, with my life and with whatever may lie ahead.

© Patti Poulin / RumBum.comWe spent the following three days exploring Ouray, the “Switzerland of America,” and taking in the world famous Ice Festival. I had been climbing on rock for a couple years but the thought of climbing up frozen water intimidated me. Common sense reminds you that ice eventually cracks, after all. It took me two days before I finally worked up the courage to slip on the ridiculous amounts of spiky gear required to climb up what is essentially a fabricated frozen waterfall.

The Ouray Ice Park was one of the first parks developed by man for ice climbers to enjoy during the winter months. They literally run water over a towering canyon during the coldest months of the year in turn creating colossal pillars of ice. Ice tools (or essentially axes) in hand and crampons on my feet I was brave (or stupid) enough to finally give this whole walking on frozen water a try.

With Doug as my belay, he was holding on to the other end of the rope in which I was tied into, in case I fell which was inevitable. I have still yet to figure out why I love the thrill of attempting something that seems just stupid to many people, yet when I am doing it, I sometimes wish I had just taken up something safe like knitting. Staring at the wall of ice, planning my attack, I reminded myself that there was no way to be seriously injured – I was roped in, after all.

I hammered a tool into the ice and pulled myself up. It was exhilarating. It took a good fifteen minutes or more before reaching the top of the canyon, but once I did, my endorphins were pumping and I wanted nothing more than to try again.