A Test

This is not an expedition; it’s a test. We’re not going out to summit some technical fourteen-thousand-foot peak or traverse some ridge, icy and exposed. We just want to see how our gear holds up in winter—an easy hike to test our gear.

Conundrum Hot Springs is our destination, just nine miles from the parking lot in Aspen. A mild hike with a warm reward and stunning views of the Maroon Bells, we hope. Perhaps it will be too easy—we’ll get there with daylight to spare and want to summit a nearby peak. Probably we will summit a peak, keep on past the hot springs and end up on an icy pinnacle, piercing the sky.

The sky dims—it’s only four o’clock—and stars coalesce into focus. Justin and I drive up a winding road, scraped with packed snow, and park at a Snowmass/Maroon Bells Wilderness trailhead. I pitch the tent and Justin fiddles with the GPS, a device with which I am totally inept.

Our gear is eclectic, representing nearly every decade since outdoor gear became a formal product-category. Our 1969 Holubar down sleeping bags weigh nearly nine pounds apiece. The geese they are made from have been dead longer than your great-grandfather. But my spandex—wow are they snazzy. And my 2010-model North Face snowpants, breathable and water-resistant, shine in the sun a brighter white than the snow.

We leave the car—it’s nearly ten—and trek up the trail, feet heavy under the unnatural weight of boots. Well, I’ve got boots; Justin is wearing running shoes. We walk slow—with each step, our feet sink a few inches in the powder—and break every ninety minutes or so for a solid half-hour. I need the breaks; my lungs burn. I’m wheezing. I’ve never had asthma. It must. Be the. Cold.

The sky burns a clear, cold blue and stings the trees, the ground, my cheeks. Branches, bare and grey, glitter in the unfiltered sunlight, dusted in a fine layer of frost. It reached a low of two degrees last night, and, now, I don’t think it’s much warmer. Nine degrees, I’d guess, or thirteen.

My lungs throb now, and I’m coughing a deep, sick cough. My throat feels raw, scraped red by the icy air. I’ve backpacked from Mexico to Canada, damn it, this should be a stroll. This is a stroll. Old people walk to Conundrum Hot Springs.

But it’s winter. Everything is dead—frozen to death—sparkling in the sunlight with deceptive vivacity. I can’t feel my fingers. But they’re a lovely pink-white. 

We’re two miles from the hot springs and it’s three o’clock—one hour to dusk. We strap on our snowshoes. I cough with my whole body.

I cough again.

“Let’s camp,” I say, turning back to Justin. “Next water we see, let’s camp.”

We hear water in five minutes and, together, pitch the tent. I’m feverish and shivering and my throat—my damn throat—I haven’t the muscle-control to speak.

I crawl into my negative-forty-degree bag and sweat cold sweat.

Snow drifts down all night and I can’t sleep. I position and reposition myself, cough up mucous, shiver. This is miserable, this gentle hike to Conundrum Hot Springs. Horrible. I want—what do I want? Comfort. Tea? I know I have a fever.

In the morning we turn back; it’s not even a question. A fresh foot of powder has fallen—glittering and seductive, of course—but we know better. This kind of beauty is cold—dead.

The gear survives, unhurt. Untouched, it seems, just cold. And Justin, in his running shoes and thin gloves—he’s fine. He strides with an eager hop in his step, ready for a cup of coffee and a hot shower. I, bundled in my expedition-weight down jacket and 2010-model North Face snowpants, shiver and cough.

In this frosty wilderness, I am 104 degrees.

The grade, you ask? The gear passes—earns high marks. Before you write a test, though, make sure you know the answers.