10 Days on the Colorado Trail – A Day at Browns Lake

I slept in until 5:30, made a leisurely breakfast, had two cups of coffee and hit the trail toward Browns Lake at 7:30. The previous night in my tent I thought I had smelled a campfire and just west of me I come across a half dozen tents or more and a big group camping. I say good morning and continue west and up.

I stopped off the trail to see Browns Falls, the biggest cascade of water I would see on my ten day trip. It was cacophonous and during this trip I’ve come to realize that while a gentle trickle of water can be soothing, the pure relentless noise that is produced by runoff is unsettling to me. If camping with others you have to shout to be heard and it decreases my senses and makes me feel vulnerable. I bounce across a well constructed, improvised log crossing to get up higher to the falls and record some video.

I make my way back to the main trail and surprise a young man that is crossing a section of water. We chat for a short while and he tells me that he had been camping up at Browns Lake. He’s vague on detail and the replies to my questions come in short, scant answers. Something doesn’t seem quite right and the most unnerving part is that it is hard to make eye contact with him. Not because he won’t but it is like he is staring off beyond me or maybe he has some kind of disability. He has an older pack, and I guess he is in his early to mid 20’s. He tells me he is from Denver and the thing that sticks out most is that he is in Vans footwear. He’s gone six miles one way in a pair of Vans and has made his way back out. However, while seemingly odd, it certainly isn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen in my life. I wish him good day and make my way farther up toward the lake.

About halfway to Browns Lake I hike through an area of just pure destruction. Huge Douglas Firs are blown over everywhere like matchsticks. This initially makes me a little uneasy and I question the wisdom of spending the night even higher in the valley. Browns Lake sits in a narrow valley at just over 11,000′ with Mount White to the north at 13,667′ and Jones Peak to the south at 13,604. I know that I won’t be exposed in the valley but there must be potential for ferocious winds. In my planning I had already decided that if for some reason Browns Lake didn’t resonate well with me, I’d just turn around and head back down to the Colorado Trail. So I move forward to see what it will be like.

After another mile or so I move back into timbered forest and it gives me solace. Again the valley opens up but now it is because I am coming to the lake. As I pop over some granite rocks (granite dominates the whole area including the 13ers to the north and south) I come to the lake and immediately realize I can smell the remnants of a campfire from the young man’s camp whom I had met earlier in the morning. As I begin to pass his camp though, I find that the campfire is still not just smoking, but burning as I can see open flame. This is the second time this year that I have come upon a smoldering fire. I’m not angry as much as sort of melancholic. It lines up a little bit with the feeling I had when I was speaking to him; unsettling. I take the twenty minutes necessary to unpack my things to get to my little cook kettle so I can begin making trips back and forth from the lake to the fire ring. When things are not burning anymore I just grab the two big logs and dunk them in the lake. They retort with hissing and sputtering not wanting to be displaced by the water. I hold them under until there is no more life, no spark, no threat to the amazing wilderness that surrounds me. I take them back to the fire ring and let them rest. Again, something man has created causes me to find another place to camp and I move to the west end of the lake.

There is a rather nice established camp but I decide the fishing will be better on the south end of the lake below the moraine from Jones Peak. I precariously cross Browns Creek and make my way on a game trail/fishing trail/social trail to a spot to camp. It’s still only late morning and I take my time finding what I feel is the best spot. I want secluded and not exposed to potential lightning. Being away from water is not an option and in my search I end up a mere fifteen yards from a mule deer doe. She and I eye each other up and she is never alarmed. With only a narrow trail in spots between the water and where the mountain charges uphill there is no avoiding each other. A bright spot in my morning that was only slightly tarnished by the campfire story.

The fishing from the south side of the lake holds true to be fruitful and I catch a dozen and a half trout in about an hour and half. At times they come in on consecutive casts. There are a few Greenback Cutthroats and what seems to be some hybrid Cutbows.

A nap and some reading is in order when the afternoon rain storm moves through. Upon stretching my legs as I exit my tent I see a horde of folks have camped across the lake. On my sojourn to my evening fish I visit with a young lady and I find the majority of them are an out of state boy scout troop that will be climbing Mount Antero the next day. The young lady is from Texas but has a summer job guiding small expeditions such as this. I realize only the next day that this must have been the group I passed earlier in the morning.

As I fish back over by the north side I realize I made the good choice with my earlier fishing spot. The fish on the north are pickier and obviously have wised up to the fishing action. I “only” catch seven or eight and then decide I best head back to my tent as the skies darken overhead. The group of scouts must all be in their tents for the night as it is quiet.

When I arrive at my tent I’m alarmed to see water rushing close to where I am camped. The rain of the afternoon, while light, had run straight off the mountain and created a stream that wasn’t there just two hours previously. In fact, it rushes hard enough now that I can fill bottles whereas it was difficult to find good access to pump-able, silt free water earlier in the day. Things about this area now begin to make sense. Where I cannot walk now I was able to tread earlier before the afternoon storm and had been alarmed how I was essentially walking on quicksand. I made a hasty retreat then! Now I understood that this whole valley being flanked by these granite mountains consists of highly sandy soil. The trees that were all blown over would not be able to take good hold with their root system and it was easy to understand why they weren’t stable in high winds.

As I bed down for the night I’m wired. I only hiked four to five miles and had energy to spare. I make notes about things I’d change on future trips and read until midnight. I was eager to be back on the trail the next day and to pound out some miles. Sleep didn’t come easy and I’d pay for it dearly the next day.

After six days on the trail I’ve now covered 88 miles.