There comes a time when we must admit we enjoy something that is a stunning bore to others. Whether it’s stamp collecting or archiving gum wrappers, we have some pretty dull thrills. Most of the time, I wouldn’t wear my  ”born to be mild” side on my sleeve  but I’m going to put one out there: I love frozen forest access roads.

Stevens Gulch en route to Grays Peak in the summer and winter.

It was one of my childhood thrills to wander the overwhelmed streets of my small New England town, knowing full well the plows were helpless to push through the swirling powder. Here in Colorado, I seek out those snow-burdened roads less known to snowmobilers and cross country skiers to bask in the solitude, silence and seclusion. Throw a couple of dogs in the mix, a thermos of hot tea and no obligations to return to and I have a little slice of backcountry euphoria.

I’m especially fond of the lower segments of mountain passes, those places we normally speed past on our way to the high reaches of lofty peaks. Winter is a welcome agent of change and to notice all the intricacies and details by the side of the road is a special treat. I love watching my border collies rip off into the deep powder, knowing they can’t wander too far (and if all goes well, they may tire themselves out for a few hours). I love the distant peaks looming like frozen giants over the white and pastel landscape. I love the mysterious animal tracks fading into the forest. I get a giddy thrill like I’ve just snuck backstage as I pass semi-buried road signs and trail markers.

There’s hundreds of these roads to be explored, everywhere from the Front Range to the Elks, the San Juans to the Sangres. Usually there’s no destination, just a journey. My normal modus operandi is if there is a summit that can be reached,  it must be reached. But winter roads aren’t like that. They twist and weave through the forest into seeming infinity. During a good snowfall there’s a serene sense of safety, for the road is easy to retrace and yet, there is something intimate and wild in the stillness. It’s a behind-the-scenes look at the world in negative, stripped of clutter and cryogenically sealed.

I used to be bummed when I couldn’t recruit many friends to join me. And I couldn’t really blame them; there’s only so many free days in the winter and there are mountains to ski, icefalls to climb and terrain parks to shred. But over time, I’ve grown to embrace the solitude, the canine camaraderie and the Zen-like experience of cold roads to nowhere. What can I say? I’m too antsy for Yoga, too tightly wound for meditation and too restless for devotional reflection. Frozen roads induce a seance that calms my mind and eases weeks of tension in only a few hours. It’s a plain, seasonal meditation but for me it’s welcome therapy knowing I have miles to go before I sleep.

I’ve always prided myself on being a rugged, winter-worthy guy. Many a night I’ve spent hunkered in my minus 20 degree sleeping bag while Arctic gusts pushed wind chills well below zero. There was always something raw and gritty about being tucked away in a snow cave or single-wall tent, far away from the comforts of society. But lately, there’s a little more grey in my beard, a little more sense in my head and perhaps a slight adjustment of priorities. Freezing nylon tents and the soft swoosh of Nordic skis are fine but my cold-weather hedonist is mulling over a new plan: a mighty snowmobile that can pull Cabela’s Ultimate Alaknak Tent into the middle of the mountains!

The Mongols would be proud of this burly shelter.

Imagine if you will being able to haul this canvas beauty up some remote forest road with your modestly quiet snowmobile (I’m not trying to go 100% redneck here). After a little set up work, including a *portable wood burning stove* you can set up a cushy cot, throw down a few sleeping bags for the dog and viola, instant backcountry bliss.

Why do I feel kind of guilty about digging this portable palace (I mean besides the price)? Was it the gas-powered, peace-shattering snowmobile? Nah, since I would be perfectly content cruising in on well-worn forest service roads on a relatively quiet machine. Was it the poshness of it all? The truth is, I’m kind of over dirtbag-style glamour, having paid my dues in various low-budget sufferfests, so I don’t think that was it either.

I think what it comes down to is the intended audience for the tent: they are designed for hunters. I’m a humble vegetarian and while the tent is whatever I make it, I feel weirdly responsible for killing Bambi’s mother should I indulge in such a shelter. (One of the advertisements on another site cheerfully proclaims: “Plenty of room for a gutting table!”) It’s goofy logic but I think it’s on par with a long-held aversion to snowmobiles; it’s the green thing to do, frowning upon mechanical intrusions of the pristine wilderness.

The fact is I kind of like snowmobiles. And I love being out in the winter. And sometimes I think it does my dreams good to get off my high-horse once in a while. That’s not saying I’m ready to save my pennies for this sweet, sweet setup but at least I can entertain the thought. Bear in mind if I had a gutting table, I’d use it to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

The question is: would I be a sell-out for upgrading from my Bibler tent to an on-the-go backcountry cabin? Hard to say, but the thought of that little wood burning fireplace warming the cold winter night while camped next to a diamond-hard, frozen, alpine lake seems like a slice of Colorado heaven. Instead of angels and devils on my shoulders I have Walt Whitman and Larry the Cable Guy.

So I ask you humble readers, exert your peer pressure: fancy-pants tent, yay or nay?

Last night at the Boulder Book store Outside contributing editor Andrew Tilin spoke about his new book The Doper Next Door: My Strange and Scandalous Year on Performance Enhancing Drugs. Somewhere between the curiosity of “does this stuff work” and the inevitable temptation to regain one final morsel of youth, Tilin went ahead and got on a program of legally prescribed supplements. Testosterone was the hormone of choice for Tilin, an amateur bike racer and father.

Now, before the “dopers suck” crowd starts their chant, keep this in mind: Tilin never went into illegal drugs such as growth hormones and EPO. As he pointed out, nearly all middle aged women face a similar dilemma with the onset of pre-menapausal conditions and very few people would be critical of a woman taking estrogen and progesterone to help improve energy and mood. The changes in men’s bodies are more subtle but are felt equally as strong. Loss of energy, libido, desire and motivation are par for the course. In this sense, the book is as much about dealing with the slow decline of youth as much as it is about increasing athletic performance.

Of course, it’s one thing to simply want to improve your drive and energy for day to day tasks. It’s another thing to compete on any level with a decidedly unfair advantage over many of your competitors. Tilin has no doubt that testosterone works, as evidenced by his exceptional performances in the bike races he participated in while doping. Everywhere from the race course to the bedroom, Tilin becomes a new man — or perhaps a younger incarnation of himself.

If it wasn’t for those pesky side affects, such as depression, mood swings, acne and increased aggression, it would be a no-brainer for all middle aged men to get some kind of testosterone boost. It’s a compelling read that might feel like a narcissistic journey if the curiosity to see how strong you can get wasn’t ubiquitous among us who partake in athletic endeavors. Well written, honest and insightful, Tilin’s book is easy to read, easy to understand and hard to put down. And for those of us who have wondered in the dark shadows of our secret thoughts what it would be like, Tilin saves us the trouble.

Even with the goofy muzzle, put your money on the bear every time. He is just toying with this dude.

I owe my life to the raspberries and blueberries of Gregory Canyon. For without them, the enormous black bear I came face to face with around a blind corner yesterday would have sized me up as soft, pink, low-challenge, high calorie meal. Amongst the two menu items standing before him (my border collie and myself) I was clearly the better cuisine. If nothing else, my dog could run away after getting in a few nips. My puny human jaw is laughably weak in the animal kingdom, my top speed on two legs makes me regretfully slow and even if I had the strength of five Jackie Chans or six Mike Tysons, the hardest attack I could muster against a 350 lb. bruin would feebly bounce off his muscly hide like marshmallows off a Sherman tank. I began to think the only skill worthy of bear escape in my arsenal is free climbing a 5.9 pitch to safety.

Thankfully, Mr. Bear wasn’t the least bit interested in snacking on us. Even my friend-to-all-dogs border collie knew it might be best to just sit still and let the big guy go about his business rather than greet him with a friendly whiff of the butt. The whole scene was very calm and soon the bear lumbered off into the brush to continue his ursine duties such as eating berries and pooping in the woods.

As I continued down the trail, I was grateful to be on the other side of the predator/prey equation if only for a brief and uneventful moment. It’s a good frame of reference to be in close quarters with a clearly superior species. Regardless of your views on animal intelligence, the fact is that bear made a choice not to whomp me into a pulp, which he could have done with relative ease. It’s a shame people don’t have a more developed sense of bear-like decision making. Our collective motto seems to be “if we can kill it, we will (other humans not exempt).”

Let’s face it, there are very few times in our lives when our very mortality is in the paws of wild animals. David Quammen has an excellent book about just this called Monster of God, where he visits the last few places on earth where man is still a prey species to such fearsome predators as Asian lions, Australian crocodiles, Siberian tigers and Romanian brown bears. In a world where man’s endless cruelty to most of mother nature’s brood is legendary, to expect mercy from any wild animal seems arrogant to say the least.

Flow is good for the soul -- and the body.

If you’re happy and you know it, ride your bike! Or just maybe, you are happy because you ride your bike.

Happiness in all its hard-to-define glory is the subject of Roko Belic’s 2011 documentary Happy: The Movie. Happy looks at the fledgling academic field of researching happiness from psychological, physical and emotional standpoints and posits several theories as to how happiness is generated. One aspect of  being happy is the ability to “flow,” the “mental state of operation in which a person in an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement and success in the process of the activity”.

The results of flow mojo are part of our culture: champion athletes, skilled musicians, elegant writers and passionate artists all produce tangible results of locking into the flow. Hungarian psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has been exploring this concept for over 30 years. His 1990 book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience is one of the most wide read publications that examines what is happening when we flow. Flow is very similar to a zen state, where the mind and body are balanced and focused on a single task while the individual is equipped with enough skill to prolong the experience.

Tying it all together, what Happy proposes is that flow isn’t limited to highly skilled pursuits; one might achieve flow folding laundry, mowing the lawn or playing a video game. Everything from painting a wall to carving a pumpkin has the potential to flow and when we do, it is intrinsically satisfying. Not only do we reach a sort of timeless place during the endeavor, our brains are physiologically more active. Those who regularly practice mindful pursuits like yoga, meditation and martial arts have been shown to actually have larger, more active brains.

Downward dog -- not just for dogs anymore!

The secret then, is to achieve a state of flow in as many areas of life as possible. Flow is fluid (no pun intended) and can manifest itself in many states. The act of heightened focus can become a habit that transcends whatever activity we excel in most. Which brings us back to the beauty of the outdoors and all the ways we can achieve flow in wilderness.

Horrible encounters await in the corn maze. Right?

With the surplus of outdoors survival shows on TV these days, how come there’s never been a special on how to endure the grueling hardship of being slightly disoriented in a corn maze? Can you picture it now?

(Kind of rugged dude with unnaturally white teeth, nearly hyperventilating): “The important thing when you are lost in a corn maze is to stay calm. If you look carefully (camera pans in) you can see there are actually cobs of “corn” hidden deep within these seemingly barren husks. Ancient natives would flip over the stalks and look for the Redenbacher Weevil, which only feasts on the northern side of the stalk. This would lead them to safety. Conversely, a highly trained explorer might have a highly acute sense of smell, which he could use to orient himself to Wacky Willie’s cotton candy stand. As a last resort, expert navigators could follow their ears to the pounding beat of ‘Monster Mash’ and follow speaker cords to their source where you’re sure to find a surly teenager lighting up a doobie.”

If anything took a big hit recently, it was the once-vaunted American pioneering spirit. For in the dark hallows of Danvers, Massachusetts a couple was in such dire straits while visiting the Connors Farm corn maze they called 9-1-1 for help. This was a man, woman and 3-week old baby. I’ve got bad news for the kid; he’s going to the be the one whose parents make him wear a full set of knee and elbow pads to play wiffle ball. The fact his genes even exist is a major coup to the theory of evolution.

Look, I’ve been in corn mazes before. You’re supposed to get lost, that’s part of the fun. Every man, child and Nebraskan knows this. In the off chance you are completely without hope, here’s a pro tip: you can actually walk between the rows of corn, they aren’t electrified (at least in America). Oh, and corn isn’t soundproof. You can always cry out “Help, we’re lost!” or the much more sympathetic, “We brought our 3-week old baby into a corn maze and we’re idiots, someone get us out of here”.

Even though it was the tearful woman who made the actual phone call, the husband permanently and forever has lost his man card. It is hardwired in men’s DNA to not ask for directions, so even if it took them 17 hours to get out the corn maze, most men would insist they were almost there because heck, we just passed that withered stalk with the ladybugs on it. Getting lost and ultimately found (or dying) without the intervention of pesky directions or maps is a source of male pride. The Vikings had it when they sailed to Greenland. Western settlers had it when traversing the Oregon Trail. Even determined businessmen have it when bravely following their GPS to the Holiday Inn in Sheboygan. In this fellow we have the far end of the human spirit of endeavor: we’ve put a man on the moon (good) and we’ve reduced a man to jelly by placing him in a corn maze (bad).

Every time I return to the Mount Zirkel Wilderness I think two things: Zirkel would be a GREAT name for a dog and despite being blatantly abundant in gorgeous alpine lakes, rugged peaks and colorful wildflowers, the Zirkel Wilderness is still relatively unknown. Originally designated in 1964 and expanded opon several times throughout the years, the 160,000 acres is home to the Park Range mountains and two vital river systems. The unique low-alpine environment means the landscape is festooned with aspen groves and dense willows. A myriad of streams make this one of the most lush mountain areas in the state – all that champagne power from Steamboat has to to melt at some time.

Geologically speaking, the Zirkel Wilderness is relatively new. Glaciers shaped the region a mere 15,000 years ago and owing to a shorter ice age, many of peaks are left in a state of mid-transformation. A good example of this is the semi-polished summit of Mount Zirkel (12,180 ft.), the highest point in the wilderness. A much more recent event known as the Routt Divide Blowdown occurred in 1997 and devastated millions of trees and triggered dozens of wildfires. The raw scars are slowly being healed and the new flora is as much a trademark as the trout-filled rivers and colorful basins.

The Zirkel Wilderness is named in honor of German-born Ferdinand Zirkel, a highly respected geologist who came to America in 1874 on the heels of the Hayden Survey to examine the vast amounts of minerals and gemstones in the newly charted parts of Colorado. Another quality name in the wilderness is Big Agnes Mountain, supposedly named after one of the more voluminous women of ill-repute during the early mining days. It is unknown whether Zirkel met Agnes but I think “Zagnes” would be another good name for a dog.

A large part of the charm of the Zirkel Wilderness comes from its lakes, which offer great camping and excellent backcountry fishing. Mica Lake, Gilpin Lake, Gold Creek Lake, Blue Lake and Peggy Lake are just a sampling of quality alpine lakes. There’s a particularly beautiful unnamed lake at 11,500 ft. chiseled into the east wall of Big Agnes that can only be seen from her summit ridge.

Greenland's Arctic waters are a magical place.

Eastern Greenland is remote and removed–just the kind of place any adventurous soul would yearn to explore. I was thrilled to be invited by modern-day explorer Olaf Malver to travel with his company Explorers’ Corner on their 2011 Greenland kayaking expedition this summer. This would mark my third time to Greenland but my inaugural visit to the mysterious eastern coast. Let’s start with a little history lesson before diving into the details of the adventure.

Eastern Greenland is largely absent in the romanticized history of Arctic exploration. Geographically it lacks the allure of the north and south poles and its most hazardous terrain lies just south of the Arctic Circle. The complex networks of fractured fjords and inlets, which can extend hundreds of miles inland, offer no great trade route. Enormous, jagged peaks of ancient rock rise upwards of 4,000 feet from the sea and the unpredictable waterways can be clear one moment, choked with enormous ice bergs and flotillas of sea ice the next. Fractured glaciers shatter into the sea or break off underwater, sending ice shards rocketing to the surface. There isn’t enough flat land for grazing animals such as reindeer and musk-ox to flourish; a sparse population of arctic fox, sea birds and the stray polar bear are the only inhabitants. To top it all off, storms can build in minutes and last for days, an especially precarious trend in the sub-zero winter seasons when darkness falls on the land for months at a time. Finally, when summer does roll around, the mosquitoes can be prolific while a shield of ice from the north buffets the sea coast and keeps a majority of whales and other large marine mammals from entering the channels – not good for the native hunter.

The forbidden coast in the red box.

It is not just the severity of the land that has contributed to Eastern Greenland’s low profile. Unlike more well-known polar areas, Eastern Greenland never played host to the epic tragedies that remain a perplexing source of pride for certain nations, England being at the top of the list. The men (and women) who unlocked the mysteries were competent, efficient and strong explorers who quickly adapted native methods rather than trying to bully their way through using inadequate techniques and nationalistic moxie. For every Sir John Franklin, Robert Falcon Scott and Ernest Shackleton, all of whom blundered into catastrophe, Eastern Greenland features a list of proficient and capable explorers such as Knud Rasmussen, Roald Amundsen and Fridtjof Nansen, mostly of Danish or Norwegian heritage (England does regain a bit of pride from the masterful explorations of Captain William Scoresby ).

Canine Craggin’: Take precautions if your pooch is going to summit. Photo: James Dziezynski

Keeping an eye on man’s best friend is an important responsibility when hiking at altitude. Dogs are susceptible to many of the same conditions as humans, though pups are less likely to complain—so it’s up to you to look out for them. Here are a few conditions to be aware of when hiking over 8,000 feet with your canine companions.

Dehydration

Always bring plenty of water for your dogs and take frequent breaks to offer them drinks. Even if there are water sources, don’t rely on them. Bring enough water (and a bowl) on every hike.

Heat Exhaustion

Heat exhaustion in dogs is far too common and easily preventable. While smaller and shorter haired dogs generally fare well in heat, larger dogs or those designed for cold (like huskies) cannot be pushed in the sun (imagine hiking mid-summer in a down jacket). Remember if you’re warm, your dog is twice as hot—and dark colored fur heats up faster than lighter fur.

Raw Paws

Most dogs can develop thick pads with gradual hiking. Let your pup’s natural hiking boots form over time. Don’t rush into long, hard hikes. If your dog is ok with them, booties can help prevent blisters but they can also be hot and uncomfortable.

Altitude Sickness

Canines exhibit the same symptoms of high-altitude sickness as people: listless, lack of coordination, pale tongue, glazed eyes and vomiting mean it’s time to get lower ASAP. Remember, even if he feels like hell your dog will likely follow you higher—don’t make him do it. If left untreated, altitude sickness can be deadly.

Sunburn

If you own a dog with pink patches on its snout (border collies, aussies), apply a little sunblock on its nose to avoid painful burns.

Endless Winter: In Colorado’s high peaks you can always combine a backpacking trip with a corn snow descent. Photo: Liam Doran/liamdoranphotography.com

Colorado’s mountains are a diverse collection of distinct relatives. Every major range has a unique geological history that gives the peaks their own unique character. With those differences in mind, we decided to highlight hikes in three of the state’s most distinct regions. Each offers a different array of rock, wildlife, contours and challenges. Aspen’s location at the crossroads of the glaciated Sawatch Range and the crumbly, uplifted sea floor of the Elk Range makes it the ideal spot to get up into hybrid alpine settings. Salida offers access to the state’s highest peaks (get ready to tick numerous 14ers off your life list) in the high Sawatch Range and Steamboat Springs offers the northern reaches of the Park Range, an area rich with streams, flowers and lower elevation (but no less spectacular) summits.

ASPEN

Many of the postcard-perfect peaks acknowledged  as Colorado’s most aesthetically pleasing scrape the sky just outside of Aspen—think Sopris, Castle, Pyramid. And the Elk Range is highlighted by the massive 14,000-foot Maroon Bells, striated peaks whose trademark diagonal channels are due to the soft, uplifted rock and clay from a long-lost Colorado sea.

HIKE
GEISSLER PEAK
Even if you don’t have your sights set on a summit, a day hike to the Geissler Peak area is a worthy adventure. Starting from the 11,535-foot Lost Man Pass Trailhead 1.9 miles west from the summit of Independence Pass (on the Aspen side), the Lost Man Pass trail follows high alpine streams to the rocky, scenic shores of Independence Lake. Just past the lake at 2.1 miles at 12,800 feet, you’ll reach the saddle of Lost Man Pass. After taking in the Martian-like scenery, go off trail on a moderate Class 2 ridge to reach 13,301-foot Geissler Peak. Continue along the ridge to complete a full 6.1 mile loop that tags several sub-peaks and returns by intersecting the  Linkins Lakes trail.

SCRAMBLE
BECKWITH MOUNTAIN
In deep forests saturated with colonies of aspen trees lay the Beckwith Mountains, a collection of modest summits along a single, glacially carved massif. Punctuated by the highpoint of 12,432-foot East Beckwith Mountain, the off-trail scrambling offers excellent Class 3 ridge lines. Unlike the unstable terrain of many of the Elk Range peaks, the rock here is solid and sturdy. Adventurous scramblers can traverse to the west summit a mile from the east or complete a full tour of the entire Beckwith proper by circling the ridges, for roughly a six mile day.

OVERNIGHT
WEST MAROON PASS
Don’t let the crowds swarming the easily accessed Maroon Lake at the foot of the Maroon Bells deter you from exploring the backcountry in Aspen’s backyard. You’ll quickly lose the masses as you head out to West Maroon Pass, 6.5 miles from the lake. From here you’ll have amazing views of Belleview Mountain and Mount Belleview and just over the pass is primo backcountry camping. Surprisingly lush alpine meadows, quiet streams and red rock mountains set an impressive stage. With two vehicles, you can continue four miles to Scofield Pass and a trailhead that will bring you to Crested Butte, or simply return, soaking in the marvelous mountain scenery along the way.

SALIDA

Salida’s location in the high peaks region of Colorado makes it a fantastic base for adventures in the Sawatch Range. Boasting 15 peaks over 14,000 feet, the Sawatch Range is best known for it’s hulking, domed, rocky mountains that offer up long, gradual ascents to reach their lofty summits. It is the runoff from these peaks that givesSalida proximity to several great sections of river, something to keep in mind if you’re eager to mix in some paddling. The mountain biking is pretty sweet too—but you won’t find hikes like this at eleveation anywhere else.

HIKE
MOUNT OURAY
Mount Ouray threatens to be a 14er but falls just short at 13,971 feet, which, in our humble opinion, is great news. Since the peak doesn’t have the famed pedigree, you can take in all the stunning Sawatch views without worrying the crowds of 14er toppers. As a bonus, the ridge to Ouray’s summit is an easy to navigate, off-trail, Class 2 path that offers true wilderness feel. The 6.1 mile round trip from the top of Marshall Pass starts on the Colorado Trail for one mile before diverging off to follow Ouray’s West Ridge. Thankfully, the ridge up to Ouray’s summit is solid and features a unique section of silvery veined white quartz.

SCRAMBLE
CARBONATE MOUNTAIN LOOPS
Topping out at 13,653 feet, Carbonate Mountain used to have a smattering of visitors when the Jennings Creek Route to the popular 14,155-foot Tabeguache Peak was the standard path. Since Jennings Creek was closed in 2003, hikers shifted trailheads in their efforts to reach Tabeguache, leaving Carbonate as hidden Sawatch gem. A mere half mile farther west up County Road 240 past Jennings Creek is the perfectly legal Cyclone Creek and this is where the fun begins. A burly 1.9-mile off-trail-trek up Carbonate’s south ridge brings you to the amazingly spacious summit. Go east roughly 1.75 miles on Class 2/3 terrain if you want to tag Tabeguache, and return to the road via Tabeguache’s south ridge for a loop that includes the 14er. But the real fun is in rolling on a 4.8-mile northwest class 2/3 ridge-walk loop that traverses three more peaks: 13,596-foot Cyclone Mountain, 13,708-foot Grizzly Mountain and 12,949-foot Calico Mountain. From Calico, it’s an easy-to-navigate descent back to Cyclone Creek.

OVERNIGHT
FRENCH MOUNTAIN LOOP
Just 2.1 miles past the Mount Elbert trailhead on County Road 11 (passable for 4x4s or tough sport utility cars) is the split between County Road 11 and Halfmoon Road. Leave your vehicle here and take off on foot along the now burly CR 11 (which is more like a hiking trail than a road). This path follows the gorgeous Halfmoon Creek, a clear stream that is lined with wildflowers and vanilla scented pine trees. Roughly 2.9 miles later, the road ends at a gorgeous alpine meadow basin in the shadow of 13,727-foot French Mountain. The camping is open and airy, starting at about 11,400 feet. The summit of French can be reached by powering up the off-trail, Class 2 southeast slopes. To complete your loop, shoot through a 13,300-foot pass between Frasco (13,876 feet) and Casco Peaks (13,909 feet) into the western basin, where gentle slopes will lead you to the rough-for-trucks but easy-for-hikers Halfmoon Road. This 11.3-miles loop is feasible as an epic day hike (including stops atop Frasco’s and Casco’s summits) as well.

STEAMBOAT SPRINGS

Unlike the rocky, dry and stormy peaks that define the bulk of Colorado’s rocky mountains, the Park Range outside of Steamboat Springs is more like the green, mossy mountains of the Pacific northwest (minus the glaciers). Because of their northern latitude and lower elevation, these peaks receive more precipitation than most areas of the state, hence Steamboat’s legendary “champagne powder” in the winter months. If you’re looking to beat the heat and bask in open meadows of wildflowers and peaceful alpine rivers, get thee to Steamboat.

HIKE
HAHNS PEAK
At 10,839 feet, Hahns Peak may seem a bit underwhelming for hardcore Colorado hikers—that is, until they see it from the town of Steamboat Springs. Rising like a monolith from the densely forested land, Hahns Peak is an easy-to-reach and enjoyable half-day hike that offers unrivaled views of the valleys and mountains in the whole region. (It’s also a stellar winter adventure.) The 3.2-mile round trip from the Hahns Peak trailhead is a pleasant trek on a well-worn trail through a shady forest festooned with cartoon-like mushrooms, leading to a grand finale up a path of ceramic-like rock plates to the summit. At the top is an accessible fire lookout that gazes down upon the aspen forests, Steamboat Lake and the Steamboat ski area.

SCRAMBLE
BIG AGNES PEAK
She may not be as delicately named as other feminine mountains in Colorado… rumor has it that Big Agnes was most likely named after a robust woman of ill-repute who happened to leave a favorable impression with a certain surveyor of yore. Despite those shady stories, her massive namesake mountain makes for a darn fine scramble via its southeast ridge. Follow the Gold Creek Lake Trail from the Slavonia Trailhead to the Gilpin Creek Trail and Gilpin Lake, a  5.3-mile hike in total. From here, go off trail and follow Gilpin Creek another 2.2 miles to its source at an unnamed lake at 11,000 feet. Follow the east slopes to Agnes’ southeast ridge and finish up a Class 2/3 ridge 0.9 miles to the 12,059-foot summit. It’s a long 17 mile round trip that can be accomplished in a day by strong hikers but it also makes for a fantastic overnight adventure.

BACKPACK
MOUNT ZIRKEL / ZIRKEL WILDERNESS
Starting from the same Slavonia Trailhead as Big Agnes Peak, wonderful backpacking awaits by taking the Gold Creek Lake Trail to Red Dirt Pass (and up and over). 5.8 miles from the start of the trail, incredible alpine camping opens up: large, grassy meadows rich with wildflowers and streams, surrounded by rolling mountains occasionally adorned with a snazzy patch of snow. At 7.5 miles in, you’re at the top of Red Dirt Pass, where a truly vertiginous world opens up. A 1.2 mile Class 2/3 (mostly Class 2) ridgewalk goes to the highest point in the range, 12,180-foot. Mount Zirkel. Or head over Red Dirt Pass where the official trail fades out into the beautiful and remote Frying Pan Basin, one of the most isolated, secret sanctuaries in Colorado. A round trip out to Red Elephant Mountain and back completes of the state’s ultimate three-day backpacking weekends.

James Dziezynski is the author of Best Summit Hikes in Colorado and writes the Colorado Mountain Air blog on ElevationOutdoors.com.

There was a time not long ago when Boulder was considered the crème de la kibble for dogs. Our canine pals were welcome in restaurants, trails, stores and tons of local events. And of course, dog owners were officially “guardians” not “owners”.  It was a great time of dog park proliferation, where the streets were paved with milk bones and piles of manure begged to be rolled in. Some even say the butts smelled sweeter.

Dozer the rogue racer goes for the gold! Courtesy of Dozer's race page.

But alas, dark times have descended upon Boulder. Slowly, almost secretively, trail regulations began to restrict dogs and then ban them all together. City council has shown a strong anti-dog bias and more than ever, our puppy population is literally spending more time in the doghouse. Owning a dog in Boulder is kind of like harboring a fugitive from the law–which is why an event that happened in a recent Maryland half-marathon could never happen in Boulder.

Watch Dozer’s video here!

As the video shows, Dozer the goldendoodle ran the Maryland Half Marathon as a rogue entry. He even stopped to get a few drinks at the aide stations! What is more amazing is that, in the spirit of fun, the race organizers gave Dozer a medal for running and a dedicated racer’s page where people can donate to the cancer research organization that received funds from the event. Visit Dozer’s racer profile page here! Notice that Dozer has raised almost $5,000 at the time this post was updated.

Can you imagine if Dozer happened to pull the same stunt in Boulder?

• Race officials would disqualify him for not properly displaying his race bib.
• Dozens of runners would angrily demand refunds, arguing that the adorable ‘doodle caused their heart rates to change, costing them a chance at a valuable personal best time. Others would accuse Dozer of “drafting” off them and still others would claim the dog “set an unreasonable pace” and had the unfair advantage of “an extra set of legs”.
• Those who finished behind Dozer would accuse him of using performance enhancing drugs. Samples of Alpo and “energy boosting” Snausages are sent to France for testing, where they are instantly lost and confused with samples from the 1996 Sweedish biathlon team (though oddly, biathlete Bjorn Borgenson tests positive for heartworms).
• Local media would grimly report that dogs are ruining the very fabric and freedom of Boulder. City council would launch a 2-year, 6 million dollar investigation to find out if people “like” dogs.

Fortunately, Dozer put in his miles in Maryland, where he’s being lauded as a local hero. Race officials are even considering inviting him back for next year’s event. Just a reminder that some funny things that happen actually are fun– oh and that dogs rule. Go Dozer!

Cycling is a catty world, isn’t it? If you were to take the bikes out of the equation, you’d have enough Lifetime-worthy chick-flick plot lines to run for 20 years. Never mind  that we’re talking about a subset of athletes that regularly wax their bodies and shave their legs — and those are just the dudes. The ongoing petty scandals combined with the gaudy outfits has made cycling the anti-manly, weirdo-drama queen cousin of mainstream American sports.

Tyler Hamilton can kiss the girl, the gold medal and his reputation good-bye!

Whether or not Armstrong actually did cheat is well, pretty dubious itself. Armstrong has public immunity because of the relative obscurity of cycling and of course, the tangible awareness he’s made in cancer research. He’s the made-in-America hero who stuffed the spandex down the throat of those snooty euros. Very few sports fans are pulling for Wladimir Belli and would feel ripped off if Lance cheated him (her?) out of a Tour de France victory. Contrast this to certified public villains like Barry Bonds, who may have popped some of his HGH fueled homers off of your favorite pitcher or defeated your favorite team. Now it’s personal.

But getting back to Hamilton, sympathizers may say he simply got caught in the rat-race of dopers and to quote Jim Rome, “If you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying.” Any fall from grace begins with an ascent to grace and there’s no doubt Hamilton (like Bonds) had a better-than-average talent for his chosen sport. It wasn’t enough — and if there’s any human trait that can be forgiven, it’s the temptation to want more, more, more. Case in point: Octomom. But before forgiveness must come contrition.

Hamilton is not only lacking humility, he’s on the attack. Instead of gracefully fading to obscurity, Hamilton’s on 60 Minutes trumpeting his first-hand account of seeing Armstrong inject EPO into his body. And because he had to make himself visible, this time it may cost him his 2004 Olympic Gold Medal.

Stories like Hamilton’s are sadly common and reinforce the apocryphal notion that cycling is nothing more than a bunch of angry, lean, little men who would inject goat vomit into their bodies if it gave them an advantage. At this point, the Tour de France is more interesting to chemists than it is to cyclists. As Hamilton grasps at the last straws of respectability, instead of retaining what little dignity he had left, he’s going down in a maelstrom of pants-wetting whining — but hey, maybe he’ll sell a few more books! And as is the case of many would-be heroes, he’ll become a weak footnote in the sports world, another voice in the empty chorus of Lance bashing.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe he’ll be the one who finally convinces the public Lance really did cheat. And even if he wins that particular battle, Hamilton still loses. He coulda been a contender but rather, Hamilton has cemented his reputation as an expert marksman in shooting himself in the foot. Let’s hope, for his sake, he’s finally out of bullets.

Postholes: bane of the spring snow traveler, enemy of ACLs and MCLs alike, purveyor of faceplants, thief of joy. Faced with enduring multiple miles of postholes, even the most joyful mountain trekker can become a snarling, moody curmudgeon. Even snowshoes, the sworn enemy of postholes, can be rendered useless when postholes are at their most potent.

Posthole therapy is a four stage process.

Luckily, we here at Elevation Outdoors have recognized postholing not as an event but as a syndrome. In order to confront the reality of postholing, we present the Four Stages of Postholing: A Guide to Accepting Postholes in Your Life.

Stage 1: Denial

This stage is characterized by irrational logic, faulty scientific observation and the naive belief that postholes are isolated incidents. There are still some remnants of happiness at the intial novelty. For stage one subjects, a simple step off to the side seems like a convincing solution to avoid what is perceived as a one-time event. In addition, the famous “this is only for a short section” reasoning is  merely the beginning of the process of self-delusion. “Postholes are only for the portly or those with very small feet; it won’t happen to me” is a common refrain. Heart rate begins to rise, nervous laughter ensues and stage 1 begins its metamorphosis into stage 2.

Stage 2: Anger

Stage 2 is evident by flustered frowns accented by outbursts of profanity. Soft vocalizations grow to feverishly loud declarations as the subject delves into the deepest part of stage 2 — as well as the deepest part of the postholes. Anger is amplified by fumbling attempts to extract feet from the puncture wells and can reach its apex when leaning into the snow for potentially advantageous leverage results in the dramatic “full body posthole”. Subject is now irrational and begins to displace their focus to visions of a warm bed and snuggly blankets. Observers should be weary of thrown objects, which cause subjects to achieve their highest levels of vitriol as they must posthole over to retrieve said objects. At this point, even the suggestion of soothing ideas such as kittens in a cup do nothing to quell the boiling rage.  

Stage 3: Sadness

Anger begins to give way to sorrow, as subjects beging to wonder what they did to deserve such a callous fate. Pleas are made to the universe for just five feet of unbroken snow — only to be met with more postholes. Shoulders are now slumped and the joyless aura of sadness becomes infectious to nearby companions. Weeping may be present along with vows to never, ever hike again. Due to the composure of unsolidated snow, attempting to hug the woeful postholer may only result in more injury and is not advised.

Stage 4: Acceptance

At this point, the subject is completely broken. All pleasure has been purged from the body and only the fizzling pain of hyper extended knees and searing quads is relayed to the brain. Subject will become eerily silent as the reality of slow-moving and painful progress becomes evident. It is wise not to attempt to humor the subject as they may catapault back to stage 2 and bring potential harm to those trying to make light of the situation. Thoughts of beds, meals and beer are replaced with internal inquries regarding the strength of one’s health insurance.

Once acceptance has been reached, continue along until on new terrain or subject lays down in the fetal position and waits for months of solar radiation to melt away the snaring snowpack. Our research has shown that hitting subject with a snowball at this time is highly dangerous, though it may result in a semi-euphoric state that temporarily renders the subject immune to postholing until such time that they have driven your face 5 to 13 inches into the snow.

Postholes are a part of life and we hope our knowledge will help you in all your spring posthole therapy. Learning to live with postholes is a healthy and normal way to make sure your orthopedist has a wonderful vacation to Cancun every year.

I just received a memo from my inner astrophysicist reminding you all that this Saturday, March 19^th the moon will be rising at 7:37 PM while at perigee, meaning the full moon will be 14% bigger and 30% brighter than it normally appears.  Also, while we’re on the subject of outer space, let’s talk pine beetles, Arnold Schwarzenegger and water bears. Trust me it’ll all make sense in a minute.

Get ready to howl at the moon on Saturday, March 19th!

Ironically, I don’t remember much about 1990 sci-fi flick “Total Recall” other than peoples’ eyeballs blowing out of their heads due to Martian atmospheric decompression and a woman that had three breasts (give me a break, I was 14 when it came out). Even the pre-governing Guv’enator was no match for the vacuum of space, a place where humans excel at shriveling up and dying. The image of Arnie’s bulging peepers is so deeply engrained in my memory, if I’m lucky enough to live to a ripe old age it will be one of the last visions to fade from my mind — right after that angry ostrich that nearly bit off my thumb when I was six years old. “Feed the ostrich, he won’t bite,” they said. That was the last time I trusted adults.

But I digress. And I’ll digress some more.

Let’s jump over to planet Earth and our humble state of Colorado, where ravenous pine beetles have been munching away at our coniferous trees for the better part of a decade now. Conventional wisdom has so many folks saying “It just needs to be cold enough to freeze ‘em to death” as if we were procuring advice from a wizened local spinning dry facts from the front porch of a Maine bait shop. Well, this was a mighty cold winter in the mountains, cold enough to freeze the bananas off a brass baboon but I have reason to fear that our beetles have become super-beetles. And I blame it on the humble water bear.

This weird little creep is way tougher than you are! Water bear image courtesy of www.newscientist.com.

Water bears are, of course, ridiculously sturdy invertebrates known to the nerds who study them as “tardigrades”.  To summon another film from the Arnold opus, water bears are like the bad terminator – you can pound them, boil them, expose them to blinding amounts of radiation and they’ll keep on ticking.  No water? Pffff… who needs it? Oxygen is for suckers. Water bears are one of the few living things that can be rehydrated if they dry out too much, as if being completely void of vital liquids was a mere inconvenience. And as it turns out, the airless abyss of space is no big deal either.

In this article about Water Bears in Space from New Scientist water bears were able to live in space for 10 days with no major detrimental effects. Granted, they may have the advantage of their eyeballs not exploding due to the fact they don’t appear to have eyeballs but still – that’s impressive!  (A quick Internet search reveals they do have rhabdomeric pigment-cup eyes. Duh, I should have known).  Experiments first carried out in 2008 then repeated earlier this year confirmed that a lack of atmosphere doesn’t phase these robust tardigrades.

And onto the bigger point: nature is a lot tougher than we humans. To think that a chilly spell in January would exterminate the pine beetle threat is foolish and sadly, evidence is already showing the winter wasn’t icy enough to freeze off the buggers. Perhaps if science was to create a breed of pine-beetle eating water bears we’d be in better shape but as a lot of really bad sci-fi movies from the 50s teach us, messing in mother nature’s domain has its own set of consequences. For all we know, water bears might mutate and become rulers of the world, a place where even steroid-fueled, pseudo politicians are helpless to fight off the invincible powers of hyper-evolved tardigrades. On the plus side, the uber-water bears would probably eat Sarah Palin.

I guess my point is, if you want something to ponder while gazing at the jumbo moon on Saturday, it’s that nature will continue to have more tricks up her cosmic sleeve than we could ever guess. And if you go out onto the Martian surface, please keep your helmet on.

I officially nominate the Ouray Ice Park as one of the wonders of the modern world. But it’s not the glistening, gorgeously crafted icefalls that cascade 80-100 feet down the shady walls of Box Canyon that justify such a lofty title, it’s the fact the entire experience is free and open to the public. In a country where people are eager to sue for buying food that makes them fat or for falling down a flight of stairs while robbing a house, Ouray’s Ice Park is a staggeringly fresh breath of freedom. Despite the fact ice climbing is inherently more dangerous than drinking a cup of hot coffee, it’s one of the few places in America where you get treated like a responsible adult – and add to that the park remains free of charge (thanks to the efforts of volunteers and community fund raisers).

Climbers play on the frozen waterfalls at the 2011 Ouray Ice Festival.

Last weekend, the 16^th annual Ouray Ice Festival brought climbers, gear manufacturers and plenty of spectators to the humble town (2010 population: 813) to celebrate and showcase Box Canyon’s irresistible frozen waterfalls. Local guide companies such as the San Juan Mountain Guides led a bevy of clinics for climbers of all abilities and a series of competitions let elite ice enthusiasts show off their moxie. Founded in 1996 by renowned ice expert Jeff Lowe, the event is now run by the Ouray Ice Park Inc., a non-profit that maintains the park. Post-climbing fun included several slideshows, movies and a zombie themed party.

The science behind the icefalls is elementary: a water pipe crowns the canyon rim and has dozens of outlet faucets which volunteers use to craft the stunning pillars of ice that drape the canyon walls. The ephemeral frozen towers are both beautiful and functional. Routes span the length of the chilly canyon floor and offer both water ice and mixed terrain climbs. While the official posted rules require helmets and crampons in the park, mother nature dictates the necessary safety precautions. Climbers need to provide their own ropes and gear and there are anchors (both natural and man made) for setting up top ropes. All you have to do is gear up and get down there. The park doesn’t have hours of operation and no one is looking over your shoulder. Self-responsibility can be so enlightening!

Tents of the gear sponsors above the lower sections of the Ouray Ice Park.

The vibe during the ice festival always seems more relaxed and friendly than rock climbing events. As one friend noted, “In ice climbing, everyone has to keep those hot bods under down-filled wraps and the cold weather keeps egos in check.” Perhaps. Or maybe the laid back scene has less to do with the sinewy all-stars of rock and more with the nature of ice climbing itself. No two trips up the ice are the same. Dynamic alterations happen every time a climber drives a pick or crampon into the ice crystals. It’s impossible to overpower ice routes, for they are forever changing. To excel on ice, a climber aims to perfect the method itself – and what’s more Zen than striving to master the journey rather than the destination?

If you’d like to visit the ice park, simply go there! The ice festival, held in early January every year, is the marquee event and one of the few times you may have to wait for a desired route. A normal day (even on weekends) offers all the solitude and climbing you could want. A membership to the ice park, which is really a donation, is a modest $40.00. Unlike the endless badgering of NPR or Public Television, it truly is a humble request that helps keep the operation running. It should be noted that an ice park membership will get you half-off admission at the natural hot springs in town, a worthy place to relax under the stars in 80°F – 105°F pools. Funny aside: at the festival, the hot springs gave climbers a reality check when a bundled up, teenaged lifeguard chastised a few guys (who had spent the previous few hours dangling a hundred feet off frozen waterfalls) for sitting on the “dangerous” poolside walls that sat maybe three inches above the water.

Ouray in the winter is a magical place and even if you aren’t a dedicated ice climber, it’s worth a visit to test your mettle in Box Canyon. For those (like myself) who escape from the Denver-Boulder-Colorado Springs metro corridor, it’s powerfully good stuff for the soul.

For guided instruction or if you’ve never climbed, contact the San Juan Mountain Guides – good blokes with ridiculously strong climbing credentials. And for more events and news, such as future women’s only climbing clinics and more, visit the Ouray Ice Park web site. Remember, it only takes one good day on the ice to “pick up” ice climbing.

Your brain does funny things when it’s deprived of oxygen. Granted, your brain also does plenty of funny things when not deprived of oxygen, but let’s stick with parched O2 for today’s theme. One particularly fascinating phenomena of thin-air related brain activities (at least within my cerebellum) are the vivid, disjointed and radically random dreams that happen while trying to sleep at high altitude. As I prepare to slumber over 10,000 feet, I feel like I’ve gotten a one-way ticket aboard the goofball train that departs as soon as I close my eyes.

Who knows who you'll meet in your high-altitude dreams!

Now, the more cynical amongst you might think Elevation Outdoor’s home base in Boulder means by default, vivid, colorful, THC-inspired, goofy landscapes are par for the course. Quite the opposite in my case; in fact I’d be labeled a teetotaler by some if it wasn’t for the fact I don’t particularly like tea. I’m more of a Dewtotaler. But I digress. Whether or not you think Phish helps you see God, there are some wacky things afoot in the high-altitude head regardless of the brain cells you may have previously burned through.

As we all know, the higher you go the less condensed oxygen there is due to relaxed atmospheric pressure. As a result, our bodies make adjustments to compensate for this dearth of O2: red blood cell production is boosted, respiration speeds up to distribute the dwindling available oxygen, metabolism increases and so on. For some, adding in the complex shut-down mode of sleep can produce strange results. Mostly because of increased respiration, the body never fully enters or emerges from the stages of sleep cycles. A hybrid state of restorative brain activity (usually achieved in deep R.E.M. sleep) tries to run while in much lighter, less restorative stages of sleep. The end result is something like going to school naked but it’s no big deal because all of your classmates are fish.

Beyond the physiological aspect, what I find strangest about altitude dreams are the utter randomness and the sharp, visceral acuity of the sensations within the dreams. Unlike “normal” dreams which seem peppered with symbolic images, reminders of the day past or faces of those people who float around in our psyche, altitude dreams invoke an entirely different cast of sub-conscious characters.

Case in point: I took the time to write down the events of my most recent altitude dreamscape, conjured while camping out at roughly 11,600 ft. I’ll describe it the best I can. The dream begins. It’s a blue sky, sunny spring day in a flat green field speckled with a few trees in the distance. A beautiful, dark haired woman in a sharp, business skirt outfit but no facial features is underhand pitching tomatoes to me that I obliterate with a powerful swing of my bright yellow Wiffle bat. As the tomatoes leave her hand, I noticed her long, elegant fingers with dark purple nail polish. When the tomato grows near, I smell something akin to Mr. Bubble bubblebath and focus on the way the orange-red skin of the tomato is taut, dully offering me my own reflection. As I make contact, it is not the explosion of the tomato but the strong, vivid sensation of resistance in my wrists that dominates the senses. After a few tosses from the beautiful faceless woman, the sensation in my wrists becomes heavy and soon I’m inside the skeleton of my wrists, watching from the inside as the outer-me continues batting practice with the tomatoes.

And then I wake up all cozy in my sleeping bag, wondering if I am inside my wrist or inside my tent. Of course it doesn’t make sense but equally of course, if you’ve had similar altitude dreams you know exactly what I’m talking about. Whatever they are all about, I sort of look forward to my first night in the thin air when I may be engaged in a fierce badminton match with Abe Lincoln until Chuck E. Cheese comes to give me a ride to the prosthetic nose store.

Looks like you can update your frostbite status from basecamp now! Mount Everest now has a highspeed network that will let climbers feed their egos update report on their progress minute by minute to the world wide web. That’s great news because we were getting worried that climbing Mount Everest wasn’t getting enough exposure!

My first sign that my shoulder injury was bad news became evident when the doctor handed me a pamphlet portraying an elderly woman lifting a kitten out of a low-hanging tree branch. Forget pulling down gnarly 5.10s or punching my ice axes into phantom-blue plastic ice, I would have to work up enough strength to refill the ice cube tray. My heart sank when asked how long the recovery time would be; I was braced to hear 4-6 months. The actual recovery time: 2 years.

It wasn’t a horrific leader fall or over-ambitious session on the monkey bars that lead to my injury, rather a chronic series of small tears from: baseball, volleyball, ultimate frisbee, climbing, bowling, ice climbing, breakdancing, pole vaulting, high fiving and any other semi-violent swinging of the arm that resulted in adhesive capsulitis, AKA frozen shoulder. At the time of the diagnosis, 2 years seemed like a prison sentence but I was determined to not sit around all day playing video games–which I couldn’t because it hurt too much.

Rather, I put my energy into hiking, running, biking and eventually mountain biking. I had two snowboarding seasons where I was vigilant not to fall on my shoulder, often using my head as the crash pad in lieu of the crippled shoulder. I stuck to my seemingly wimpy P.T. exercises, building up to that exciting day when I too could easily hoist a 6 lb. kitten from a tree. I watched National Geographic specials on orangutans with a special bitter envy as the simians effortlessly swung from vine to vine in the Borneo jungles. But I never stopped moving and did my utmost best to follow doctor’s orders.

And so here we are, just over two years later. My lame shoulder has regained most of its previous mobility, though it is cursed to never have the strength potential it once did. It was in the climbing gym, going vertical for the first time in over 730 days that the complete enervation of power became apparent. Not only did my bony forearms wilt on crimpers and throb on jugs, they were grossly imbalanced with the strength in my legs–legs had probably tripled in power from the time of my initial diagnosis. Stranger still, almost every element of climbing seemed foreign. Leading was a baffling ordeal, even on modest 5.7s. In short, all my years of climbing were reduced to a fuzzy set of memories that were slowly being illuminated as I relearned how to reconfigure my admittedly not-ideal body shape to ascend the plastic crags.

But you know, in a bizarre way it’s been… really fun. In learning to climb all over again, I’m remembering the joy of mastering knots and anchors, the focus of plotting out the cleanest lines and the semi-fearsome thrill of being high off the ground. I’ve committed the winter months ahead to regaining the confidence and skills needed to tackle my favorite routes in the coming spring: fun, remote, low-grade alpine routes. Instead of lamenting what has been lost, I’m enjoying the rediscovery of the joy of movement. Even at my strongest, I was never a rockstar but I was strong and competent enough to blend my climbing skills with my true love, mountaineering. I’m eager for long hours in the gym, over-inflated 120 PSI forearms that can barely grip a pencil and a return to the modest vertical world I forced into dormancy some 17,520 hours ago.

Myself (l) and my pal Kyle topping out the Loveland Pass finish at the 2010 Blue River Century.

Another 100 miles I’ve traveled across the Earth.

I had to share this cool article from our friends over at summitpost.org. Surely you’ve seen the stripes of sweet-smelling, pink snow in the summer. Perhaps you knew this “watermelon” snow is an algae that processes a neurotoxin in high doses. But there is much more to know about this worldwide mountain phenomenon. Read Summitpost’s article on watermelon snow here.

Image by summitpost.org member saintgrizzly.