Adventure Down Monarch Pass

In 1986, I took a career placement test in high school. The test was supposed to indicate in what arena of life your interests were most contained. I was expecting a cut and dried result indicating to me what occupation in life I should pursue, such as surveyor, carpenter, or law enforcement officer, etc. However, my result showed my highest aptitude was simply “adventure.” I’m not kidding, the report listed “adventure”, and I still have the copy of test’s results to prove it. I had never seen a job listed as an ‘adventurer’ and I really didn’t know what to make of the result. Right out of high school it was impossible for me to understand that elk hunting Colorado, halibut fishing Kodiak Island, Alaska, pheasant hunting South Dakota, or fur trapping the Meramec River right here in Missouri were all considered, by some, extreme ‘adventure.’ I assumed those were activities everyone wanted to pursue all the time. Only after I got much older did I begin to realize maybe I had a much more severe case of the outdoor adventure bug than most folks. Seems I couldn’t concentrate on a ‘normal’ job during any hunting, fishing, trapping, or foraging season (I once quit a job because they wouldn’t let me off for opening weekend of deer season…you know, priorities and all!) Also seems that when you are afflicted with this bug, you get into some very unwanted and unintended adventures as well.

Case in point - I signed on to my first elk hunting expedition in October 1993. Ellis Floyd and I were going to meet up with several hunters in Crested Butte, Colorado, the Thursday before opening day of Colorado’s third elk season. The plan was to leave Springfield, Missouri at 5:00 am Thursday morning and get into Gunnison, Colorado to rendezvous with the others by 10:00 pm that night. Much like real life trapping, hunting, and fishing scenarios themselves, if there is one thing I have learned over the past 20 years about long trips abroad to trap, hunt, or fish, it is that nothing ever goes exactly as planned. And this trip was going to be one, much like those of the lone fur trappers in the 1820’s, in which the characteristics of flexibility and adaptation would carry the day.

Needless to say we didn’t leave anywhere close to on time. After delays for working late and getting packed even later, we finally left Missouri at 8:00 pm on Thursday night, only 13 hours behind schedule on the first day – no sweat! By the time we reached the Missouri – Kansas border we were already sleepy and we had 14 hours to go. We made a fuel stop and stocked up on caffeine for the long haul across Kansas at night. I learned a lesson that night. Too much nicotine and caffeine will give you a round of heartburn you will never forget.

About 8 hours across Kansas the truck overheated with a stuck thermostat. Now Kansas on Highway 50 at night in late October is very windy and very cold. And, not many people stop to help you at 4:00 am with out-of-state tags. Using a flashlight low on batteries, we attempted to beat and bang on the thermostat housing with a wrench in hopes of breaking it loose. We finally gave up and retreated from the freezing wind into the heatless cab. Sometime after we fell asleep the thermostat broke loose with a loud ‘bang’, waking us up and we were once again on our way. Now 15 hours behind schedule, we were eating Rolaids by the handfuls and fighting sleep in a desperate attempt to get to Crested Butte in time to hunt opening day.

The first time you watch the sun come up over the mountains, no matter how exhausted you are, the soul awakens in a new birth of life. For the mountain man types it is a scene and experience that burns a memory into your mind that will forever leave you wanting more. That is just what happened to me as we rolled out of Pueblo heading west. The impression was such that all the past nights obstacles and hardships were forgotten. Little did I know our greatest adventure was still to come.

The mountains just kept getting taller as we approached the continental divide. I was awe struck with visions of Jim Bridger and Kit Carson 200 years ago making their way through the snow-covered passes when we topped Monarch Pass. At just over 11,000 feet this was the highest elevation to which I had been at that time. As we started down the western side of the pass the deep, forested gorges and great rocky crags above tree line were absolutely breathtaking. I was too completely consumed in the experience to process Ellis telling me we had lost the brakes. When I finally came to my senses I saw the very concerned look on his face and I said, “What did you say?”

Ellis replied, “My foot is on the floor and we ain’t stopping.” It was almost comical because it wasn’t really a panicked tone, more of a matter of fact response. I was looking down a 2,000 ft drop just across the railing that was beautiful just a moment ago and now it was a terrifying crash scene in my mind. I told Ellis, “Pump on the brakes!”

Again in the matter of fact tone he replied, “I am.”

“Try the emergency brake,” I said.

“Already tried that,” he said.

“Pull the transmission into low gear,” I said.

“Already did that, too,” he replied.

I was getting irritated. We were about to die plunging over the side of Monarch Pass and Ellis wasn’t even excited. I had one hand on my new rifle and the other on the door handle. I had decided that if the truck went over the edge, I wasn’t going with it! As we ran down the mountain on the switchbacks, the long strait stretches were easy but the curves at the end of the switchbacks were definitely white-knuckle affairs. It seemed each time we rounded a curve we were closer to the rail. It was a little tense in the cab of the truck when the grade finally eased up on us. We were able to slowly pump the brakes for about 5 miles and we finally got stopped on a long curve with a wide shoulder. The smell of hot brakes was overwhelming and the brake shoes were glowing red-hot. Wow, what an adventure I never want to repeat!

We finally made camp at 6:30 pm the night before opening day. The hunt was great with harvests of one elk, a 6x6, and two mule deer, a 4x4 and a 4x5. However, 17 years later, I believe the real lesson for the trip was learning to enjoy the little unexpected adventures. More than the game harvested, the value for the participants was the exciting memories to be passed down to our children and friends at the campfire for our lifetimes. That is what the outdoor heritage is all about. So says the one-eyed Hillbilly. Good luck, be safe, and get a big one.