Timber Lake – Solitude, Beauty, and a Bit of Luck, Rocky Mountain national Park, CO

My time in the Rockies is soon coming to an end. Next week, I will be back on the open road. I have come to love the rhythm here. The women I share this experience with are becoming dear friends. Glass fusing has been an unexpected and beautiful discovery that excites me deeply. I still want to fit a few hikes in before I go. This summer has gone by too fast…

I pack my car the night before to avoid making too much noise in the early hours. By the darkness outside, it still feels like night when I pull out of my parking spot at 4:00 a.m. heading to the west side of the park to hike to Timber Lake. The trailhead is about an hour and twenty minutes away.

It is a cold morning, and as I climb in elevation, the temperature drops quickly. By the time I reach Bow Meadow Curve where I stop to see if I can catch a glimpse of the meteor showers, it is 38°F. I am semi-prepared for that kind of cold, but the wind makes it hard to relax and watch the night sky. The moon, in its third-quarter phase, brightens the darkness. It is too cold to stay and try to see meteors. It’s a great idea, but not the right conditions for me.

I get back on the winding roads of the Rockies, driving in the shadows of the mountains I have come to love so much. Around 5:15, I find a quiet spot to start my morning routine. AllTrails rates the Timber Lake hike as “hard,” so I am mentally prepared and make sure to pack plenty of food and water for the 11-mile trek.

I love the energy of a new day and the way light slowly brings everything to life. This time I do not have a stunning sunrise photo, but the beauty is in the way the landscape lights up in my heart.

By 6:00, I am on the trail walking among aspens and pines. The forest slowly wakes up, each sound sharp against the silence of a new day. Above me, a woodpecker works hard to find his breakfast, his hammering echoing through the trees like a drumbeat.

Even though I am bundled up in gloves and a hat, I still do not feel my fingers until about two miles in. The gentle climb warms me, and I remind myself that a “hard” hike can begin with an easy incline. I keep a steady pace, saving my energy for whatever challenges lie ahead.

The trail to the lake is approximately 5.5 miles long, with most of it shaded by the tree canopy. As I gain elevation, the forest opens into meadows. I scan the open spaces, hoping to see a moose or elk—though aware of the danger such encounters can bring.

A wooden sign greets me just before Timber Lake, announcing an elevation of 11,040 feet. What a beautiful piece of heaven! I stand for a while, taking in the quiet, gentle energy of the lake and its surrounding mountains. What pristine beauty.

I find a rock at the water’s edge, remove my boots, stretch, and sink into the stillness. The skies above me are dressed in fluffy white clouds against the deep blue sky. The sun plays a game of peekaboo, changing the colors and shadows of the lake and mountains with every passing moment.

After a while, I close my eyes, feeling the effect of an early start. The gentle wind feels wonderful as I fall into deep relaxation. Simply heaven.

When I open my eyes, the lake is still there, welcoming me to its simple beauty. I scan the landscape. On the far side of the lake, a meadow stretches up the mountain. I notice two black spots far in the distance—they are not rocks because they are moving. It is too far to see details, but I know those are two moose. I am sure this lake is their home. I wish I were a moose living with that amazing view. :)

The “hard” rating on AllTrails puzzles me now. Yes, the hike is long, but far from difficult. By 10:30, other hikers arrive, ending the solitude I cherish so much.

Time to head back.

I am not sure what happens next—maybe I am too mesmerized by the meadow to my left to watch my step. In a split second that feels like slow motion, I fall hard, face-first. I narrowly miss hitting my head on a rock.

I lay still for a moment, letting my heartbeat settle. I can move everything—good sign. My mouth aches, my knee throbs, and my left palm burns. I expected to see blood on my lips, but when I checked with my phone’s camera, luckily not a drop of blood. My knee is scraped, but no bleeding. I feel beyond lucky (Thank you, Mom, for always watching over me).

I walk slowly, the pain growing but still manageable. I know the soreness will set in over the next few days. Hiking solo always carries risk, but I do my best to be prepared. My Garmin is on and clipped where I can reach it. This is the first time I fell so hard.

That evening, the effects of the fall spread to my upper body. The next morning, moving my arms is painful. The good news? My instincts kicked in. My arms broke my fall and likely saved me from a major injury. I will be fine in a few days.

If I ever find myself—very likely—back in the Rockies, I will come back to visit my lake.

There is one spot in the Rockies that stole my heart in the most stunning way. My pond on the Ute trail. It stole my heart in such a way that the last time I was there with Ron, I asked him to make sure to spread my ashes into this beautiful horizon. Ron, with his funny sense of humor, said,” Mom, you need to make a list, I can’t keep up with all the places you want me and Adi to travel to.” My idea of celebrating my life is for my boys to take a road trip (paid by me) to scatter my ashes in places that brought me to my knees with their beauty.

So, of course, I want to squeeze in one more visit.

This time, I met with Ansley, one of my dear friends from my winter job at Winter Park Resort. It is a halfway place for us to meet. 

It is a great pleasure for me to see young women who get life the way Ansley does. She is young in age, only 19, but her perspective on life is remarkably mature, making it hard not to admire her for her wisdom and strength. 

We get to the pond around seven in the evening, when the lights dance on the mountains in a magical way. It's wonderful to sit and catch up with each other's journeys. The level of vulnerability between us is gorgeous. We both provide each other a safe place to share. Those moments are the ones that mean the most to me.

As we pack our chairs, a big bird flies over us. So cool! Neither one of us has ever seen an owl flying. I think it's his way of letting us know the night is about to take over. Our walk to our cars is illuminated by my flashlight; it is pitch dark in the wilderness.