In the summers of 1999 through 2004,1 Wifey and I would drive from Pittsburgh to Colorado to ride bikes, hike, and goof off in the most amazing mountains my untraveled eyes had ever seen; the Rocky Mountains. It was quite the adventure for two Western Pennsylvania flatlanders who, during most of that time, lived in an apartment in what I think qualified as “the city,” given our proximity to traffic, tall buildings, and the sounds of nighttime gunshots.
1999 was Durango, 2000 was Winter Park, and 2001 through 2004 was Crested Butte. I’ve covered some of this before, but my main reason for writing about Colorado again is a little mountain lake along Gothic Road outside of CB that I would pass at very slow speeds as I pedaled my way up to Schofield Pass and the Trail 401 trailhead. Its name is Emerald Lake.
Dodging snow fields on Gothic Road. July 2002.
I could wax nostalgic about how you can look down at the bright blue-green waters shimmering in the morning sun as you pedal the rocky dirt road skirting the cliffs above and how tall mountain peaks look down upon you like towering gods as you do so.
But my main reason for bringing up Emerald Lake is this.
The other night, on the heels of deactivating my long-time Instagram account in an attempt to further distance myself from modern America and everything it stands for, I woke up around 3 AM, for the first time in months, worried as fuck about where Wifey and I could find ourselves anytime between now and 2028.
I never actually stopped at Emerald Lake while riding up that wonderful, relentlessly steep mountain dirt road, but we did drive up one time to chill out and poke around the perfect little mountain lake.
As my mind tried to find some peace with thoughts of riding up steep mountain gradients, thin air, minimum available oxygen, and towering peaks above, my mind kept going to Emerald Lake.
Emerald Lake in 2001. Photo by Wifey.
No matter what time of year, no matter what the conditions, and no matter how sorry of a state our world dips into, Emerald Lake is there, just being itself, doing its thing.
As I battled sleeplessness, I tried to imagine what was going on at Emerald Lake at that very moment; 1 AM mountain time, in early March, I think it would be snow-covered and frozen. Still, it’s there.
Whether humans are there to see it or not, the winds howl, deep snow blankets everything in sight, and the high-elevation temperature is frigid under the clear Rocky Mountain sky. No matter the time of day or year, Emerald Lake is there, as lofty mountains continue to look down at it just as they have each day for about 70 million years.
Over those 70 million years and counting, Emerald Lake surely did not look the same, and only the Earth and some wispy, smarter-than-me geologists know how it formed, but it remains. Through bright, high-altitude sun, heavy afternoon thunderstorms, bitter winter cold, the golden hues of fall, and the joyful summer wildflower season, the lake remains there, nestled amongst the towering peaks of one of the greatest mountain ranges in the world.
I like to think that everyone has their own Emerald Lake to bring them a shred of peace as the modern world continues to rip the last shreds of decency, love, good humor, and mental stability from our hands.
Be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over. It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it. — Marcus AureliusÂ
I also came to recognize that without really knowing it, I had apparently been practicing a little bit of white trash Stoicism with my thoughts of Emerald Lake; for Marcus Aurelius once wrote, one should “Be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over. It stands unmoved and the raging of the sea falls still around it.”
Rather than the shoreline rock, I chose Emerald Lake, sitting there, tucked into the base of Mount Baldy at roughly 10,500 feet above sea level, taking whatever the mountain wilderness throws its way every day for millions of years, all the while maintaining its rugged beauty, tranquility, and ultimately persevering whether humans are there to lay eyes upon it or not.
I may never actually ride up Gothic Road or see Emerald Lake again in this life, but after more than 20 years, I still have it tucked away for late-night mental emergencies.
The higher you get, the higher you get. 2002
Later.
Bike notes: I wanted that 26er Dean Colonel Ti frame so bad, but it was never right. The bottom bracket was misaligned or something, and you could never get a proper chain line. The company was not cool about resolving the issue, so I sold the bike not long after this trip and bought a Titus Ti that I LOVED, but its 26″ wheels eventually became out of vogue.
Note: Photos in the post were taken with a point and shoot film camera in 2001 and 2002. Some are scans, some came from digital files on CD.