Fall Fourteeners by Bart Llewellyn
There are some geographical features that can seem utterly insignificant on a map and yet nevertheless occupy a central position in the geography of one’s soul. Maybe that’s a pretentious way of putting it, but I think most people can agree that there are special places out there that aren’t necessarily the most famous landmarks in the world. For me, one of those places is an unnamed lake on the flanks of Mount Massive, colloquially known, for reasons obvious to anyone who finds it on a map, as Heart-Shaped Lake. It’s a favorite campsite, as far as I can tell, of many HMI instructors, and certainly for me, as I camped there in the first expeditions of both Summer Term 2022 and now Gap 2025, forming and then revisiting some of my most treasured backcountry memories.
By Day 8 of the first expedition of that adolescent summer, I had already made some of my new best friends on the trail. Being the only Coloradan in that cohort, I was excited for the chance to attempt Mt. Massive, one of the state’s most iconic Fourteeners (the tallest mountains in Colorado, over 14,000 feet above sea level). A sprawling mountain with over half a square mile of surface area sitting above that 14K elevation line, Massive hosts many gorgeous alpine bowls around its multifaceted flanks. One of these bowls holds Heart-Shaped Lake, a small body of water perched in a stunning setting right at the tree line below Massive’s looming summit. It’s a lovely place to camp.
When we stayed there that summer, we awoke at 3:30 AM to get an early start up Massive, and I have never seen a brighter, more star-festooned night sky, nor a more spectacular slow path to the sunrise over the Mosquito Range. The tiny city of Leadville in the valley below looked as big as Las Vegas lit up at night after nine days in the wilderness. But as lucky as we were to see those sights that morning as we made our way up Massive, on a route far removed from the standard trail, a short burst of weather turned us around well short of the summit. At least that meant more time to spend at the lake that day soaking up the gorgeous setting. I didn’t know if I would get back anytime soon despite my unfinished business there, so I had to cherish it while I still could.
Fortunately, the opportunity eventually arose for me to return to HMI this fall as part of my gap year, and with a brand-new group of equally awesome companions, we set out together into the Sawatch, new territory for most, but the home of many memories for me. It wasn’t all smooth sailing, but I was in my element, and I was looking forward to the day when we would camp at Heart-Shaped Lake again. I actually ended up being Leader of the Day on the way there, and when we finally departed the trail in order to ascend the last hill up to the lake, my anticipation mounted despite my exhaustion after a long day and some intermittent bad weather. When I laid eyes on the lake again, though the water level was lower and the beach subsequently larger, all my memories came right back. I was home at last.
How can a random little lake high in the mountains that I’ve only stayed at for three nights in my entire life be a place I can call home? It’s hard to explain, but my short stays there have had an outsized impact on me.
This time around, we didn’t have a layover day there, and our itinerary thus didn’t include a summit attempt on Massive. I still have yet to make it to the top of that mountain. Rather, it was just an ordinary evening and morning in camp with my friends. I had to cook dinner under a tarp in the evening because the bad weather wouldn’t go away, but I didn’t mind too much, and by the time dinner was done, the skies were finally clear. We held evening meeting on the beach under the emerging moon and stars. I taught the group Rattlin’ Bog, a fun song and dance from my summer camp. We shared personal mottos that we live by. We admired the bright night sky. We cherished the moment.
I awoke early to cook the following frosty, clear morning, making sure everyone was fed before a long day that would bittersweetly take us far from that beautiful place and onward to new horizons, including a successful climb up Mt. Elbert, whose summit edges out its more, well, massive northern neighbor as the highest point in the state that I have lived in for the past thirteen years. The entire expedition was amazing, and we traveled through a myriad of breathtaking scenery that was just as splendid as that alpine bowl on Massive, but that one campsite just happens to be a center of gravity for me. This hopefully won’t be my last time there. I’ve been there with multiple fantastic found families, but I should probably find an excuse to drag my actual family up there at some point. It’s a pretty cool place. And hopefully, I’ll encounter more places like it in spirit in my coming travels and share those places with my new friends.
Birds of a feather flock together by Victoria Nassikas
Standing atop the highest peak in Colorado, the only thing on my mind was how cold I was. We had woken up at 4:30 in the morning, scarfed down a quick breakfast, and began our hike by the light of our headlamps. As we ascended, the rising sun lit the clouds in brilliant pink and gold. The lodgepole pines gradually transitioned to spruces and firs the higher we got. When we stopped for water or a snack, curious Gray Jays, hoping for a morsel, surrounded us. My knees and calves began to complain as the trail became steeper and steeper. The trees thinned then disappeared, and we were above treeline. The eastern flanks of Mt. Elbert towered overhead. The hike up until now had been a warmup; here was the real challenge. The cold mountain wind gusted over the stunted grass. We put on layers and continued. On the way up we saw two moose, a cow and a calf, wandering towards an alpine lake. We heard pikas throughout the hike, and we saw one running along the path with a sprig of plant matter clutched in its mouth. We started to see fewer plants and more snow. Vibrant yellow patches of cobblestone lichen and map lichen dotted the exposed rock shards. My legs burned and I gasped for breath in the thin air. Every so often I stopped, leaned on my poles to recover, then kept going. We reached a false summit, then another false summit, then we were there. We all stopped to take in the view. I was wearing a fleece, a down jacket, and a raincoat, with my buff pulled up over most of my face, but the wind still cut through my layers. The view was breathtaking, but I couldn’t wait to be back in the shelter of the treeline. We began our descent, and my knees ached even more than they did on the uphill. To be honest, I was feeling pretty miserable. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a round grey bird, almost chicken-like. It was well-camouflaged among the rocks, and I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t seen its head silhouetted against the sky. I knew immediately that this was a ptarmigan, a game bird that frequents arctic and alpine tundra. Based on the plumage and habitat, I was certain that this was a White-tailed Ptarmigan, one of the two species of ptarmigan found in Colorado. (I had to ditch my bird guide because it was too heavy, but I had studied up on my ptarmigans in anticipation of seeing one.) I was happy to reach the summit, but I was ecstatic at seeing the ptarmigan on the way down.
Stranger Danger by Ama Fernald
Picture this… we’re 3 days into our first exped, my tent mates and I are hunkered down for yet another classic Colorado mid-afternoon rainstorm. Despite the rain outside, the mood in the tent seemed good. We were all reading books or journaling, cuddled up with our hot babies (1/2 liter Nalgene bottles filled with hot chocolate or tea).
Suddenly, I started crying-I missed home, I was cold and wet,and dinner wasn’t for another 3 hours. Without my phone, I was forced to process my emotions in the moment, no turning to a screen or disregarding them until I felt like it. We all talked through our feelings together, noting how we missed our friends or family back home.
After the rain had passed, and we emerged from our tents I realized another thing-I’d just spilled my guts to a bunch of strangers. But the crazy thing was, they didn’t feel like strangers anymore. Every night after that was spent giggling and talking about so many deep and personal topics. These people whom I’d met only a handful of days earlier had become some of my bestest friends.
We’d unknowingly bonded in so many ways. Learning how to cook together, hiking crazy steep ridges staring at nothing but the feet in front of you, sleeping side by side (sometimes even out under the stars).
In the coming weeks, we have new tent groups, different terrain, and oh so many new experiences to look forward to. I’m so excited to see how we all continue to connect and grow. Stay beamin!zz