One can hike from the camp in to the park, on a horse trail over a small ridge into Moraine Park, where one can see the top of the divide. Moraine Park is an expansive a flat elk meadows, carved out by a ancient glacier, perfect for aa easy stroll, which is all I had in mind at that point.
Keep going past the fourth of fifth mile and ones reachs the trail head to Cub Lake, where many cars were parked with license plates from Colorado and out of state. The trail there is pretty easy, albeit rocky, at least for the first couple miles. One sees many families out there on a day like this, and folks who aren't normally on the trail.
After two miles the trail gets dramatically steeper and the cascades of the streams are more plunging. The number of hikers drops off as well. By the time ones round the second switchback up the slope there, one is well up the hillside. I saw no families from that point on. Then one sees the lake---at least the west end of it--- amidst the trees, overgrown with big green pads this time of year. More of the lake comes into view as one goes up the gentle slow along the hillside over the water. There was a young couple lingering there on the rocks. She was admiring a flower. He was trying to speak to a chipmunk or squirrel.
One can keep going from there, if one chooses, on towards to The Pond---about a mile further along the canyon on fairly level ground.
But it was already past two o'clock and I was mildly fatigued. Wanting to head back to the camp, I decided that rather than backtrack, I would take the shortcut home, up the very zigzag switchbacks from Cub Lake to the top of the ridge, which is called Steep Mountain.
It was very rough going for a while, to keep ascending the trail. I had to fall back on my mentality of how to climb in snow shoes---very slow and steady, at my own thank-you-very-much pace.
I forced myself to walk in tiny slow steps, but to keep moving, resting only briefly. I still had plenty of water left, but the weather was turning. The sky had started out partly cloudy in the morning, but it was now obvious that a thunderstorm could catch up with me at any moment coming down off the continental divide. I didn't want to get caught out in it, with only my hiking shirt for cover. Foolishly I had left even my wind jacket back at the lodge. It was not waterproof, but would make excellent shelter until it got soaked through.
Fortunately I made it up over the top of the ridge before the storm really hit. The south side of the ridge was gentle and sandy, not really very rocky. Descending it was a merciful experiment.
The trail head was still a couple miles away along a gentle trail that went through a narrow gorge, where I made to make way for some horseback riders from the Y Livery, and finally the large grassy meadow at Hollowell Park.
By then my hat was well soaked from the rain, but I had managed to dodge the worst of it behind a thick tree. I still had half a bottle of water, out of the two I had started with.
It seems to be a requirement for me, a ritual. At least once I year I seem to need to go on a wilderness hike, overnight or day trip, and put myself in a position where I wander whatever could have possessed me to think it was a good idea to do such a thing.
Of course I was very glad to see the trail head, and especially the sign for the shuttle, which ran every minute minutes, back to the foot of the Y camp. I was tired but still had strength leftover (I would still need to climb the hill to my lodge).
The feeling you get when you see the trail head like that is one of the best reasons for doing this kind of thing. It reminds one of the awesomeness and beauty of both nature and civilization. At least for me it does.
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