ACORD: It's amazing what passes for roughing it

By Deb Acord, Special to the Rocky

Published February 26, 2008 at 12:45 a.m.

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I was catching up with a friend the other day and mentioned that my book group had just returned from a weekend at a mountain cabin.

"Oh!" she said in that "oh, how terrible for you" kind of way, her face reflecting horror as she imagined a dozen women chopping wood, toiling to keep the fire going for two frigid, snowy nights in the middle of nowhere, melting snow for precious water, keeping up our strength with canned beans and suffering through campfire coffee.

"You look like you survived," said my friend, a decidedly urban woman whose idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel room instead of a suite.

I let her continue to imagine our bleak conditions for a few minutes before I told her the truth: The "cabin" was a mountain lodge complete with leather furniture, a full kitchen with microwave and dishwasher, a gas fireplace, a deck with deluxe gas grill and two complete baths. There was no wood-chopping or snow-melting required.

Still, we had retreated to the mountains, to a place with no television or Internet, no pull of families or responsibilities of work. At first, the sheer silence of the cabin was daunting. "It takes a while to get used to the quiet, doesn't it?" one woman said.

For her and several other members, the sheer act of being in the quiet cabin in the quiet woods was wild enough. They relaxed in their stocking feet, reading, playing Scrabble, drinking strong, expensive coffee and talking.

The rest of us had a different idea. We brought cross-country skis, snowshoes and sleds. Each day, we said goodbye to the cabin sitters and headed for the woods.

We stopped in the deep snow to check out animal tracks. We paused on a hillside to catch a view of Pikes Peak, dramatically shrouded in thick clouds. Our indoor friends saw that view, too, from the deck of our cabin.

Naturalist John Muir once wrote, "I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in."

We talked that weekend about how "going out" was a different thing for each of us. For the cabin group, the comforts of the cabin allowed them to retreat to something simpler. For the outdoor group, the challenges of a backcountry snowshoe hike were renewing.

Our group has never agreed about "going out." We all believe that our yearly weekend gatherings (we call them "retreats") are a valuable part of our friendship, and the fact that we don't agree about everything is part of what makes our group so strong.

One year, we decided to try something different. We'd hike Barr Trail, the main route on Pikes Peak, and stay at a cabin in Barr Camp. This cabin really was rustic, with a wood-burning stove, bunk beds, no electricity and no running water (read: outhouse in the woods).

We divided into two groups. The experienced hikers would walk the 6 1/2 miles up from the trail head to the cabin; I would lead the others on an easier approach - riding on the Manitou & Pikes Peak Cog Railway to a spot 1 1/2 miles from camp and hiking over. We'd meet at the cabin for the weekend.

The sky was gray that day in September, but no storms were forecast, so the hiking group started up the trail and the train group met at the station. There, one of us had "a great idea."

"Let's take the train all the way to the top and hike the six miles down to the cabin. I've done it, and it's a great way to see the mountain," I said. "Then you guys can say you hiked from the summit of Pikes Peak."

The non-hikers accepted the challenge, and we headed to the top. When we were about a mile and a half down the trail, snow began to fall. The sky darkened and was streaked with lightning. At one point, one of my non-hiking friends asked, "What does it mean when your hair stands on end?" Another answered, "I don't know. But how come the (metal) trail signs are humming?"

I realized then that "going out" on this day meant confronting some of our greatest fears, among them surviving a lightning storm on the summit of a Fourteener.

We eventually arrived at the camp wet and cold, appreciative of the smoky warmth of the cabin and the concern of our friends.

At our most recent retreat, "the Barr Trail weekend" came up in conversation. "This is much better, don't you think?" asked one of my friends.

More comfortable, maybe. Warmer? Definitely. Better? That's something we're still discussing.

Deb Acord is the author of Happy Trails .

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