Adventures on the Cannibal Plateau

Last time, I wrote about my worst day of field work. The next natural step would be to write about the best day of field work, but it was much harder than I anticipated. Being outside and doing field work is generally great and it’s difficult to pick the best day of all. It’s like trying to pick the best sunrise or the best brownie. There is no best day of field work. Instead, here’s a post about a very good day of field work.

Most of the surveys for the Bird Conservancy of the Rockies’ IMBCR program have been done before. There is a whole database made by past field techs with all the information a field tech could possibly need to reach and complete a survey—driving directions, camping spots, tips on how to bypass tricky terrain. Sometimes there are warnings, like “Caution: unfriendly bull” or “Do not drive this road, no matter what the landowner tells you”.

Once in a while, however, there are surveys that are completely new. The field tech gets a list of GPS coordinates and nothing more. Some of them are easy to reach. Others require a trek and stubborn determination.  

This particular survey was in the Powderhorn Wilderness, on the ominously named Cannibal Plateau*

I scoured paper maps, perused online maps, and harassed the local librarian to find a way to the transect. Personally I always enjoy scouting out routes like this. I’m a firm believer that all books with maps are worth reading (although this belief changed after reading Fourth Wing) and poring over atlases lets me live out the fantasies I had as a bookish child.

There were two options to get to the spot on the Cannibal Plateau. Route A was a well-established trailhead with a 4-mile hike and half a mile of bushwhacking. Route B was an 8-mile backpack along an unmaintained trail to an alpine lake, with an additional 3 miles of bushwhacking up and over a ridge. Unfortunately, the road to Route A was blocked by fallen trees. That left Route B. Fortified with a backpack full of treats from a local bakery, I set off.

Route B was tough. Calling it a trail at all was generous, and even that petered out well before the lake where I planned to camp. The last 3 miles to the lake were a labyrinth of chest-high willows that I wallowed through like a one-woman Lewis and Clark expedition. The camp site was well worth it though. In the evening, a herd of young bull elk came to the shore to drink and chased each other through the shallows. Everything was quiet, apart from white-crowned sparrows and Wilson’s warblers singing in the willows. Pikas worked diligently at foraging for hay and American pipits hopped between the rocks of the scree field. No cars, or airplanes, or any human noises. I settled down to eat a bakery treat while watching and listening to the alpine world around me. It was hard to believe that this place was within a day of travel of a quiche.

I still had a decent hike ahead of me the following morning. After a good hour and a half of huffing and puffing above 11,000 ft of elevation, I reached the transect. It was the absolute best of what the Colorado alpine has to offer: pink elephant’s head orchids in marshes, pika galore, willow bushes, and boulder hopping. The birds were the classic alpine species. Seeing horned larks again after seeing them on the plains early on in the season felt like seeing old friends again. There were white-tailed ptarmigan, and plenty of fox sparrows hidden in the willows.

The white-tailed ptarmigan call is a loud, hoarse “Shouldn’t eat that!” Perhaps Alfred Packer should have listened.

It was hard to tear myself away to hike back. I never would have come to this place unless I had to, and I doubt I will see it again. There are so many places like that live in my head. Places that I never knew existed, but that I will always think about fondly.