Ruth Lake
Recently, I spent the day in the Uinta Mountains. The aspens were in their full autumn regalia; they were so yellow that it was like they were glowing with magic.
I had planned to hike part of the Highline Trail, but the National Forest Service charges a six-dollar day use fee to hike their trails and I needed to find a fee station. I continued down the road until I spotted one at the end of roadside parking at the Ruth Lake trailhead. I'd never hiked that trail before and I wanted to see something new, so I paid the fee, signed the register, and headed up the trail.
Like most other areas in these mountains, the Ruth Lake basin is dotted with meadows, marshes, ponds, and lakes. And like most short hikes to attractions near a road, the Ruth Lake Trail proved to be another popular route to another popular destination. I passed several other parties coming and going along the way. I paused briefly at the lake to take a few pictures before walking around the lake to the far side. I scrambled up the rocky slope to look for some peace, quiet, and solitude.
In the upper rim of the basin, I found a secluded spot in a copse of Engelmann spruce at the edge of a small meadow. I hung my hammock with my camouflage blind for privacy and settled in to enjoy the afternoon. Fluffy clouds drifted lazily overhead. I noticed others had enjoyed this spot before; a ring of charred and sooty stones circled a dusty black fire pit nearby.
I had packed two books—Quiet by Susan Cain and On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin—but I didn't read them. Instead, I worked on sudoku puzzles marked Hard and enjoyed the warm sunlight on my skin. For lunch, I ate a packet of cheddar cheese curds and beef stick chunks.
By late afternoon, the weather turned breezy and cold and the clouds turned dark and grim. The Uintas are known for their sudden thunderstorms and lightning, but even just the thought of schlepping through cold rain without a jacket or poncho was wholly unappealing to me. I stuffed my gear in my pack and headed back down the mountain.
As per usual, I collected trash along the way. My blue nitrile gloves and white plastic sacks bulging with litter sometimes elicit comments, questions, and occasional wary glances. A woman asked, "Are you a fish man or a trash man?" Here I was, engaged in volunteer public service and my first thought was that she was referring to toxic masculinity. After all, men are trash. I hadn't been fishing, so I told her I was a trash man.