A FRIEND OF MINE FROM Colorado gives the following instructions for choosing a weekend camping destination in his nature-rich home state: Place a map of Colorado on a bulletin board, close your eyes, and throw a dart. Wherever it lands, he says, is bound to offer some of the best camping in North America.
It’s reasonable advice for anyone wanting to make a getaway to the Rocky Mountain State. After all, it has more than a thousand designated campsites, and that figure includes only the ones you can drive to. Still, my friend’s rudimentary strategy doesn’t take into account the swarming population of the Front Range, the geographic region encompassing the major cities—Colorado Springs, Denver, and Fort Collins—that line the foothills where the Great Plains run smack into the Rocky Mountains. On weekends, its nearly six million residents clog trailheads, snatch up available campsites, and congregate in flocks atop the state’s precipitous peaks. Pick the wrong destination, and you can feel as if you’re in the grandstand at the Daytona 500. So instead of a dartboard, consider this advice: Head to the Mount Evans Wilderness Area.
Like the more famous Rocky Mountain National Park, about fifty miles to the north, the Mount Evans area boasts a stockpile of peaks soaring above timberline, more than a dozen high alpine lakes that teem with trout, and a network of trails winding through verdant pine forests, across meadows laced with fireweed, dwarf clover, and mariposa lilies, and over waterlogged tundra. But unlike the RMNP, you won’t have to mount a four-day stakeout to land a decent campsite here, because it gets far fewer visitors.
On a Friday afternoon in late May, my girlfriend, Christian, and I headed an hour west of Denver to the West Chicago Creek Campground, which sits at the end of a three-mile dirt road just outside the 74,400-acre wilderness area. It’s a spectacular base camp for mounting forays into the surrounding terrain: Sixteen sites are spread out around a ring road atop a small ridge, West Chicago Creek roars twenty yards below, and Sugarloaf Mountain serves as a stunning backdrop.
We were greeted by one of the campground’s seasonal hosts, a sixty-something woman who chain-smokes Doral lights while patrolling the rough, rocky roads of the camp in a low-rider Mazda Miata. “Make sure you put your food away in your car tonight,” she said, before taking a wheezy breath of the thin mountain air. “There’s a mama bear and two cubs that have been coming through here at night, and one of them ripped a hole in them guys’ tent.”
After a star-filled night interrupted only by hourly whispers of “Did you just hear something?” we exited the tent around seven o’clock and discovered a giant paw mark on the car’s driver’s-side window. “Probably just one of the neighbors’ dogs,” I said to Christian, sounding completely unconvincing.
“There are no dogs at the campground,” she replied.
“Right. Should we go for a drive then, honey?”
We hopped in the car and zipped nine miles south on Colorado Highway 103 to the fee station for the Mount Evans Scenic Byway ($10 per vehicle). Known locally as “fourteeners,” 54 peaks in Colorado are more than 14,000 feet high, and 14,264-foot Mount Evans is one of two that can be driven all the way to the top. The road up its counterpart, Pikes Peak, outside Colorado Springs, is more famous, most likely because it was completed in the late 1800’s; the byway up Mount Evans dates only from the mid-1920’s.
Today it is still an engineering feat—and still the highest paved road in North America. After leaving the fee station behind, the road becomes a thin strip of shoulderless pavement, reaching timberline after just a few miles. There, the landscape is spotted like a dairy cow with patches of stubborn spring snow and sprinkled with groves of bristlecone pines, hardy, gnarled evergreens that can live to be three thousand years old. The craggy peaks surrounding us looked like giant incisors, which seemed to put our car in the middle of nature’s closest approximation of a giant scream.
Of course, that observation might just have been the fear talking. The road careens endlessly beside toe-curling drop-offs with no guardrail in sight. And then there are those damned twenty-foot-long RVs. More than once, my hands glued to the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip, I said a Hail Mary while threading the minuscule needle hole between a Winnebago and a snowbank. Eventually, the road began a series of nine final switchbacks that climb the last five miles to the summit.
At the top, we emerged from the climate-controlled comfort of our car to find that what had been a warm, 70-degree day at the campsite was a wind-whipped 40 degrees at 14,000 feet. It was also hard to breathe. There’s approximately half as much oxygen up here as there is