After nearly a week of grey skies and rain in Pueblo there was a break in the weather. My brother Mark, who was visiting from Boulder, looked skyward, saw blue, and asked “still want to go for a hike?’

Twenty-four hours later he posted a photo of he and I atop the Newlin Creek trail and captioned it thusly:  Deliverance II. With mi hermano in front of Nathaniel Herrick’s boiler on the Newlin Creek trail. He told me there was a Starbucks at the end of the trail. Liar. 

I can’t say I recall  Starbucks as part of our pre-hike conversation, but I’m pretty sure I did mention there was a high degree of certainty that if we did hike Newlin, we were going to get wet –there’s over 15 creek crossing along the trail–especially in light of the nearly inch of rain had that fell the night before. So with that caveat, Mark and I, along with Reina and Rafa, piled into my truck and headed west toward the aptly named Wet Mountains. If either of us had been thinking, we’d have brought along a Thermos of coffee.

It was a scenic drive heading out-of-town on Highway 96. The prairie was moving from a sage to a deeper hue of green, thanks to recent rains. We even spotted a some grazing pronghorn. That azure sky that appeared so alluringly in Pueblo lasted until we made the turn onto Highway 67 outside of Wetmore, where it gave way to low-hanging clouds spitting light rain and pea-sized hail. We snaked our way along County Road 15 into the now misty Florence Mountain Park, then dropped the truck into four-wheel drive and bounced up and down the rutted, puddled, muddy road to the Newlin Creek trailhead. Reina started to bark. She knew what was coming. About three minutes into the hike, without even seeing the creek, so did I: epic adventure.

I’ve hiked Newlin Creek at least 10 times in all kinds of weather, but I’d never seen as much water up there as I did hiking with Mark. The swollen creek spilled over its banks and onto the path numerous times, especially on the upper part of the trail. Its roar was a constant companion. Thunder rumbled a few times, too.

And we got wet. We got sopping wet, soaked, drenched. But for some reason, perhaps it was our persistent saturated state, no one got muddy.

Fording Newlin Creek proved to be a challenge more often than not. Mark and I had to find alternative routes at nearly every crossing. Some of our efforts were less graceful than others, but neither of us ever fell  (pride was about the only thing that didn’t get wet on our outing). Neither of us uttered “hypothermia” either, although the notion did cross my mind once or twice. The dogs managed good form; Reina, nearly 10, did surprisingly well and showed she still had some agility skills. Rafa was his near-impervious self. But I had to wade into thigh-high rushing water to help them both across the precarious sections.

The only mishap of the day occurred when I sent my walking stick, El Viejo, down the surging creek. I had tossed it toward Mark so he could steady himself on one of the last crossings of the day. But it was a bad throw and into the drink went my hand-carved walking stick. Thirty yards later, I fished out the old man.

By the time we made it back to the trailhead, I think it’s fair to say Mark was more than ready to get out of there. Or at least get warm. Before leaving, I peeled off my shoes, socks, and pants. I was cold too, and didn’t want to freeze for another hour on the drive home.

When I called Monica to let her know Mark and I had survived our hike, she was more than a little surprised at my request to set a pair of jeans out in the garage so I could change into them when I got home.

“You’re driving home in your underwear?” she asked incredulously.

I tried explaining I didn’t want to upset the neighbors with having to watch a quasi-hypothermic 52 year-old man try to dash into his home in his boxer briefs because his pants were soaked from his hike, then repeated my request.

The pants were in the garage when we got home.