Take Me To Post Comment Form The national forests get a bad rap sometimes. They're only in the news when something goes wrong, like a wildfire or other environmental calamity.

But often the national forests have hiking trails that are just as good as any in the national parks, only not as crowded.

On my first full day in Colorado this year, I wanted to do a "shakedown" hike -- something relatively easy until I got acclimated to the altitude. I headed for Hadley Gulch, an area of the White River National Forest north of the town of New Castle.

I actually attempted to do this hike last year and turned off on the wrong Forest Service road, where I ended up doing the East Elk Creek/Centennial Trail, east of Hadley Gulch. This time, I found the right road.

There were no cars at the trailhead, and I saw no one the whole time I was on the trail. It was a Thursday afternoon with temps in the 90s (but it's a DRY heat!) The path starts out through arid brush and scrub oak, with occasional prairie-type wildflowers such as goatsbeard, skyrocket, and those purple penstemons that the hummingbirds love.

I could hear the main branch of Elk Creek. It sounded so refreshing. I could get a glimpse of it, but I couldn't get close to it. Like most of the creeks in Colorado, it is privately owned and cordoned off with barbed wire. Westerners are serious about water rights. They'll let the Forest Service put a trail alongside their land, but they'll damn sure keep the creek for themselves.

As I ascended, it quickly became apparent that the Hadley Gulch trail was a lot steeper than I expected. But I decided to keep going unless it physically became too difficult. I paused at a switchback, overlooking horse farms below me, and could I see my surroundings beginning to change. I was coming into a narrow canyon with some pretty amazing cliffs.

A couple of doves burst out of the bushes to my right. At first I thought they were mourning doves, like the ones I had seen near the beginning of the trail. But no, their short tails indicated they were rock doves, or what city folks know as pigeons. This was their original, natural habitat: caves and cliffs.

I was trying to unravel the mystery of the dry gulch alongside me. Clearly there had been a creek there at one time. There were riparian species of trees along the gulch, now dead or dying. What happened to the water? Why was this gulch empty while nearby Elk Creek was full?

I kept climbing higher, passing lots of fruiting, shrubby plants such as gooseberry. I saw a rock lizard, and a chipmunk. The sun beat down on me. I was watching my feet so I wouldn't slide on the slick, gravelly slope.

Then I happened to stop and turn around. Oh my god, the view opening up behind me! Now I was spurred to keep going even further, because I knew with every step, the view would get better and better.

There wasn't much shade at this time of day, so when I saw a natural "bench" on the side of a cliff, in the cool shadow, I stopped and took advantage of it. I also heard rumblings of thunder in the distance, and knew if the typical afternoon storms hit, I wouldn't get another chance to sit down.

When I stopped, pesky bugs had the opportunity to discover me, and they followed along after I began hiking again. And then suddenly, they were gone, blown away by strong gusts of wind. I had emerged out of the narrow part of the canyon and was getting closer to the top. The mountain breeze, as always, was invigorating to me.

The wind attracted birds, too -- large, black birds, circling overhead. Not turkey vultures, not crows. What a thrill -- they were ravens, distinguished by their harsh "cronk" sound. Ravens, to me, are a symbol of the wild, because you only see them in high, remote places.

I wanted to stay up there forever. Just me and the ravens, and the tremendous view spreading out before me. I was so grateful that there are still such places, where there is no sight or sound of anything manmade, where you feel almost as if you can float away on the wind.

And then the raindrops began to fall. Reluctantly, I began to make my way back down the treacherous slope, to my waiting car.