My parents met in Denver in the late 70’s. Before they had kids, they were avid hikers and backpackers. Little did we know, but setting out on my Colorado mountain loop would spark memories from their past explorations that were shared with me along the way. On the second day in Steamboat, my dad encouraged me to head up past the town of Clark to an area that culminates in wilderness, where they had once backpacked, and he thought I might enjoy it. That is precisely where I ended up spending that second night on my journey. Exploring Leadville would spark more memories, which is where I headed from Green Mountain reservoir, mouse in tow. 

But before the climb up to Leadville, I stopped for supplies in Silverthorne, among them, you guessed it, a mousetrap. It seemed like a nice enough mouse. It kept to itself all day long and only appeared in the evening, hoping to score more food. Though it was undoubtedly scouring the camper all night, it stayed away from me, never brushing against me as I slept. All in all, it seemed like an acceptable travel companion except for one giant and unignorable issue: mice like to munch wires, and there were a lot of wires holding my travel intact. 

This had happened to me before, just last summer. I was driving up Deadman’s Pass in Oregon when something brushed my foot as it rested on the gas pedal.  I assumed it was a fly until shortly later, when the mouse and I found ourselves staring at each other. I did have mouse traps then and knew what I had to do. It is an awful thing, killing a poor mouse that is just taking advantage of good shelter and abundant food. I had felt bad that time, and I knew I would again this time as well. Though this time, I would find I was dealing with a much savvier mouse. 

I set my directions for a campground along Turquoise Lake in Leadville, the very lake that my parents had camped at “before they had kids!” as my mom exclaimed. Near the top of the pass and just a few miles north of Leadville, I spotted a trailhead, slammed on the brakes, and pulled in. I had not planned on a hike that day, but herein lies the beauty of not having plans. I saw what looked like a wonderful area to hike in and decided in an instant that that is precisely what I wanted to do. 

The Mayflower Gulch hike is popular, being so accessible and near the top of a mountain pass, but I was able to create solitude by hiking beyond where most people did, up to the ridge well above tree line. I was rewarded with incredible fields of wildflowers and expansive views in every direction. 

On to Leadville and Father Dyer campground I went, where I snatched the last available spot in a surprisingly busy area on a Monday night. As night fell, I held out hope that just maybe the mouse had gotten off at one of my stops. Not thirty minutes later, my hopes were dashed as we reunited in our usual standoff after we both spotted each other. 

I prepared the trap and positioned it on the floor, then went for a short walk. I couldn’t tolerate being in the camper with the anticipation of the SNAP! looming. When I returned, I peered in to find that the trap was still set but minus the cheese. I adjusted the trap to its most sensitive setting and gave it another go. After a second stroll around the dark campground, I found the same: trap set, food gone. Now I felt even worse! It was even a smart mouse! Or lucky. Or both. I wanted to try one more tactic, moving the cheese farther back on the trap, sure the mouse would have to step on the trigger to reach it. Tired of looping around the campground, I opted to just sit on the back bumper this round and peer up at the stars, incredibly luminous at the nearly 10,000-foot elevation. After a few minutes, I heard SNAP! and sighed; the torture would soon be over. 

I peered into the camper but could not locate the trap. The force from the SNAP! apparently had turned it into a projectile, and it was repositioned across the walkway. Of course, that could only happen if no weight was attached to it, and sure enough, no weight was attached to it. Also, the cheese was gone once again. The smart little bugger had upped the ante and snatched the cheese while setting the trap off, and still escaped. I accepted the defeat and proclaimed to no one, or maybe to the mouse, “mouse one, human zero” and settled in for restless sleep with my resident mouse, surely quite satisfied after its three-course dinner. 

Daytime was mouse-free time, and I set off for Crested Butte via Buena Vista the following day. After crawling up Cottonwood Pass, I stopped at a pullout on the top, which is positioned right smack on the Continental Divide. Eating lunch while people-watching in my camper before taking the short trek up to the viewpoint, I spotted what appeared to be an Amish family, certainly not Mennonite. I was perplexed, though, because I thought the Amish did not use vehicles. 

After hiking to the viewpoint, I noticed that the Amish family was having a wonderful time playing in a snowbank below and across the way. I contemplated how interesting it was that they prioritized the play instead of summiting to the highest point like everyone else. As I headed down, a young woman yelling at them caught my attention. “Stay on the trail, stay on the trail!” she pleaded. As she wandered past, I heard her mutter to her boyfriend what a delicate ecosystem the alpine tundra is, which is, of course, true, but also, not all cultures are focused on the same things. 

Crested Butte wins the award for the most scenic town in Colorado on my trip. There are stunning views in every direction, but unfortunately for me, there was nowhere to camp. After enjoying the scenery, I backtracked a bit to one of the numerous campgrounds along the Taylor River. I had a maniacal plan. Tonight, after dinner, I would position the trap in the narrow passageway between the parking brake and the driver’s seat so that the mouse would have no other option but to step on the trigger to get to the food. Once again, after setting the trap, I set off away from the scene, opting to perch myself along the river as the light slowly faded into darkness. It would occur to me the following day that if not for the mouse, I probably would not have taken the time to enjoy the vibrant star-filled sky so many times. 

I returned to the camper and slowly opened the door, again wishing I did not have to see what I might see. But this time, the trap had not been disturbed at all. Did the mouse get properly scared after setting the trap last night and jump ship? Or has it just learned to steer clear of it?  There was no sign of the mouse the remainder of the evening, and I began to feel hopeful that it was truly gone. 

Turns out, I was wrong again.