Coloradoan library IN DEEP: If you go bushwhacking, you better be prepared for anything, including river crossings. Bushwhacking basics Here are some thoughts about bushwhacking: Don't be stupid. Risks are part of an adventure but make them calculated risks. Tell someone specifically where you are heading and leave them a map and when you plan to return. Bushwhacking with a friend or two is preferred but don't hesitate to go it alone. Going solo creates a greater sense of awareness of your own skills as well as your surroundings. I don't own a cell phone but if you have one it's OK to bring it. However, use it only in a real emergency and not to call up your friend and ask "what are you doing?'' If you don't own or know how to use a compass, at least take a topo map of the area so you can orient yourself using prominent landmarks. Take enough of the 10 essentials so that you can survive an unexpected night out. The essential essentials include iodine tablets or water filter because water is a must, (food isn't), rain jacket and pants and lighter and matches. If uninjured, these items will allow you to survive 99 percent of unexpected one-night stays. Work your way up. When first testing your bushwhacking skills, go to areas more forgiving. Save the harder stuff for when your skills are more advanced. Have fun. -- Miles Blumhardt

OK, let's get this out of the way right away so those Larimer County Search and Rescue types aren't crawling all over me.

You can get lost, become injured or die while bushwhacking. You should not attempt this activity if you cannot use a map and compass. You should not do it alone. If you do bushwhack, make sure you carry the 10 essentials. Tell somebody where you are going and when you expect to return.

There, that's enough of a disclaimer.

Now, for the truth. I've never owned a compass and am not sure how to use one. I'm a so-so topo reader. I was bushwhacking alone. I had about six of the most essential 10 essentials. People knew where to find my sorry carcass if I wasn't home in time for supper. And for what it's worth, I'm pretty confident that I can get myself out of most jams, though I'm sure the S&R folks have hauled out in body bags those with similar personalities.

Don't let all the things that could happen to you bushwhacking frighten you away from this heightened hiking. If you're smart about it, the rewards far outweigh the risks.

With my safety nets in place, I half confidently put on my Berry Groove Scooby Doo lip balm, rolled on some Cutter insect repellent, sprayed on some grape-smelling sunscreen and started my adventure of bushwhacking my way through the abandoned Wintersteen Trail.

My interest in the Wintersteen Trail between Greyrock and Seaman Reservoir in the lower Poudre Canyon has been renewed with the opening of Gateway Park. Problem was, I couldn't find anyone who'd ever hiked it. Finally I did.

Martha Moran, who works in the Arapaho National Forest's Boulder District, and Dave Cantrell, a psychotherapist in town, have been on the trail, but they both told me Rick Price, owner of Experience Plus, was the man in the know. Unfortunately, he was in Corsica mapping out a bike tour, which left my guidance to Moran and Cantrell's sketchy recollections.

The origin of the trail's name is as difficult to find as the trail. Longtime Poudre Park resident Gary Kimsey researched the hell out of the area and he's never come across the origin. While I was becoming lost, it came to mind that local microbrewers New Belgium or Odell should name their winter brew after the trail. The marketing pitch could go something like "a mysterious taste born deep in the Rocky Mountains" or something half-baked like that.

The Wintersteen Trail is an ideal location to check out your bushwhacking skills. Glimpses of the trail exist, which gives you something to bloodhound for, and you can bail if you get too lost. I knew my safety net 2 miles to the south was Colorado Highway 14 and that if I missed Seaman Reservoir to head south when I hit the North Fork of the Poudre River. The only way I could really screw this thing up was to head north, which would lead me on a long hike to the Red Feather Lakes Road.

Moran and Cantrell told me the best way to find the trail was to hike up Greyrock Trail to where Greyrock's Meadow Trail meets the Summit Trail. They warned me trying to hike the trail from Seaman Reservoir to the Greyrock Trail was next to impossible. From the Meadows Trail intersection, the old maps show the Wintersteen Trail taking off to the east. They told me the best advice they could give me from there was to stay left of the ridge.

Without a lot to go on but looking forward to 2 1/2 miles of solo bushwhacking, I chugged some water, applied some more Scooby Doo and was off. The trail was easy enough to follow early on despite pine saplings marching over the old jeep roadbed. I came upon a rusted antique vehicle in a little clearing, a clue that I must still be on the trail. But that was to be the last time I knew for sure that I hiked the trail.

I had glimpses of Greyrock to get oriented to this point. But then, other hills and a thicker forest blocked my view and it was up to my so-so map reading skills. With so many ridges and so many game trails, it quickly became confusing as to where I was on the map, and if I was even on the trail. Feeling my first twinge of desperation, I hiked to the nearest highpoint to get a look at my relationship to Greyrock and that's when I noticed I was too far north of the landmark and heading to the one place that would result in a long walk out.

I re-oriented in a southeasterly direction to a highpoint I thought would take me right to the old Brinkhoff Mine, which was my bushwhack's prime target and where Cantrell told me I would find the trail littered with ruby-colored mica.

I found so many deer bones I could have reconstructed a deer herd. I found large rocks overturned by bears looking for food, and bear scat fresh enough that its contents stuck to the stick I used to poke it. I discovered refreshing springs and pockets of pools teaming with aquatic insects. I lunched in a meadow of wildflowers. But around each bend and on the top of each ridge I failed to find the trail or the mine.

The twinge of desperation was gone, as I knew I was heading in the right direction, but frustration was taking root. "Where in the sam hill could the trail be" kept running through my head as each bend and ridge turned up nothing more than beautiful solitude. OK, since my map skills sucked, I decided to rely on my competitive nature. I stubbornly began to crisscross the area north and south, hiking up and over one ridge and down the next in an effort to find the east-west trail.

Still nothing.

Hopelessly lost and making bad time, I decided that if I couldn't find the trail in broad daylight that finding it in the glow of the headlamp I had packed might be a tad optimistic. With sunlight running out and the headline "Coloradoan outdoor reporter saved by Larimer County Search and Rescue" running through my head, I headed for Seaman.

However, there was one problem. I figured I was a good hour from Seaman and I had run out of water some time ago and was sweating like a fat man in a sauna. My dehydrated steps got clumsier, which led to periodic stops to pull prickly pear spines that penetrated my tattered hiking boots and stuck in my foot. My fingers were swollen the size of Polish sausages and my spit, well, it left me a while back.

Five hours after I started from the Greyrock Trailhead, I bumped into Seaman just as the last of the sun's rays bounced off the water. The site would have been beautiful had I not been so tired, thirsty and disappointed. I couldn't let go of the fact that I had ended up just about right in the middle of the reservoir but couldn't find the trail.

I cursed Wintersteen, whoever he or she or whatever it was, one more time then stumbled like a drunk to Gateway Park for a drink and my mountain bike, which was my ride three miles back up the canyon to my pickup.

Relaxing in the cab with a peach clenched between my teeth and its savory juice dripping down my chin, my index finger kept tracing the different routes I may have taken. Was I here or there? Where did I go wrong?

Oh what the hell, I had seen some beautiful country, country few others will see unless they open up the Wintersteen some day. And I will be back, but next time I'll be bushwhacking with Dave or Martha or Rick, people who can show me the mine.

Man, I could use a Wintersteen.