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Elk and their harems lure visitors to Rocky Mountain National Park every fall.

I lay in my tent in the Moraine Basin campground at Rocky Mountain National Park quaking like a leaf on a nearby aspen. A herd of elk was amassing outside my sleeping bag.

I had snagged a gorgeous campsite on this early October weekend, part of my 10-week solo sojourn across the U.S. in 2009. After a long day of hiking, I had enjoyed a campfire, then crawled into my sleeping bag.

That’s when the trouble began.

The temperature quickly tumbled like a dizzy snowflake. I buried myself inside a cocoon of a flannel shirt and a fleece jacket in a flannel-lined sleeping bag, but that 25-degree cold sneaked inside. I covered my head with a stocking cap, but I couldn’t get warm.

Then I heard hooves. Hundreds of hooves right outside the tent. I listened. A herd of elk had gathered beside my tent like a gang of fraternity men at a panty raid. Suddenly the male bugled, and I nearly ricocheted out of my sleeping bag. If he came any closer, he’d poke an antler through the flimsy yellow fabric of my tent.

Then Nature called. I was afraid to leave the tent lest I collide with that carousing bull elk and his harem. The park rangers had warned not to get too close to the elk because they’re unpredictable, especially during the rut.

I lay there for a bit, but my bladder refused to concede, so I surrendered. I unzipped the tent window and looked out. Those elk were out there, all right, gathered in a clump right across the skinny campground road. By now, the pressure on my bladder mounted until it felt like a 700-pound elephant had plopped down on top of me. I couldn’t wait.

I unzipped my tent and charted my route. If I stayed on the edges of the little curving road, I might manage to do this without bodily harm. The outhouse light beckoned me like the beam of an approaching train, so I took my flashlight and carefully, silently skirted that herd of elk.

I knew they detected me, but that bull had other things on his mind.

I made it. I made it back, too. I zipped up the tent and swaddled myself inside that sleeping bag, but I couldn’t stop vibrating from the cold. The water in my water bottle was frozen. The thermometer, my phone said, read 25 degrees. Fitfully, I finally nodded off.

Sometime after sunrise, I crept out of the tent. The elk were gone, but scowling gray clouds were rolling in. I built a fire and sipped hot coffee, but a ranger drove by, rolled down his window, and said snow was moving in. Trail Ridge Road would close for the season at 5 that afternoon.

I’d planned to camp here until Monday, but if they closed that road, I’d have to double back down to Boulder and wind around south to I-70 to head west to Breckenridge, my next stop. I was still stiff as an icicle, but I decided to pack up.

I gulped down a cup of instant oatmeal, took down my tent, packed up the car and headed out. I began the long climb up Trail Ridge Road. That drive is stunning, but clouds obscured the view. Silently, a veil of snow began to fall. I stopped at the Alpine Visitors Center at 12,000 feet and savored a bowl of steaming chili.

Then, still not thawed, I started down. Snow covered the ground like white frosting, but so far, the pavement was clear. I saw the puddle that was the headwaters of the Colorado River and recalled showing that to my kids on a vacation up here in early June 1992. That morning, patches of snow lay on the ground like whitecaps. Memories like that warmed me as I wound like a coil down that road.

I was still cold after I arrived in Grand Lake. I was still cold after a warm spaghetti dinner. I got a motel room, stepped into a hot shower and let the steamy water seep deep into my pores until at last I got warm.

That night, I gave thanks for a firm mattress, blankets, running water and a flush toilet. And no elk.

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Elk and their harems lure visitors to Rocky Mountain National Park every fall.

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