Summer of Fourteeners

Snowmass Mtn & the Four Pass Loop: The Last of Our Feat

2010-08-21T10:05:00.000-07:00

Snowmass Mountain (14,092') & the Four Pass Loop

distance hiked: 36.55 miles
elevation gained: 14,479 feet

Here it is at last, the final post of the blog. But it is a long one, and a long time coming. The following is a transcription of my journal from our week-long backpack trip in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area.

Our original agenda:

Day 1: Summit Maroon Pass and establish camp between Maroon Pass and Frigid Air Pass (~8 miles; ~3,000 feet of elevation gain)

Day 2: cross Frigid Air Pass and camp in Fravert Basin (~4.5 miles; ~1,500 feet gain)

Day 3: hike to Geneva Lake via Trail Rider Pass cut-off trail. Camp Geneva Lake. (~4 miles; 1,200 feet gain)

Day 4: layover at Geneva Lake; side-hike to Little Gem and Siberia Lakes (~5 miles; ~1,500 feet of gain

Day 5: take Trail Rider Pass to Snowmass Lake. Meet Ed, Alex, and Miriam. (~5.5 miles; 1,800’ gain).

Day 6: climb Snowmass Mountain; remain at Snowmass Lake. (5 miles; 3,000 feet of gain)

Day 7: rest

Day 8: take Buckskin Pass back to Maroon Lake

(Official end of “Summer of Fourteeners”)

Day 1: Monday, August 9

Early afternoon: Well, the first march of the 8-day backpack is complete, but we didn’t get as far as we'd intended. We are also a day late, as a stormy forecast caused us to delay the trip one day.

Today we began at Maroon Lake Trailhead where we met crowds of curious day-hikers, many of whom asked about our destination and the weight of our packs. There were quite a number of other backpackers too, however, and we soon realized that our route (which I thought to be a product of my own imagination) was officially called the “Four Pass Loop”. As we began to understand the lingo of the loop, we came to tell anyone who asked that we were doing the “Four Pass Loop with variations”. This seemed most appropriate as the standard loop does not include Geneva Lake or (of course) a climb of Snowmass Mountain.

Ella with the Bells in the background (this is the before shot):

We intended to summit Maroon Pass today and camp somewhere in the East Fork of the Crystal basin on the other side, but a mounting storm forced us to set camp early. We will have to make up this ground tomorrow to stay on schedule.

Today's hike took us through one of Colorado’s most magical places. The Maroon Bells are quintessential Colorado. The gray and red-stained rock mixed with the green canopy of pines and aspens is an exhibition of color composition. Waterfalls cascade in thin webs between the rocks. Rounded marmots and tiny pika squeak and play among the boulders. I have yet to find a more impressive place in Colorado. It is no wonder it has become so popular.

On trail between Maroon and Crater Lakes (Bells center-left; Sleeping Sexton center-right):

We are camped at the base of Maroon Peak’s southwest ridge. The creek tumbles by in a small gorge below us. A serpentine waterfall rolls off so-called "Thunder Pyramid" to the south. The rain has stopped at last. Our lunch concoction of peanut butter on tortillas with a side of cheese, crackers, and mixed dried fruit was an enormous success. I am happy to be here and excited to have seven more days to explore this amazing place. It will be hard to leave when this is all over.

Later: An incredible demonstration of clouds and fog! When we awoke from a short nap, we found spectacular formations of clouds and fog circling the valley. I tried to take a few pictures but fear that there is no way to capture a display such as this. You have to see it for yourself to understand. We sat for an hour, completely satisfied by the show.

Fog over the Maroon Creek valley:

I am writing now from the hammock, watching blue sky starting to develop between the dark clouds. The National Weather Service predicted better weather ahead. I hope and dare to believe they are right. Across the creek, I've been watching a marmot watch me intently. What strange creatures humans must seem.

Me in the hammock with the journal:

A mushroom edging its way into the world:

Colorado's state flower (Columbine):

Close-up of a flower:

Day 2: Tuesday, August 10

Last night we were awoken by scuttling around our tent and an odd series of chirps and calls. The size and sound of it seemed consistent perhaps with a marmot. I wondered if it could be the marmot I'd been watching earlier. Marmots have a reputation for (though I can't attest without first-hand experience) dining on the handles of hiking poles, so we tried to chase it off by growling and clapping. The unidentified creature finally scurried off towards the creek, and its strange cries gradually faded. For the next hour, the forest seemed alive with mysterious footsteps and animal noise.

Looking up towards Maroon Pass on day two:

It is a beautiful morning with only a few cumulus clouds aloft in the sky. Should be a great day to make up some ground.

Later: A very successful day of hiking. We have nearly caught up on the ground lost from the early bivouac yesterday, and we saw some incredible sights.

The first part of our day took us to the summit of Maroon Pass, which was, as it turned out, a very popular place. It was not an easy climb with a week's worth of gear on our back, but the vistas of both the upper Maroon Creek basin and the East Fork of the Crystal basin were incredible. The Maroon side was dominated by impressive spires and red-hued towers. The Crystal basin was more gradually sloped, greener, and colored by a wardrobe of hip-high flowers. Quite a few people were milling about on top of the pass, most en-route from Aspen to Crested Butte or the opposite.

View of the East Fork of Clear Creek basin from Maroon Pass:

The two of us atop Maroon Pass:

The second part of our journey took us down to a major trail junction where day hikers doing the Aspen-Crested Butte route turned left and backpackers doing the Four Pass Loop (us) turned right. We sat here and ate a delicious lunch (I think we nailed our lunch menu) as people passed by headed in all possible directions.

Though I was a bit surprised by the sheer volume of two-legged humanity here in the wilderness, it was interesting to converse with the other hikers and discover where they had come from and where they were headed. Almost everyone we met was quite friendly. They were just out here for their own sort of adventure just like us. But I was a bit disappointed that even on a Tuesday there was no chance at solitude here in the "wilderness". I guess we all just have to accept the reality of over-population.

After lunch we began our ascent to Frigid Air Pass, leaving the day-hiking crowd behind for the time being. The climb, particularly near the top, was a bit steeper and more challenging than Maroon Pass, but the summit offered fantastic views of the Fravert Basin, a broad wonderland of lush undergrowth and wildflowers thicker than ever before. The seldom-photographed West Face of Maroon Peak towered above us.

The back side of Maroon Peak:

To the north we were awarded our first view of dramatic Snowmass Mountain, which loomed with particular brilliance with its gray rock in bold relief to the otherwise reddish sedimentary rock of practically everything else. Its South Face, combined with its satellite peaks Hagerman and Snowmass, was an impressive rampart of jagged cliffs. The summit looked very high.

Fravert Basin and Snowmass Mountain (left):

The last section of the day’s journey took us from the summit of Frigid Air Pass down into the Fravert Basin. At this point the long miles and heavy packs had made our feet and shoulders weary. We reached the meandering upper reaches of the North Fork of the Crystal River and descended amongst the flowers until reaching our second campsite here on a tree-lined knoll in the creek basin. We must be no more than half a mile above King Falls. Tomorrow will be a bit longer than expected but less strenuous than today.

Looking back up the Fravert Basin:

Later: We find ourselves more exhausted tonight than after many of our fourteener climbs this summer. I suppose we covered between eight and nine miles and gained three-thousand feet in elevation. With forty-five pounds of weight this is substantial.

Preparing for night at camp two:

This part of the basin is very quiet and peaceful. The only drawback is the particularly ravenous mosquitoes that have come out en masse (a pleasure which we have not had the joy of experience yet on this trip). Despite this nuisance, the evening is warm and brilliant with sunlight.

The Snowmass-Maroon Bells Wilderness is a gem and a Colorado classic. If someone who'd never seen this state asked me what was its most beautiful spot, here would surely come to mind. The only thing missing is the sense of solitude one sometimes wants from a wilderness. Maybe in early fall before the first snows there are fewer people. Maybe then you could find it. Right now, however, we aren't within sight or sound of other campers, and I can pretend that we are alone.

Day 3: Wednesday, August 11

A chilly clear morning. Should shape into a fine day once the sun emerges from behind its mountain hideout. A light breeze keeps stiffness in the fingers and our jackets cinched tight.

Today we should reach Geneva Lake. It is not too many miles, so we feel no pressing need to hurry and break camp. After all the sights and wonders of the past two days, I am excited to see what today has in store.

Later: Another successful day: we have made it to Geneva Lake. Although our route was shorter than yesterday, it wasn’t without its difficulties. Just after beginning our hike this morning, we switchbacked down a steep hillside past King Falls (a stair-stepping, three-hundred foot veil of water framed by glorious maroon crags) and reached an unpleasant obstacle I would later think of as The Swamp.

Looking down a steep ridge at King Falls to an emerald pool:

Looking up at King Falls:

We’d heard rumor of The Swamp from counter-clockwise loopers, but I think we'd truly hoped that the problems it created for the others had been over-stated. We were wrong. A long labyrinth of downed lumber choked off the trail completely and the path of least resistance around it put us next to the creek. For the next half mile we slogged through sticky, slimy marshland. When we finally emerged at the far side of the marshes, the trouble wasn’t over. A surprise storm forced us to hide under the eaves of nearby pine trees.

But the storm did not last and soon the sky cleared to a flawless blue like we had hardly seen all summer. The weather was finally gone and hopefully for good! We hiked pleasantly along, making friends with other clockwise loopers. There were people, it seemed, from all across the country: Berkley, Michigan, Canada, Missouri, Colorado. The beautiful Bells stood tall on the south end of the valley, diminishing in size as we traveled but not in majesty.

At 10,100 feet we’d descended almost nine-hundred feet since leaving our campsite. This was, as a matter of fact, the lowest we would be until the last day of our trip. We'd reached the so-called "cut-off trail" and the start of the uphill portion of our day. Standing between us and our destination at Geneva Lake was a fourteen-hundred foot climb towards Trail Rider Pass up a steep, winding trail through thick willows and aspens.

The challenging climb up The Cut-off offered astounding views of the Fravert Basin and the Maroon Bells:

A closer look at the backside of the Maroon Bells:

At last we reached the top of this steep section and were rewarded with a magnificent vantage of the backside of Hagerman and Snowmass Peaks. We stopped for lunch alongside a group of men who were here backpacking from St. Louis. The eldest amongst them, a round-bellied fellow whom we’d seen struggling earlier today, fired up a cigarette. I was not surprised when he grumbled about the difficult climb.

After lunch we turned left and put our backs to the Loop for the first time and began descending towards Geneva Lake. It was here at the trail junction that we first noticed a new a dark storm that was approaching. Maybe the arrival of good weather that had been predicted had not quite arrived. During the last storm we had been able to take shelter for fifteen minutes and mostly escape getting wet. It didn't look like we were going to get off so easy this time. It was only just over a mile from here to Geneva Lake, but we hiked with a sense of urgency as the storm raced in behind us. As a result we couldn't properly enjoy this lush and quiet stretch of trail.

The quiet trail through the forest to Geneva Lake:

A colorful amantia muscaria mushroom in the forest around Geneva Lake:

After a few short switchbacks, we reached Geneva Lake and erected our tent. Not a moment too soon: the rain began to fall at almost the very instant the task was complete.

The rugged backside of Snowmass Mountain from Geneva Lake:

We sit now in the tent hiding from this relentless storm. It is surely one of the most serious we have experienced. Every time it seems like it might be weakening, the rain picks back up. Currently, it seems the rain is slowing down, but we'll have to wait to see if it is actually over.

The storm approaching on the evening of the third day:

Day 4: Thursday, August 12

Could the storm actually be over? I dare allow myself to hope.

The afternoon storms that arrived yesterday as we set-up camp at Geneva lasted about an hour and a half. Once they had passed the skies once again were clear and blue, and we enjoyed what turned out to be an idyllic evening of lounging in the hammocks and staring out over beautiful Geneva Lake. But as daylight began to fade, the first of the nighttime thunderstorms moved in.

It is difficult to describe last night and accurately reproduce the anxieties it produced in us. I did not sleep for even a few minutes. The apocalyptic thunderstorm that plagued the entire night came in relentless yet predictable waves. There were at least ten of these waves as the night played its course. First we would hear distant rumbles of thunder approaching like the footsteps of doom. Then the first spatters of rain. Soon after, both rain and lightning would grow to a frightening crescendo in which all we could do was lie quiet, sleeping bags pulled over our heads, hoping that the lightning’s menacing tendrils wouldn’t find us. After the horrible eye of the storm passed by, you could hear the lightning change pitch as it moved over the mountain, booming and echoing like so many bowling pins. The rain would taper off slowly before calming. But hardly would the rain stop, it seemed, before we'd start to hear the footsteps approaching all over again.

We laid in our tents scared and helpless as the storms ebbed and flowed in this way throughout the night. At the most frightening moments, when the frailness and helplessness of humanity and human life was most apparent, I did what any reasonable person would do when faced with the realization that not only was the apocalypse real but upon them: I prayed. Had I seen two of every species of animal begin to float past, I would have prayed even harder.

At some point it seemed as if the storms would never end. They did, in fact, seem to be getting worse. As I laid there feelingly increasingly claustrophobic from the storm, I realized that we were a two day hike and two high passes from our car. Should the storm persist it would be very difficult for us to retreat. We were supposed to meet Ed, Alex, and Miriam at Snowmass Lake. Was it possible we could miss this deadline?

After suffering for many hours in the dark confines of our tent, I finally dared to turn on my cellphone (I'd been trying hard to forget about technology) to check the time. It was 4:30. Daybreak was only an hour away. The blinding flashes of the lightning in juxtaposition against the cold dark of a moonless night were frightening to behold. Day, I hoped, would bring an end to this nightmare. But the storm had other plans, and day was ushered in by the worst and most sustained storm of all. It seemed a dark omen to begin day four huddled in terror as a storm of this fury ripped around us. We ate an anxious breakfast cowering together as a hail battered the tent walls.

This final storm was an unbelievable and oddly alluring spectacle. Lightning brightened the sky every few seconds and booms of thunder reverberated endlessly off the surrounding cliffs. Two or three inches of standing water had formed both around and underneath us. Our backpacks and boots were sitting in a pool of rainwater. The question we both began asking was how much more of this could we, and our gear, take? It seemed like the storm would never end.

It is noon now on day four, and things could be getting better. But like a child whose abusive father has promised better days ahead, I am skeptical. Bright bands of blue are fighting for control of the sky, but grim clouds are still all around. It seems like it could all start again at any moment. We decided to move our tent to a higher location. Discovering at 4 am that were were surrounded by a three-inch deep standing pool with intense lightning crackling all around was an experience we didn't want to repeat. Unfortunately our new location is not nearly as flat or comfortable. For now we can only hope that the apocalypse is over and that we will be able to cross Trail Rider Pass to Snowmass Lake tomorrow.

A fisherman braves a gloomy morning on day four:

Taking advantage of rare sunshine on day four:

Later: After a few hours break from the weather, it seems we can hear thunder approaching once again. It is 3:00 pm. The last nineteen hours have been like a strange, twisted dream from which there seems to be no waking. We can only hope that this newest storm swings to the south and away from us.

In-between weather cycles we were able to hike to an overlook and a set of waterfalls at the southwest end of the lake basin:

Day 5: Friday, August 13

We awoke to a beautiful, still morning and not a cloud in the known universe. The lake is calm enough that a perfect inverse of the surrounding cirque can be seen in the water. The end of the world, it seems, is not yet upon us after all.

Reflections on Geneva Lake on the morning of day five:

Pondering the heights of Hagerman Peak and Trail Rider Pass:

Today we should meet friends. Ed, Alex, and Miriam are supposed to join us at Snowmass Lake at some point this afternoon. Now that the weather has broken, we should have no problem getting there. The sun has not directly reached us and, as if often the case on the first clear day after a storm, it is colder than before. It is hard, in fact, to keep enough command over my fingers to drag this pen across the page. Even the ink is thick and stubborn. This is what they call mid-summer at 11,000'. But we should have the warmth of the direct sun soon, and it looks to be a marvelous day.

Later: We have arrived at Snowmass Lake. It is as magical and incredible as you could hope. Quiet, blue-green waters rest at the base of a dramatic cirque of pyramid-shaped peaks. From this angle, 13,600’ Snowmass Peak appears higher than 14,092’ Snowmass Mountain.

Today began with a peaceful and mellow return through “Mushroom Forest” back to the junction with the Cut-off Trail. Charmed by the serenity of the morning, it seemed like we reached this familiar juncture in no time at all. And here, after two days off, we rejoined the Loop.

Approaching Trail Rider Pass:

A series of long, broad switchbacks took us up the shoulder of Hagerman and Snowmass Peaks to Trail Rider Pass at 12,500’. From Trail Rider, we caught our first glimpse of one of the broadest, most majestic lakes in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness: Snowmass Lake.

First view of Snowmass Lake (from Trail Rider Pass):

Looking back on the terrain west of Trail Rider Pass:

During our descent we got an aerial preview of the mountaineering route up Snowmass Mountain for tomorrow. The usually perennial snowfield from which Snowmass takes its name has completely melted. I suppose it has been a poor snow year. The first section of the route ascends a steep gully at the lake's west end. Once atop this feature, the trail climbs through broken granite slabs to a point just south of the two-pronged summit. This is the point which we will cross to the Geneva side of Snowmass’s north ridge, which we have previewed judiciously the previous two days from Geneva Lake.
First view of the east slopes of Snowmass Mountain (center) and our climbing route:

For now we sit awaiting the arrival of friends. I do hope that they still plan to make it and that they arrive soon, but much could have happened in the past week.

Day 6: Saturday, August 14

Summit day, and the last fourteener climb of our summer. We have been to the top of quite a few peaks this summer. It is strange to think that today is the last. The imminent end of our long-planned and awaited summer brings up memories of the very first day when we arrived in Frisco all geared up to climb Quandary. It seems like so long ago, it some ways. It seems like last week in others. Yet, if I could, I would do just about anything to return to that moment and have the chance to do it all over again just one more time....

Ed, Alex, and Miriam arrived last night around 6:30 pm. I had begun to believe that they wouldn't make it at all. It is a treat to be joined by friends and a good dynamic for the last few days of this trip.

This morning we awoke at 5:00 am, the usual hour for most of our climbs. After breakfast and other items of business typical of any camp-morning agenda, we began hour hike around Snowmass Lake, talking excitedly in anticipation of the climb ahead. After this pleasant warm-up, we reached the bottom of the gully we’d previewed yesterday and the start of the real climbing. After a short break to adjust our packs and get our fill of water, we began to climb up Snowmass Mountain's slippery east slope. Quickly, we discovered the tedious nature of this loose and tricky climb.

After the first thousand feet, the route eased up somewhat and entered a beautiful field of broken granite slabs. Occasional class 3 variations could be found to break-up the monotony of loose class 2 scrambling. Though there were relatively few people on this mountain compared to the crowds we'd seen on Front Range fourteeners, we soon made friends with a pair of middle-aged guys, one of whom was from our same hometown of Glenwood Springs. We ended up climbing much of the route alongside our new companions.

Looking back on Snowmass Lake at sunrise:

At 12,800’ the mountain slope tilted upward once again, and we entered what was, in many ways, the most dangerous portion of the climb. Here the route was steep and very loose and great care had to be made not to knock rocks down onto each other. We eyed other groups around us with suspicion, gauging if any among them were possible rock-kickers. In many ways you have to be even more proactive protecting yourself from others than you do from yourself. As a group we made an effort not to climb single file but to stagger ourselves so as to lessen the risk of rockfall.

Through the grassy/slabby shelves (12,500'):

The climbing crew (near to far: Miriam, Alex, and Ed):

In this late part of the summer season, the standard route we had scouted the previous day was not the most efficient route to the top. A more direct route was available. This variation, plagued by snow and ice most of the year, marched straight towards an organ-pipe looking formation immediately south of the summit tower to an unlikely notch in the mountain's defenses. Through this notch we could cross over the ridge to the mountain’s west face.

Approaching the top portion of the mountain:

The top slopes of Snowmass's east face:

The final pitch through the notch was a loose, dangerous, and mildly exposed class 3 climb and one of the route’s cruxes. Once we had surmounted this treacherous spot, we found ourselves looking down on the familiar heart shape of Geneva Lake. It was a special tour to visit both sides of this astonishing mountain. Each was very different in its character and attitude.

A closer look at the last climb to the notch:

The crux class 3 section of the notch:

Me standing at the top of the class 3 notch (13,800'):

Looking back at Hagerman Peak, the Maroon Bells, and Pyramid Peak from the southwest ridge of Snowmass Mountain:

Beyond the notch there was only two hundred feet of climbing left, but the exposure to the west grew increasingly intimidating. The last pitch held the route’s most difficult moves, but the solid rock made the climbing a joy. A variety of class 3 lines led to the summit block where a small pinnacle offered a priceless summit photo. It took some coaxing to get me atop this airy perch.

Snowmass Mountain's summit pitch:

Ella sitting on top of the tallest rock:

Looking down on our familiar campsite at Geneva Lake:

Me on top of the balance rock:

The hike down was long and bone rattling and after numerous ankle rolls we were back lakeside and hiking across more gentle terrain back to camp.

Capitol Peak as seen from Snowmass Mountain:

So ended the last climb of our summer. “Summer of Fourteeners” was one eight-mile pass from its official conclusion. It is a simultaneously sad and satisfying feeling to reach the end. I feel we have made the most of this summer. I will look back on it not with regret of time wasted but with pride of having lived every minute to its fullest.

Day 7: Sunday, August 15

Morning at Snowmass Lake:

Disaster! Our propane canister has prematurely coughed out the last of its fuel. I guess the long-cooking Minestrone we had been saving this entire trip for our post-Snowmass celebration meal consumed the last of our propane. As a result we are going to be forced to hike out today, one day early. It was a sad realization when we unexpectedly faced the last day of our summer. It was an adventure long-planned, eagerly awaited, and perfectly executed. And now today it comes to an end. So many conversations this past year have revolved around these four trips. How many times did one of us start a conversation with, "So I have an idea for the summer..." or "I am so excited for our summer". Yet, after yesterday’s successful ascent of Snowmass Mountain, and the departure of our friends earlier this morning, it seems fitting. This is a better climax.

So this will be the last journal entry made from the wild. There will be one more, I anticipate, from civilization once we have returned home. We still have one more beautiful hike ahead. Then, I suppose, I will offer my last ruminations about this long season in the high country. For now, I suppose I am sadly signing off.

More morning reflections:

Later: The hike out, the backpack, and the summer of fourteeners is now over. It is a day that is both sad and glorious. Looking back on our many adventures and the profound impact they have had on me, I feel proud.

Our hike out today was longer and more difficult than anticipated. Our bodies were torn down, burned out, and craving a day of rest. But as it turned out today was the longest hike of the backpack. Still, it was a beautiful route through lush fields and gentle streams over Buckskin Pass. From the top we found ourselves looking down on the valley from which we had begun. We had almost come full circle.

Looking back at Snowmass Mountain, Hagerman, Capitol Peak, and Snowmass Lake from Buckskin Pass:

Looking across at Pyramid from Buckskin Pass:

While descending into the Minnehaha Gulch the Sunday crowd grew steadily in number as we approached Crater Lake. Suddenly, we emerged from the trees and found ourselves standing back on Maroon Trail. The loop had closed at last. Here we were overwhelmed by a theme-park atmosphere. Large volumes of day hikers suddenly surrounded us, overwhelming our senses. Though we had seen quite a number of people during the week, we had become attuned to the pace of the wilderness. Such overwhelming crowds were difficult to comprehend. We hiked as quickly as we could to escape.

The side profile of North Maroon Peak:

Looking up the valley where the trip had begun a week before:

At last we reached the parking lot where my car came into view. I felt a strange dichotomy of emotion. There was some sense of relief in returning to the comforts of society: the bottomless meals, the protection of a roof, a soft bed off the ground. But there was also a sense that the travails of civilization had returned with them. We hadn’t heard the grumblings of machines and engines for seven days. We hadn't had to worry about jobs or money. It was an overwhelming, even dismal, scene. But it was also the end of a grand adventure. Not just of this past week but of the last two months. We were, perhaps, too tired to appreciate the significance of the moment.

The classic shot at the end of a classic week:

There is a strong appeal for me of nature, something akin to what Jack London called "the call of the wild." Though we are out now and not likely to come back soon, I already feel the draw to return. To climb to high peaks and peer across vast horizons. To smell the perfume of rich, damp soil. To witness palettes of flowers swaying in the wind and to hear the buzzing of their pollinators. To watch water spill through green fields and to listen to the gossip of its currents. I have found where I am most alive and this is what I want to do.
And every time we return to civilization from the high places of the world, we are always one summit wiser.

Longs Peaks/Rocky Mtn National Park: An Unfitting Climax

2010-07-31T10:27:00.002-07:00

Longs Peak (14,255')

The Keyhole route on Longs Peak is the single most popular route on any fourteener in Colorado. Despite the inevitable crowds Longs Peak draws as a result, it was one of our most-anticipated climbs of the summer.

We arrived at the base of Longs Peak after a two-day hiatus in downtown Denver (that included a night game at Coors Field where we watched the Colorado Rockies extend an eight-game losing streak) and found a good campsite just outside the borders of Rocky Mountain National Park. Rain overtook us before we were even able to finish setting up our tent, and we spent the better part of an hour in our car watching our new campsite be transformed into a lake. The claustrophobic sanctuary of my Subaru grew quickly tiresome, so we decided to return to Estes Park for coffee and wi-fi Internet access to examine the weather outlook for the following day (which turned out to be grim).
Longs Peak and Mt. Meeker (13,911') as viewed from ghost hunting mecca The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park:

Making the long journey to Rocky Mountain National Park without even attempting Longs' summit was against our nature, so we set our alarm for 1:30 am despite the forecast (Longs being lengthy and somewhat technical requires a considerable time investment) and did our best to catch a few hours rest in what turned out to be a very raucous campsite. When 1:30 arrived (all too early) we awoke to find exactly the grim, overcast weather that had been predicted. Dejected, we made the sleepy, but not entirely unexpected, decision to forgo our climb on Longs Peak.

As we guessed given our recent luck with the weather, when we awoke the second time at 7:00 am, not a cloud graced the sky. As a result, we were both disgruntled and gloomy when we arrived in Estes for our morning coffee.
This failure was disappointing and frustrating, but the bottom line is that at some point on every climb you have to make a "go" or "no-go" judgment call. It is not always going to be right. I will always feel better making the conservative decision and missing a climb than pressing on with questionable conditions and getting stranded in a dangerous storm.

Longs Peak viewed from Rocky Mountain National Park (the weather started to build around 9:00 am):
So we concluded our third trip, the last to be car-based, with a beautiful drive over Trail Ridge Road through Rocky Mountain National Park. It was an impressive drive through a beautiful place.

Forest Canyon Overlook in Rocky Mountain National Park:

The Lava Cliffs Overlook in Rocky Mtn National Park (lone hiker [tiny] visible top center):

Despite dealing with a lingering weather system that fed moist, unstable Gulf air into Colorado for almost the entire two-week duration of our adventure, we managed to gather five of our seven planned summits. All that now remains is our grand climax: eight days in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area, one of Colorado's finest, and (hopefully) an ascent of beautiful Snowmass Mountain.

Pikes Peak: A Fourteen-thousand Foot Amusement Park

2010-07-31T10:27:00.001-07:00

Pikes Peak (14,110')

length hiked: 24 miles
elevation gained: 8,400 feet

Lounging in a cafeteria, sipping coffee and gobbling greasy donuts is a different type of summit experience. Surreal and disappointing in many ways. Luxurious and pleasurable in others. Nothing in our previous twenty-one fourteeners had prepared us for it, not even the paved road and biker-swarmed bathrooms atop Mt. Evans. The Pikes Peak experience was strange enough that we all felt somehow as if we hadn't reached a summit at all, as if we'd climbed and climbed never to find the top. But we had worked hard enough, it seemed, to have earned two mountains, for we ascended over eight thousand feet and hiked twenty-four miles in two days. But something about being joined by cars, motorcycles, and a train destroyed the serene sense of accomplishment that usually accompanies a high-mountain summit.

Our long peregrination up Pikes Peak began the day before at a lowly 6,500' in the crowded streets of Manitou Springs. We trudged with fifty pound packs along the first three busy miles of the famous Barr Trail, dodging casual day hikers, runners training for the Pikes Peak marathon, and the tired ghosts (for that's all they seemed) of climbers returning from the distant summit. I admit some alarm at the sheer volume of two-legged humanoids on this part of the trail, especially for a Monday morning. But once we passed the top of the Incline Loop (an off-shoot of the Barr Trail) the crowds ceased and the slow, steady climb towards "world-famous" Pikes Peak was mercifully quiet.

Typical Barr Trail terrain:

After about six miles and almost 4,000 feet of climbing (including some up and down), we arrived at the amicable property of Barr Camp. Contrary to my prior image of Barr Camp as a mountainous tourist trap and a jarring intrusion of society on the wild, it instead presented a wonderful example of natural/human harmony in an ambrosial setting. It was a welcome scene and a place of regenerative respite, especially on a route as long and tedious as the Barr Trail. The nature-conscious owners offered open doors even to non-guests and promoted without proselytizing No Trace ethics to the many Pikes Peak visitors. They were always willing to share good conversation and entertaining mountain wisdom with any who bothered listen.

We reposed for the afternoon, observing the complex social interactions of ground squirrels quarreling over ears of corn discarded by previous, careless campers. Theresa, one of Barr Camp's benevolent owners, showed us a trick of cupping our hands around the base of her bird feeder to feel the gentle feet of hummingbirds and the subtle wind from their wings as they swooped in to feed.

Becoming a landing pad for gentle hummingbirds:

Hummingbirds jockeying for a sugar-water drink (a short video clip):

The next morning we arose at the incommodious hour of 4:00 am and engaged in a somnambulistic trek through the last hours of darkness. The silver moon was falling in front of us and the first rays of morning rose behind, giving us the sense that, depending on which way we faced, we could experience both day and night. Far below us the lights of Colorado Springs twinkled like a reflection of the nighttime sky. The pollution (usually a choking distraction to all things beautiful) exacerbated the colors of the morning, setting the sky alight with blood-orange and pink hues.

Soon after the moon vanished and morning had risen, we passed the ghosts of trees burned from a hundred-year old fire. Though Gerry Roach referred to this section as "grotesque" in his guidebook, I found it instead to be a beautiful example of the cyclical nature of death and re-birth in the wild.

The area above treeline on Barr Trail was a wonderful playground of rotund granite boulders and scraggy alpine shrubs. The trail was as quiet and peaceful as any we'd climbed on a fourteener. Still high above us we could see the summit house emerge and draw steadily nearer.

Ella and Miriam (lower left) in the area above treeline on Barr Trail:

Looking over The Cirque at around 13,300':

We convinced the only other hiker we saw in the morning to take this picture of us at The Cirque:

Finally, we reached the so-called "Golden Stairs", a 32-switchback finale to our twelve-mile climb. We used the last of our muscles to persevere through the "Golden Stairs" to reach Pikes peculiar summit.

The Golden Stairs:

The summit house of Pikes was a surreal place and an idea that I hope is never duplicated on any mountain. The true summit was a forgotten piles of boulders a hundred yards past the train station in the center of the parking lot, so, with true mountaineer spirit, we climbed a few more feet to imagine a Pikes Peak before commercialization. The detritus of numerous construction jobs dotted the landscape and the pollution that had illuminated our sunrise so vigorously now rendered any distant vista nigh impossible. It was hard not to view Pikes' summit as an extinguished, castrated place. There can be no doubt that before the chimneys of industry, and before its exploitation and commercialization, Pikes' summit was one of the most powerful and majestic mountaintops in all the American West. Much of that majesty has now been lost.

The popular picture spot atop Pikes Peak (we felt we'd earned this picture as much as anyone):

The view down Pikes' much steeper north face:

Entering the Pikes Peak summit house:

The hike down Pikes was a long and grueling ordeal. After six miles we returned to camp, broke down our tents and grudgingly re-packed our accoutrements. For the second six miles of the descent we carried the burden of fifty pounds on our backs, the price of splitting Pikes into a two-day trip. By the end we had hiked a brutal 18 miles, ascended over 4,000 feet, and descended almost eight-thousand feet (more counting the ups and downs). It was without question the most difficult single day of hiking for the summer.

So Pikes Peak is behind us, and in some ways I am split on the idea of ever returning to Barr Trail. It was a beautiful hike and a special place. But the disappointing summit is anti-climatic after so vigorous an effort. I had a wonderful experience on Pikes and wouldn't have changed anything about it. But I think should I ever feel the need to return I might just seek another, shorter route.

Mt Bierstadt & Mt. Evans: A Tale of Two Mountains

2010-07-24T20:26:00.001-07:00

Mt. Bierstadt (14,060') and Mt. Evans (14,264')

distance hiked: 11.06 miles
elevation gained: 3,864 feet

I'm not a fan of the overused "A Tale of Two..." allusions to Dickens famous novel, but the title seemed appropriate for this day in more ways than one. First of all, Mt. Bierstadt is a true fourteener, with a beautiful trailhead and a quiet summit, while Mt. Evans (which boasts the "highest paved road in America") has the over-exploited feel of a raucous amusement park ride. The "Tale of Two Mountains" cliche is also applicable to our experience on Bierstadt and Evans because of the two very different experiences we had: an exciting, wonderful ascent and a grueling, despairing descent. Regardless of these negatives, our experience on these two mountains was one of the most memorable climbs of the summer, and a day I wont soon forget.

The day after a relatively easy stroll up Grays and Torreys Peaks, we made it to the trailhead for Mt. Bierstadt high on Guanella Pass feeling tired but invigorated by excitement. Guanella Pass is a beautiful area, and the trailhead is at a lofty 11,669'. The lush landscape around us was socked-in by glorious tumbles of fog, and the air was crisp. The famous shape of the Sawtooth (the augural moniker for the connecting ridge between Bierstadt and Evans) loomed through the haze, looking as menacing and terrible as its namesake.

Sunrise over Mt .Bierstadt (right) and the Sawtooth:

The hike up Bierstadt was easy and relatively short. A few climbers were spread out above us, and a long line of cars/people were amassing behind. In less than three hours we achieved our first summit for the day. I quietly celebrated my twentieth fourteener.

View to the southeast from near the summit of Bierstadt (the white in the background is a thick coating of fog):

Ella finishing her ascent of Bierstadt:

View to the west toward Guanella Pass (Grays and Torreys Peaks visible in the center in the distance):

Group photo of the three of us atop Bierstadt:

After a few moments' rest, we strapped on our helmets and turned to face the most challenging portion of our day: Bierstadt's famous Sawtooth Ridge.

The view of the Sawtooth Ridge from Bierstadt:

The same photo with the route drawn in:

The Sawtooth is a renowned traverse between two popular Front Range peaks. It was also the first official Class III route of our summer. Most of what we'd heard about the route focused the difficulties and exposure of the ascent on the Sawtooth's far end (relative to Bierstadt) and said little about the descent on the near side. As a result, we were surprised to find challenging class III terrain almost immediately upon departing the summit.

The first obstacle was a steep, loose gully descending north from Bierstadt. We had to be cautious with each step not to slip or stumble or loosen rocks onto each other. Near the ridge's low point we had to traverse across an exposed face, pressing ourselves against a cliff and tiptoeing across a tiny ledge above a tall drop. At the bottom of the Tooth, we approached the crux section (the part we'd read so much about) of our day: a tall series of broken cliffs and ledges with extended class III climbing and class IV variations.

Approaching the most difficult section of the Sawtooth:

The next half-hour was exemplary of the great joys of semi-technical climbing. We had to tediously investigate our route, searching for breaks in the mountain's defenses. We had to plan ahead to avoid stranding ourselves on dead-end ledges. We had to focus on hands, feet, and rock to assure that all were working together in harmony. Each and every movement was an exercise in skill and focus. This type of climbing was a far cry from the numb ascents of solid trails that had dominated much of our fourteener experience to this point. For the first time in the summer, in many ways, we felt like true mountaineers.

The crux section of the climb:

Too quickly, we reached easier terrain, and the difficult scrambling was over. We took a short respite and scouted the next (still interesting but less technical) portion of the climb. Here the route maneuvered left onto the vertical west face of the Tooth's most jagged promontory via a narrow, gravel ledge sandwiched between tall cliffs both above and below. We watched with some trepidation as several climbers ahead of us carefully negotiated this tremendously exposed section.

Ella and Michelle resting before the last portion of the Tooth:

Our fears about this portion, it turned out, were mostly in vain as the ledge was wider and more stable than it initially appeared. The climbing did not exceed class II, and as long as we did not focus too intently on the airy drop to our left, the exposure was not problematic. This would not be a comfortable place, however, for someone afflicted with acrophobia.

Ella and Michelle negotiating The Sawtooth's narrow ledge:

Another climber overlooking a drop into oblivion:

Once past the exposed ledge we were on the west ridge of Mt. Evans, and we convinced ourselves that we had little more than a simple stroll to the summit. This stroll, however, turned out to be hotter, longer, and more tedious than anticipated. It took the better portion of an hour to accomplish.

At long last we crested the final ridge, and the view of Mt. Evans' summit opened before us. To our surprise we were greeted by the chaos of a bustling endpoint of a busy bike race. Standing abreast of the finish line was one of the race's officials, encouraging the riders with proclamations such as: "You can do it! Only a few more feet" or "You're almost there!" Her encouragement, we took the liberty of assuming, was actually meant for us.

Mt. Evan's summit and the bike race finish line:

The summit of Mt. Evans is like a different world compared to the rest of the mountain. It is, in fact, an anomaly in a sea of quiet, amazing Colorado mountaintops. A paved road achieves it. It is festooned with an observatory and summit house. It is so well equipped, in fact, that I was able to un-encumber my bladder in the relative luxury of a summit bathroom.

A mountain goat who stood by uninterested as I waited in line for the summit privy:

After lounging amongst the rocks for nearly an hour looking down on streams of bikes careening both up and down the mountain, we turned our backs on the scene of Mt. Evans' summit and began the long descent.

While undertaking this long downclimb, however, what had been one our best, most-enjoyable days of the summer took a sour turn.

The descent route (we didn't have to return over the Sawtooth) took us down an unpleasant gully that was a loose, tedious, and treacherous bowling alley of rubble and scree. We had to descend to a point lower than the trailhead and engage in the infamous Bierstadt willows (a muddy slog through bug-infested marshes and clawing, scratching brush). To complicate matters, the afternoon thunderstorms arrived on schedule, and we spent the last mile being pelted by harsh rain and stinging hail while searching for an often non-existent trail. Lightning crashed like the snarl of some great minion of Hell, and when we finally reached the car the air was statically charged with enough sufficiency to lift our hair straight from the tops of our heads.

Back at camp, foolishly thinking the worst was behind us, we were dismayed to discover four inches of hail piled against our tent and our sleeping bags resting in a pool of water several inches deep. These tribulations, however, were only a small price to pay for a great day spent teetering on the blade of a saw.

This waterfall was the only high point of an unpleasant descent:

High-alpine flowers on the slopes of Mt. Evans:

Grays and Torreys: Colorado's Quintessential Peaks

2010-07-24T19:59:00.000-07:00

Grays Peak (14,270') & Torreys Peak (14,267')

distance hiked: 8.4 miles
elevation gained: 3,650'

In many ways Grays and Torreys Peaks are Colorado's quintessential fourteeners. An excellent trail switchbacks all the way to the summits of both peaks, the trailhead is over 11,000' and only three short miles off I-70 (Torreys Peak, in fact, can be seen by the astute motorist from I-70 just east of the Eisenhower Tunnel), they are close to the front range, and Torreys offers a variety of more challenging routes. Grays and Torreys are an excellent starting block for an aspiring mountaineer. As a result of all of these features, they are very popular mountains.

Our experience with Grays and Torreys came after a disappointing lull in our summer of climbing. For the first few weeks of our adventure we had been on a roll, averaging a fourteener just about every other day. As the summer monsoon season took full swing, however, it seemed as if we were being turned back from as many mountains as we were summiting. The weather forecast for the week of our planned Grays/Torreys hike was not good, and we had been turned away from Holy Cross only a few days before. But after laying up in Frisco to wait for a break in a slow-moving low-pressure system, we finally got our chance to climb and were rewarded with a beautiful day.

The hike up Grays/Torreys begins almost at treeline. After hiking for so long in the Sawatch Range, where most trails began around 10,000' and some as low as 8,900', this was a change that was both welcomed and strangely mourned by bot of us. Though it was nice to be able to reach a summit in a shorter amount of time, and with less effort, we had grown to cherish the moments when our trails suddenly emerged from the forest into the wide-open green spaces of the alpine tundra. It is always a magical experience, and one that often came an hour or more into our day, and after a considerable invest of effort, making it a respectable and highly anticipated reward.

Early morning sunrise on the trail to Grays & Torreys:

After a very early start we found ourselves ahead of the majority of the crowd, and after only just over two hours we reached Grays summit. It felt like a long time since we had reached a fourteener's summit (about 11 days), a testament to the amount of climbing we had accomplished this summer.

Ella having a little fun on Grays Peak's summit:

Me summiting like an Egyptian:

Looking across to Torreys Peak from Grays:

Strong winds were already gathering, so we didn't linger long before traversing over to Torreys summit, a journey that took just less than an hour. Though Grays Peak is little more than a massive pile of talus, Torreys is an interesting mountain that offers a variety of terrain, rugged southeast and northeast faces, and a beautiful summit perch. We took a moment from the top to peer down Torreys famous Kelso Ridge with its crux section, the knife edge, just below the summit. The route looked plausible and exciting, and like it would perhaps be a good place to warm up for more difficult ascents such as on Capitol Peak, or Little Bear.

Looking back on Grays from Torreys:

View north from the summit of Torreys Peak:

Our hike out from Torreys was smooth and gentle with the exception of being forced to constantly dodge the long train of people still on their way up the mountainside. Once again I was astounded to observe people beginning their hike as late as ten or eleven. Though the weather was benign enough, and the mountain easy enough, that these people were likely able to reach the summit, we were reminded the very next day of why it is crucial to being a climb on a big mountain early in the morning. But more on that later....

Holy Cross: Frustration in Paradise

2010-07-20T14:55:00.001-07:00

Mt. Of the Holy Cross (14,005')

distance hiked: 8 miles
elevation gained: 3,533'

To kick-off the third part of our summer, we embarked on two-day backpack into the Holy Cross Wilderness to attempt to climb one of Colorado's most famous mountains: Mt. Of the Holy Cross. Holy Cross takes its name from an inset couloir that splits the mountain's rugged north face. This tall shaft of snow is bisected at perfect height and angle by a sharp ledge to form a snowy impression of the Holy Rood. This dramatic image has given birth to one of Colorado's most iconic natural symbols. Holy Cross, though a bit removed from the others, is considered part of the Sawatch Range: it is the Sawatch's northernmost fourteener. Coincidentally, Mt Shavano (the Sawatch's southernmost fourteener) is home to the Angel of Shavano. It is interesting that the Sawatch Range is bookended by mountains of spiritual/religious significance. Regardless of religious faith, the Holy Cross Wilderness is a place of such intense beauty and power that it would undoubtedly stir the hearts and souls of even the most cynical skeptic.

The busy trailhead had us expecting heavy crowds. The trail, however, was relatively quiet in comparison:

The first part of our hike consisted of a climb up and over Halfmoon Pass. Immediately upon departing from our car at the busy trailhead, we were besieged by a grueling combination of heat and mosquitoes. With fifty pounds of gear resting upon our shoulders, the three-mile, fifteen-hundred foot climb was a rugged test of perseverance and conditioning.

At the summit of Halfmoon Pass, beautiful vistas opened of the East Cross Creek drainage, and we tried to guess which of the peaks rising to the south were part of the Holy Cross Massif. The pass was just shy of timberline, and a chilly wind groped with cold tendrils at our sweat-soaked skin.

After a brief hiatus we began the thousand-foot descent to our destination as tall, dark storms accumulated on the surrounding ramparts of the northern Sawatch Range. About a half mile in we were greeted with our first, breathtaking view of Mt. Of the Holy Cross when its rugged northwest face appeared suddenly through the trees. The view was neck-bending and imposing. A few switchbacks later we found ourselves looking down on the dramatic depths of the East Cross Creek Basin.

I will never forget that first view of the basin at the foot of Colorado's holiest mountain. No guidebook description or photograph had prepared me for its majesty. The whole valley seemed like a great bowl of granite angles and cliffs. Imposing walls adorned with a lush green wardrobe of pines and aspens framed the crystalline streak of a stair-stepping waterfall. The upraised thumb of Holy Cross Mountain stood tall over everything like a benevolent sentry. We both remarked that, without a doubt, this was the most beautiful place we'd seen yet in Colorado.

Holy Cross and the East Cross Creek Basin (the cross itself is not visible from this vantage):

Close-up of the waterfall (the small appearance in the picture of this huge waterfall gives an idea of the scope of this valley):

After dropping into this Eden, we set-up camp on a beautiful site surrounded by amicable trees and a base of velveteen sand and leaves. The chorus of rushing waters from the nearby creek, a sound omnipresent on our previous three week adventure but depressingly absent during our week in town, provided a soothing backdrop.

After lounging for an hour or two in our hammocks, we set-out to investigate this veritable playground. For the next two hours we played like children, discovering convoluted granite canyons with S-turn rapids, pristine pools with every detail of their cobbled bottoms strikingly visible, and talus fields festooned by ribbons of cold water. We scrambled up the eastern end of the valley to the last few steps of the mighty waterfall we'd seen earlier from above and lounged on a rock in contemplation as the skies above cleared and a magnificent, blue-sky evening took shape. We could explore this place for days and days and barely nick the surface of all Holy Cross has to offer.

Moonrise over Granite escarpments:

Quiet contemplation in paradise:

That night, however, we found our sleep troubled as our minds struggled to re-adapt to the challenges of wilderness life. Rain knocked on the top of our tent, humidity made us sticky in our sleeping bags, and our bodies emanated an unpleasant combination of mosquito repellent and sweat. When the alarm pulled us from our "sleep" neither one of us could boast more than a few hours of good rest.

The clear skies from the evening before had been replaced by a grim layer of clouds, and we couldn't help but feeling from the very outset that it was unlikely we would reach our summit. We attempted to the climb anyway, despite the weather, and were rewarded with a magnificent sunrise that painted the clouds a vast palette of reds, oranges, and purples. By treeline, however, shafts of rain had all but overtaken our paradise, and we were forced (once again) to turn around short of our goal. Only a few minutes later rain began tumbling from the sky, and we could see a dark shroud woven around Holy Cross's summit.

A dramatic sunrise provides a magical moment on an otherwise frustrating morning:

Rainclouds overtaking the valley and chasing us off the mountain:

We returned to camp disappointed and napped for an hour or two through the storm. When we awoke, the rain had broke and the clouds were scattering. Tufts of blue sky spread until, by the time we had dismantled our camp, blue sky dominated the view as far as our eyes could see. We couldn't believe our misfortune and bad timing, and considered briefly renewing our ascent. Our energy stores for the day, however, were low, and we still had a difficult return trip up and over Halfmoon Pass.

On the way out we reached that magical overlook where we had first laid eyes on the valley. The good weather was vanishing and clouds were once again roiling high into the heavens. There was some disappointment that we hadn't made our summit, but it was hard to feel too upset. Failing to reach Holy Cross's summit was, ultimately, a small price to pay for spending two days in one of Colorado's most magical places. We knew we would have to return and give this place the time and attention it truly deserves.

Mt. Elbert: Roof of the Rockies

2010-07-14T06:44:00.001-07:00

Mt. Elbert (14,433')

miles hiked: 9.2
elevation gained: 4,685 feet

A fitting climax to our three-week tour of the Sawatch Range was to climb the tallest mountain in the range and the entire state of Colorado: Mt. Elbert. After a week long stretch of gnarly weather, we hoped, as we watched a tall storm build to the west of us the night before, for respite and some much-deserved blue skies.

Mt. Elbert is the roof of the American Rockies. It is the tallest point in the Rocky Mountains within the contiguous United States and second tallest in the lower 48 behind only the Sierra Nevada's Mt. Whitney (14,505'). We had the privilege of being joined for the climb by Outward Bound guide/climber/alpinist/adventurer/writer extraordinaire Cisco Tharpe. As will always be the case, it is a treat having good company for a good mountain.

Ella and Cisco almost at treeline:

Our climb up Elbert was quite special. We didn't let high winds or the winter-reminiscent chill blunt our spirits. We hit the trail early and climbed steadily. The last thousand feet to the summit were plagued by some of the strongest wind and coldest weather of the season, second only to our now-infamous day on Mt. Lincoln. Ella remarked, as we persevered, that she felt like a "dog with its head out the window, unable to get a full breath".This description seemed particularly apt.

From about 13,000' looking towards the summit:

When we reached the summit, we hid behind a pile of rocks from the wind and snacked on our food, enjoying unbelievable vistas in all directions. Mt. Massive loomed to the north, mocking us for not making its summit two days earlier. Our old friend La Plata (my first 14er) towered dramatically to the south. Its dramatic Ellingwood Ridge was jagged and impressive under a fresh glaze of July snow. To the west we could see the distinct skyline of the Elk Range. Snowmass Mountain, a two-pronged thrust, was particularly impressive as it was the only peak visible in any direction still white as winter.

View of Halfmoon area and Mt. Massive from the summit:

View to the south of beautiful La Plata:

Three's Company:

A short, windy video clip from the summit:

Not far behind us came a man with a particularly wind-blown look on his face. We asked him amicably how things were going, and he growled in response: "Pretty godd(pg.13)mn sh(pg.66)ty." He went on to complain in all seriousness that he was sure he had climbed the wrong mountain because there were several peaks nearby that looked taller. He pointed to Massive and La Plata as examples. We told him the elevations of all these peaks. Despite our assurances that he was indeed standing upon the highest point in Colorado, he persisted being furious that Elbert didn't seem like the tallest. I suppose he didn't understand that when you are talking about twelve feet (in the case of Massive) perspective can be deceiving.

A sparkling lake viewed on descent (this picture just doesn't quite capture it):

On the way down we felt much more playful with the wind. On switchbacks that faced it head-on we'd laugh and sing into it in defiance. On switchbacks where it was at our backs we'd spread our arms like airplanes or see how far we could jump. We'd try to find appropriate Caddyshack or Big Lebowski quotes for the moment. Embracing the wind, we decided, is the only way to keep it from taking over your day. We passed many grumpy people, however, still on their way up who hadn't discovered this strategy.

So ended our second, and longest, trip of the summer. We still have two more to go: a Front Range adventure in which we will try to collect Holy Cross, Grays, Torreys, Evans, Bierstadt, Pikes, and Longs; and a culminating backpack trip in which we intend to climb Snowmass Mountain and spend a week lolling about in the majesty of the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area. Though we haven't climbed all the mountains we intended (12 out of 19 to this point), and expect it is quite likely we wont make every summit still ahead, we have had a beautiful summer and forged memories that will undoubtedly last a lifetime. The high country is an exotic and magical place. When you enter it with the reverence and respect that it deserves, you will come out wiser and stronger as a result.

Summer of 14ers totals (1 month):

distance hiked: 114.44 miles
elevation gained: 50,479 feet

With training month included:

distance hiked: 202.61 miles
elevation gained: 81,270 feet

Mt. Massive: A (Massive) Disappointment

2010-07-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

Mt. Massive (14,421')

miles hiked: 12.2 miles
elevation gained: 3,600'

As we approached the end of our Sawatch journey, we settled in for the grand finale: a five-day stretch in a beautiful region and a shot at climbing the two tallest mountains in the state. Our final campsite was deliciously poised in-between the trailheads of these two great mountains (Mt. Massive and Mt. Elbert) and within easy walking distance of each. This allowed us to give our overburdened car a much needed rest.

The east slopes route up Massive is long, one of the longest standard routes up a single fourteener in Colorado. The almost 14-mile journey courses from Massive's south side to its east side via a long, serpentine path. We began this pertinacious trek at 5:30 on a brisk Saturday morning. The sky was troubled by a sheet of stratus clouds that severed into gray cumulus blocks as they coursed with the prevailing winds east over the Sawatch Range.

After hiking through the beautiful, silent forests of the Mt. Massive wilderness for several hours, we emerged from the trees after four-and-a-half miles of exhaustive climbing. The camel-humps of Massive's long summit ridge were visible at last. It was not too difficult for the discerning climber to decipher which of the astonishing nine summits on Massive's summit ridge was the main peak, but we overheard several nearby climbers, perhaps out of exhaustion and misplaced hope, point out the much-nearer South Massive (one of Massive's four "unofficial" 14,000 points) as the trajectory to their companions. There was no need to correct them; there was no mistaking Massive's highly traveled trail, and they would soon figure out the truth for themselves. The name Massive is particularly apt for this mountain, for it is massive. It is more a range or sub-range than a singular peak.

Views of Mt. Elbert on approach to Massive:

From here the trail turned west directly toward the summit, and it was tempting to think that the uphill-portion of our journey was almost complete. But as we hiked steadily upwards, it seemed as if the mountain was retreating just as fast. Rows after rows of ominous clouds were building and breaking over Massive's hulk, and we questioned whether the weather would hold. We cursed the relentless, unsettled weather that had plagued a large portion of our trip (the past week in particular), but persisted onward with the hope that a summit window would open up. It was, after all, only 8:30 am.

Views from Massive's eastern slopes north towards the Holy Cross Wilderness (Mt. of the Holy Cross visible in the distance):

As we hiked through the pristine high-alpine meadows, the clouds grew only darker and the wind more fierce. By the time we reached 13,000' both wind and cloud had become a constant threat. A long queue of climbers both preceded and succeeded our position, however, which encouraged us onward. We continued to 13,500'.

The summit ridge was tantalizingly close now, but the clouds were no longer breaking apart as they had been previously. A dark anvil now hung poised over Massive's summit. We faced a difficult decision.

Clouds building over Mt. Massive:

We had hiked nearly six miles but still had about an hour's push to the top. It was not a pleasant day and threatened to get worse. We could either stop now and all our hard work would be for naught, or we could push on and risk being caught above treeline in an unpleasant storm. The best we could hope for, even if we did make the top, was a windy, uncomfortable summit. After debating for several long minutes and watching the clouds worsen above us, we made the difficult choice to turn around.

The grim storm that turned us back:

The journey down was difficult. We passed numerous groups ill-clad and under-prepared still persevering towards the mountain. The realization that if these people were going to make it we surely could have put us in a somber mood. The long walk out became a walk of shame. We second-guessed our decision. We were massively disappointed.

It was the first time in my mountaineering career that I had turned around completely empty-handed. It surely will not be the last. It was difficult to hike down with the usual sense of accomplishment replaced by a sense of deep disappointment and failure. The moment we reached camp, however, the clouds opened up and rain and lightning began tumbling from the sky. Had we pushed to the summit we would surely have been caught in a deluge. But was this one of those moments in life when you are tested, body and soul, and have to choose between a tough road to success or an easy concession of failure? Or was this a moment where wisdom outpaced valor, and we wisely turned our backs to visceral pleasure?

The mood remained somber at camp for most of the afternoon. We sat by the creek and discussed the day and our decision. Ultimately, we decided that we weren't here in the high country to "bag" summits. We were here to gain experience and commune with the natural order. Summiting these mountains, in many ways, is simply a perk of a larger, more important experience. The people who persevered may have won bragging rights for bar-counter banter later that evening, but at what cost? A wet, cold, unenjoyable summit and risky exposure to the threat of lightning?

We will come back and demand a better experience on Massive.

Mt. Shavano: Angel of the Sawatch

2010-07-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

Mt. Shavano (14,229')

We're back now from our three-week Sawatch adventure. It is good to be home, though in many ways difficult to re-adapt to life in civilization. After being mostly in the backwoods for the last week, I can finally catch up on the blog posts. These descriptions, however, were mostly written in a journal while still in the wilderness.

The Angel of Shavano (7/8/10):

miles hiked: 9.0
elevation gained: 4,938 feet

Today was very likely the most awe-inspiring and dramatic day we have had this summer. After a cold, stormy day yesterday in which we were side-swiped by numerous, malicious thunderstorms, we went to bed thinking it was unlikely that we would be able to climb today. In the morning, however, the skies were mostly clear, and we gave our day the go-ahead, hoping to out-pace the usual development of afternoon weather. If they metastasized as they had yesterday (and they were supposed to by the weatherman's predictions), we wanted to be as far away from Shavano's high ridges as possible.

The first part of the climb was not much different than any other: a long approach through a beautiful forest with a bouquet of pine and other flora exacerbated by fresh-fallen rain. These early morning jaunts never get old and would be worthy hikes in their own right. Though we were troubled by the usual early-morning struggles (exhaustion, cold, stingy eyes, burn-out), by the time we reached treeline we had settled into our rhythm for the day.

Shavano's east-facing basin is a beautiful, lush place and home to one of the Sawatch's more colorful legends: the Angel of Shavano. The Angel myth stems from old Native American folklore in which a tribal princess, in a time of great drought, sacrificed herself in the hopes of appeasing the gods to provide much-needed moisture. The princess than reappeared each successive year on the slopes on Mt. Shavano in the shape of a woman with two arms outstretched towards the summit. Every spring she sacrifices herself, sending life-giving water to the valley below. Though her northern arm/wing was melted, the angel provided us company for the better part of our climb.

Just above treeline we had one of the more amazing experiences of our summer to this point: a close-encounter with a herd of bighorn sheep. The herd was on their way down the mountain as we were on our way up, and, as fate and the angel would have it, our paths crossed within fifty feet of each other. There were at least a half-dozen lambs in the heard, rendering the mothers cautious, but nonetheless they offered us a unique display of the majesty of nature's womb.

Part of the bighorn herd, cautiously crossing the trail:

one of my favorite pictures, the bighorn and the fog:

A short video clip of the bighorn (I apologize for the shaky quality):

The spectacle of the bighorn was enough to end any lingering morning stiffness, and we accomplished the rest of the climb in high spirits with our desire for a display of natural beauty thoroughly satiated. The angel, however, had a few more surprises underneath her halo.

At the top of Shavano's basin, we reached the 13,300' saddle between Shavano and her 13,630' companion peak "Esprit Point". This was a colorful, lush place with thick, high-alpine grasses and an armada of multi-colored, multi-shaped flowers. Shavano is not one of the craggy, rock-strewm peaks more resembling Frodo's Cracks of Doom. It (except for its highest reaches) is an ambrosial wonderland, teeming with life. The final scramble to Shavano's summit was tedious but not overly difficult.

Looking down to Shavano's grassy high slopes:

Shavano's final summit pitch:

We reached the summit around 9:30 am. High on top, it was a clear day, but a boiling, beautiful blanket of fog was raising up the mountain slopes from the valley below. Nature provided us with a dramatic show as the fog lifted with dramatic, convective action. We got an amazing, eye-level dissertation on cloud development and lingered in awe too long, perhaps, as the clouds turned quickly into towering thundercaps. Because of this rapidly building weather situation, our pattern of not completing our multi-summit traverses continued and progressing on to Tabeguache (pronounced tab-uh-wash) Peak, as per our original plan, was out of the question.

fog building to the northeast:

me on the summit with clouds/fog growing:

Ella on the summit:

On the descent we dropped down from the high ridge into slippery, tendrils of fog. I had the distinct impression that we were hiking through the mossy hills and mountains of Scotland. It was admittedly intimidating, however, as the playful clouds had developed into an ominous storm. We passed several groups still on their way to the summit and tried to offer them encouragement to reconsider. Most of them, despite clearly knowing better, decided to continue. We pondered their fate later as stout crashes of thunder pursued us down the mountain's final slopes. We, for one, were thankful to be below treeline, heading downward....

The two of us near the summit together:

Mt. Princeton: Prince of the Sawatch

2010-07-06T10:12:00.001-07:00

Mt. Princeton (14,197')

miles hiked: 13.4
elevation gained: 5,234 feet

So we're on the summit of Mt. Princeton and a Search and Rescue helicopter is circling the skies above us, looking for a fallen climber....

Our day climbing Mt. Princeton, Prince of the Sawatch, began with omens of dark portent. We spent the night huddled in our tent as oscillations of rain played our rain flap like a drum. Loud enough, even, to drown the pops and crashes of Buena Vista's Independence Day firework celebration. We lay hoping that the seams of our tent and the various, pre-departure treatments of Camp Dry would hold.

We set an early alarm, 4:30 am, since Princeton, with 6,000' of topographical prominence from Buena Vista, is one of the longest and most-strenuous climbs in all the Sawatch Range. Needless to say when we brought ourselves from the tent neither of us could boast a solid night's sleep. The air was crisp with chilly winds and the nearby mountains were frosted with a light coat of fresh, July snow. All the signs seemed to point towards a poor day for a climb. But the skies had cleared, and though we both struggled with the 4 am witching-hour blues, we had motivation enough to make our way to Princeton's popular trailhead even as the first rays of the morning sun crept above the eastern horizon.

Trailhead: Princeton's trailhead is a lowly 8,900', leaving almost 5,300 vertical feet for us to ascend. We'd hoped to abridge this grueling approach by driving up the Mt. Princeton Road (which serves as the first part of the trail) to a set of radio towers located at 10,800'. Gerry Roach's guidebook, Colorado's Fourteeners (the bible of Colorado fourteenering), offered this sage advice on this trailhead/approach: "There is a large parking lot at the bottom of the Mt. Princeton Road at 8,900'. If you value your vehicle, park here; this is the trailhead". We'd harbored a sincere hope that this advice was perhaps a bit outdated and overzealous, but once we reached this parking lot we discovered a large amount of cars and trucks, many with higher clearance than our humble Subaru, already parked, so we brought our car to a halt alongside them, tightened our bootstraps, and began the long, long, ascent. (We would later discover that most of these cars were not parked here by climbers but by attendees of a nearby dude ranch).

The beginning of the Mt. Princeton Rd. and our trailhead:

The bummer of this base-assault technique on Princeton is that the approach becomes a 4.5 mile slog up a moderately busy 4WD road. Road approaches on mountains have never been my favorite. Four-wheelers, dirt bikes, and Jeeps kicking up choking clouds of dust makes for a mood-killing morning.

As we hiked up this relentless road we were passed by many climbers (cheaters) blasting with their trucks and SUVs up the side of the mountain. I came to look upon these people with contempt, claiming to myself that we were here to climb the mountain, not drive up it. It is more likely, however, that I was merely envious of the several miles of tough hiking that they were spared.

The road-approach to Princeton:

At 11,800' "Tigger Peak" (a 13,300' companion peak of Princeton's) loomed above us, and the route steered away from the long road at last. No more cars, trucks, or "cheaters". Only a switchback or two later, mighty Princeton appeared on the horizon. It was clear from this first vantage that Princeton truly is a monarch and a powerful peak.

Not much farther, at 12,300', the rest of the route opened before us. Though it did not look far, it was a deceptively long, arduous climb to the top.

Mt. Princeton in view at last:

The last mile and a half required careful, tedious route-finding through large boulders and loose talus. Concentration was mandatory with each step to avoid a slip. Above 13,000' the route became very steep and the boot-worn trail was analogous to a precipitous slip-and-slide of gravel ball-bearings. I often found myself frequently employing all four limbs for greater purchase.

Starting to feel the benefits of having climbed nine mountains already this summer, however, we caught and eventually surpassed most of the climbers that had driven past us earlier that morning.

Princeton's long talus ridge to the summit:

Four and a half grueling hours after leaving the car behind at the trailhead, we were on Princeton's dramatic summit sharing congratulations with other climbers. One climber loudly claimed Princeton as his "21st fourteener". He added to this voluminous boasting his opinion that "all the mountains looked the same". The Prince was my 14th fourteener, and I couldn't disagree more. I found myself resenting his brand of high-alpine cynicism. Each mountain to me is as unique as the climbers who climb them. He refused to smile when we took his summit photo for him.

View to the northwest from the top (Mt. Harvard on the right in the distance, Mt. Yale in the center):

So back to the Search and Rescue helicopter...

Word reached the summit, passed along the climbing chain, that somebody had fallen on the mountain. Almost as soon as we heard this disturbing news, a bright-orange Search and Rescue helicopter appeared and proceeded to circle the mountain for most of the remaining day. We could see the entire difficult portion of the climb from the top, and nobody appeared to be injured or in distress of any sort. As we descended we ascertained from other climbers still on their way to the top that a woman was claiming that her daughter had fallen. With understandable panic (had this actually been the case) she had summoned Search and Rescue to the mountain she thought she was climbing: Mt. Princeton. Unfortunately for everyone involved, she had made a major miscalculation and had actually been climbing "Tigger Peak" (Princeton's aforementioned companion mountain).

The Rescue chopper dizzily circling overhead:

By the time we reached the bottom we had learned the full story: in the process of ascending the wrong peak, mother and daughter had somehow become separated. Panicked, the mother had summoned Search and Rescue. Nobody had ever fallen. Nobody had ever been hurt.

My conclusion from this strange event was that many people climb 14ers who do not take these mountains seriously enough. First of all, nobody should climb a 14er if they haven't done enough research to avoid ending up on the wrong mountain. Proper studying of topo maps and the numerous available guidebooks would have made such a miscalculation almost impossible. Secondly, Search and Rescue should not have been summoned unless there had been, without a doubt, an accident. Ambulances, Sheriffs, a helicopter, and a Chaffee County Search and Rescue team a half-dozen members strong spent the better part of a day searching for a climber who was never in trouble in the first place. These hard-working folk might have had an actual emergency to attend to. This false rescue was a clear waste of resources. Though I was glad, of course, that nobody was injured, I was secretly satisfied with the knowledge that the mother-who-cried-wolf was likely stuck with a $10,000 bill for her mistake.

Mt. Yale: Friends in High Places

2010-07-06T10:11:00.000-07:00

Mt. Yale (14,196')

miles hiked: 9.0
elevation gained: 4,300 feet

Mt. Yale offered a different kind of experience for us as we were not alone on the climb but were joined by a small group of friends. We decided on an early rise: 4:30 am. This, we figured, provided ample time to head-start the crowds of Fourth of July weekend. When we arose, however, we were greeted by a smother of gray clouds and several waves of cold rain that forced us to retreat to our tents and re-think our plans. We reset our alarm clocks to 6:00 for a second evaluation.

Rising for the second time, it turned out, was mysteriously more difficult for most of the members of our group, but a pale-blue blanket hovered above us: not a cotton-ball or mare's tail in sight. This troubled collision of good and bad weather proved to be a lingering theme for the day.

Once on the trail we all settled into our own paces, and I found myself, after only a switchback or two, alone with my thoughts. This separation persisted all the way to Yale's summit where we were eventually reunited.

The hike up Yale is long, but not as long as some of the others in the Sawatch Range. It is relatively short, in fact, when compared to Missouri or Harvard. After several miles of mostly moderate elevation gain, the trail steepened and emerged from the trees. Yale's southern ramparts came into view at last. As is true of most Sawatch climbs, the view was spectacular.

some views on the approach to Mt. Yale:

As I climbed the last switchbacks through the scree to the saddle of Yale's west ridge, it was apparent that solitude was not going to be a part of the day. A trail crew twenty members strong was hard at work reinforcing the switchbacks to battle the erosion caused by too many boots. A dotted line of climbers also graced the slopes both above and below me.

looking down the route from above:

The wind was swelling and had a winter-flavored bite that I had not anticipated. I grudgingly conceded that I was under-dressed for the occasion. By the time I reached the summit ridge at 13,800', my hands and face were feeling the first tingles of numbness.

the view north from 13,800':

The final scramble to Yale's summit was, similarly to Harvard's, surprisingly tricky. A miscalculation in route -inding found me staring down a short but intimidating class V cliff. Upon backtracking, however, an inconspicuous but easier class II route opened up through the boulders on the ridge's west side. Such miscalculations, I observed, were common on Yale's summit ridge, and I found myself coaching others who made the same mistake as me to the right path.

Yale's summit ridge:

After finall attaining the summit, I sat under-dressed but still somehow enjoying the troubled weather of the morning. Dark masses of clouds built with remarkable speed overhead and soared east towards Buena Vista. The swelling clouds hung low, almost close enough, it seemed, that an outstretched hand might be able to scrape their bottoms. Mt. Harvard to the north and the Three Apostles to the northwest hid their heads in the clouds, giving them a rugged, malevolent appearance.

The Three Apostles shrouded by clouds:

Mt. Harvard, Mt. Columbia, and the Horn Fork Basin:

Half an hour after arriving, I decided that I could wait no longer for the rest of the group to catch up, so I began my descent. As I should have anticipated, I encountered the others at the bottom of the summit ridge and was goaded into climbing back to the top for group photos. Though the wind was reaching a crescendo (recalling without quite rivaling our horrible day on Mt. Lincoln) the late arrivals were not keen to leave the summit quickly, so I spent another half an hour on top under-dressed and over-cold.

Once everyone had had their fill of wind and scenery, we began the long descent back to the trailhead.

Some of the friends:
Thanks to everyone who joined us for this climb: Kayleigh, Michelle, Eva, Trent, and Bridget. What a day in Colorado's high country!

Mt. Harvard: (Back) Into the Wild

2010-06-30T17:22:00.000-07:00

Mt. Harvard (14,420')

miles hiked: 14.0
elevation gained: 5,341 feet

Pizza, beer, and showers are a nice luxury, but nothing beats the calm sigh of the wilderness: the gasp of wind in the pines, the rustle of snowmelt trickling through boulders, the conversations of birds. This is what we are up here for. This is the wild.

The Horn Fork Basin, nestled in the heart of the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, is one of Colorado's special places. Though prone to crowds, the Horn Fork is still a beautiful, rugged cirque festooned with crystalline streams, high-alpine lakes, and, of course, dramatic peaks. Mt. Yale, Mt. Columbia, and Mt. Harvard protect this amazing place like tall, gray sentinels. They watch over everything with dignity and power.

Mt. Harvard is the third tallest point in Colorado behind only Mt. Massive and Mt. Elbert. But it is also a bashful mountain not visible from roads or towns. Mt. Harvard's prize is reserved only for us that bother to hike into one of the dramatic basins that line its base.

We began our planned three-day backpack on Tuesday. The goal was to hike into the Horn Fork Basin and set-up a base camp the first day, climb Harvard and move basecamp to Kroenke Lake on Wednesday, and climb Mt. Yale on Thursday. Although we struggled with heavy packs on the difficult approach, we executed the first portion of our plan and established a gorgeous basecamp at 11,300'. It was easily one of the most beautiful camps we've seen yet.

The next morning we began our hike toward Harvard. The incessant trail wound its way past treeline, through the scree around Bear Lake, and onto the south slopes of massive Mt. Harvard. It was a clear, flawless morning, and the breathtaking views of the surrounding cirque was sufficent distraction from the exhausting climb.

Moonset over an unnamed thirteener in the Horn Fork Basin:

Rock formations on Harvard and Columbia's connecting ridge:

As the slopes of Harvard steepened, beautiful views of the Horn Fork Basin opened below us. The familiar shapes of other Sawatch fourteeners rose in their usual posts: nearby Yale and its sister Princeton, sharp Antero, and the distant blue outlines of Shavano and Tabeguache. It is difficult sometimes while struggling to climb in the thin air to take a moment to appreciate the drama of a Colorado skyline, but this is why we live here. And this is why we climb here.

Ella reflecting on Bear Lake with Mt. Yale in the background:

unnamed lake at the base of Mt. Harvard (Mt. Columbia in background):

Capping Mt. Harvard was a surprising summit block of angular granite slabs. The guidebook rates this mountain as class II, the same as Belford, Huron, La Plata, Elbert, etc. There might be a class II line through the boulders here, but we didn't find it. The last fifty feet were hand-and-foot scrambling that required care and technique. I could see this surprising crux catching many-a-casual climber unaware. Quite a distinction from the soft, easy trail leading to Belford's summit.

Ella picking her way through the crux:

the same photo with arrow to show Ella's position:

Me on the summit block:

the obligatory summit photos:

the view from the summit back towards the Horn Fork Basin:

Back at the tent we napped as a light rainstorm rolled by. We intended to relocate our basecamp from the Horn Fork Basin to Kroenke Lake, a move that would require over a thousand feet of elevation loss to where the two trails intersected and a thousand feet of gain back to Kroenke Lake. We realized now, with protesting weather and protesting quadriceps, that this may have been over-ambitious. We made the prudent decision instead to retreat and treat ourselves to a night in a cheap hotel (with wi-fi, hence the blogpost): the first night in a bed for over a week. Though because of this decision we may have to forfeit another summit, we agreed we could use the respite to prepare for the second half of our Sawatch adventure.

Many mountains still to come...

Mt. Belford: Simply a Beauty

2010-06-28T17:57:00.000-07:00

Mt. Belford (14,197')

miles hiked: 7.68
elevation gained: 4,537 feet

Beautiful Mt. Belford is a perfectly simple climb: a series of switchbacks through the trees, a series of switchbacks up its northwest ridge. There is a soft, solid trail all the way from the bottom to the top, and an excellent summit block of jagged rock. The views are excellent, and the day was perfect.

After a day in Buena Vista (our first breath of civilization for five days) that was more frustrating than refreshing because of the crowds of people, we decided to backpack into Missouri Gulch and set-up a high camp just below treeline at 11,300'. Contrary to the day before when there was a virtual city burgeoning in the wilderness, this well-worn high camp was almost empty. We shared the beautiful expanse with only two other tents. This seemed odd to us, since it was a saturday night. We had worried before setting out that we might even have trouble finding a spot.

Though the steep approach was difficult with fifty pounds of gear on our backs, we were the first on the trail in the morning and had the mountain seemingly to ourselves all the way to the summit.

A beautiful view of La Plata on the climb up Mt. Belford:

On top we were having one of the best days yet of our summer, and the mile and a half traverse to Oxford looked strenuous. We decided that, instead of being peak baggers, we wanted to cherish our wonderful experience on Belford and not push ourselves to the point of exhaustion simply to bag another summit. Besides, Oxford is a peak worthy of its own experience, and we decided that a return trip, perhaps with a backpack into the Pine Creek Basin on Oxford's opposite side, would be the best way to do the mountain justice.

Ella on her way towards Belford's excellent summit block:

View to the southwest of Mt. Emerald, Iowa Peak, and Elkhead Pass:

Me and Ella on the summit:

So Oxford joins Lincoln and Bross on the "Mountains Left Behind" list, but it gives us just another excuse to return for more climbing. We retreated to Buena Vista for a few days respite in the local KOA. Showers and a washing machine! Our climb up Belford was yesterday, and today we had a great soak in the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs and discovered a wonderful new brewpub on South Main near Buena Vista's whitewater park. Great pizza, and great beer, and a dramatic change from campstove pasta and oatmeal. Tomorrow, if the weather holds, we are back into the woods for a three day backpack into the Horn Fork Basin to attack Mt. Harvard and Mt. Yale.

Missouri Mountain: A Sawatch Range Anomaly

2010-06-27T19:18:00.001-07:00

Missouri Mountain (14,067')

Miles hiked: 10.8
Elevation gained: 4,824 feet

5:00 comes early. Rising like Lazarus from the dead of sleep to a cold, high-alpine morning is tough to get used to, no matter how often we do it.

Missouri Mountain is a Sawatch Range anomaly. In a range dominated by mountains that, though undeniably massive, amount to little more than gently sloped mounds of grassy fields and scree, Missouri Mountain is a rugged crag and a surprisingly challenging climb. It is even challenging to determine which of the many points on Missouri's jagged ridge is the actual summit.

The Missouri Gulch trailhead, our launching pad, was very close to our basecamp, so after a quick breakfast we arrived just after 5:30 am. We strapped on our boots, yawned a good half-million times, and set out up the beautiful trail towards Missouri Gulch.

The trail starts off right away climbing steeply up a series of switchbacks through a lush growth of trees. After only a few switchbacks, we were passed by a man running up the trail! People of all sorts, unimpressive and impressive, climb fourteeners.

An hour into the climb we came upon a tent city and a rather large group of people who were camped just below treeline. This gave us the idea that when we returned to the basin to climb Belford/Oxford in two more days we could backpack to here to lessen the length and elevation of that notoriously long climb.

The next portion of the route took us through a long, broad meadow at the top of Missouri Gulch. Missouri Mountain appeared on the horizon and seemed to rise tectonically as we crested the hill on approach. We tiptoed back and forth across Missouri Gulch Creek as the jagged bastions of Missouri's north face grew before us.

Missouri's impressive north face:

Looking back on the Missouri Gulch Basin:

Ella (faint in center) in beautiful Missouri Gulch:

At 12,700' the we turned west and faced the most challenging portion of the ascent to Missouri's summit: a tough scramble up loose scree with exposure.

A view of the route up to the ridge on Missouri as seen from Mt. Belford:

same view with the route drawn in:

After some difficult and treacherous loose rock, we reached Missouri's northwest ridge. The half-mile traverse to the summit was airy and exciting with two sections of knife-edge tight roping across snowdrifts, and one downclimb that required both hands and feet. Great focus was required for each movement, which helped distract us from the intense exhaustion of a long day.

looking back on the easier portion of Missouri's ridge traverse:

When we reached Missouri's summit, I was coming down with a mild case of altitude sickness (dizziness, disorientation), so we did not linger very long. The views from this incredible perch, however, were astounding.

The Three Apostles to the southwest:

Looking across at Huron Peak:

The hike out was long, exhausting, and bone jarring. Ominous towers of clouds were building on the western horizon, and we had one peculiar encounter with yet another member of the I-shouldn't-climb-mountains crowd: a woman dressed only in tiny biking shorts and a sports bra. She was carrying no water, had no protection from inclement weather, and had such a deep sunburn her skin bore a striking resemblance to the skin of a tomato. We considered offering her sunscreen but decided that enjoying a second-degree sunburn, and an exacerbated chance at skin cancer, was her prerogative. I suppose she didn't understand how much less ozone there is protecting you from UV above 13,000'.

hiking out through the Missouri Gulch basin:

Mt. Huron: Return to the Sawatch Range

2010-06-26T09:55:00.000-07:00

Mt. Huron (14,003')

miles hiked: 10.0
elevation gained: 3,815 feet

For the first climb of our second trip, we climbed beautiful Huron Peak. We were eager to return to the Sawatch Range where the mountains are taller and, in general, more remote than those of the Tenmile-Mosquito Range. At just over 14,000 feet, Huron, has a reputation as the easiest Sawatch fourteener to climb, so it was as logical a place as any to start. We soon discovered, however, that even an "easy" Sawatch fourteener is a long, committing, thigh-busting day. Despite this, Huron was a beautiful mountain and a thoroughly enjoyable climb.

At 5:00 am the alarm pulled me from strange, troubled dreams, and we tightened our layers of clothing to block out the chill of a 10,000' morning. We took down a bagel and made the relatively short drive to Winfield, an old mining camp where the trailhead lie. It was a pristine morning to begin the second portion of our summer: the sun graced the upper slopes of the mountains and the crystalline water of the South Fork of Clear Creek tumbled by with a crowd's whisper.

Ella at the beginning of our Sawatch expedition:

It took fifty minutes of hiking to reach the actual trailhead from where we parked our car to the spot where the relentless 4WD road ended. The trail began with a relentless set of switchbacks through the high alpine trees, gaining over 1,500 feet. Near the top, we reached a ridge that boasted huge vistas of the valley from which we'd come. Breathtaking sights of the Three Apostles, three of the Sawatch's more dramatic peaks (but not fourteeners), opened before us.

At 12,000' we reached the basin at the foot of Mt. Huron, and the summit was visible at last, though still towering above us. The basin was a short, flat expanse with babbling streams and armies of brilliant, multi-colored flowers. We watched marmots chase each other with remarkable dexterity through the steep scree at the basins top end.

Ella climbing towards the basin at Huron's base:

Though the basin floor provided a much-needed respite, it did not last, and the most challenging section of the hike loomed before us. The last 2,000 vertical feet consisted of a dramatic set of gravelled switchbacks. Though the trail was well-defined, the climb was relentless. Slowly, however, the basin floor sunk beneath us, and we reached the upper defenses of Mt. Huron's Northwest face.

Looking down on the basin at the base of Huron's northwest face:

Beautiful views of La Plata to the north:

view up towards Huron's summit:

A little before 10:00 am we made it (finally) to the summit. We were rewarded with calm, azure skies and perhaps the best views yet from any summit. The Three Apostles dominated the view to the south. To the west we could see the basin from which we'd come and distant views of the familiar Elk Range skyline. To the north we could see our old friend, La Plata Peak, the first fourteener we climbed. To the east were much of the Collegiate Peaks: Missouri, Belford, Oxford, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton.

Ella making the last few feet to the summit:

Breathtaking view of the Three Apostles to the south from Huron's summit:

West Apostle:

Ella on Huron's beautiful summit with the Apostle's in the background:

Smiling on the summit:

Me on the summit:

On the descent we could relax and enjoy the scenery, but by the end the exhaustion overtook us. We passed several beautiful campsites and were disturbed to find them polluted with reckless garbage: beer cans, soda bottles, and other refuse. It was unfathomable to me to imagine coming to a place as pristine and breathtaking as this and casting into it your ugly, disgusting garbage. What sort of person would do such thing? Sadly, quite a few of such people exist. A disappointment like this tempts me to misanthropy, but I must, instead, try to maintain compassion.

Mt. Sherman: Gettin' Back on the Horse

2010-06-18T18:51:00.000-07:00

Mt. Sherman

summit elevation: 14,036 feet
hike length: 5.66 miles
elevation gained: 2,415 feet

The best thing after a fall, they say, is to get back up on that damn horse. After our “fall” yesterday on the Decalibron (and in lieu of forecasts calling for more high wind) we had essentially decided last night to sleep in this morning and call it a week. Just before it was time to turn in for the night, however, the itch to climb returned despite our exhaustion. In a stroke of inspiration, we re-packed our summit bags and set the alarm for the usual 4:00 am. Climbing mountains, after all, not sleeping in, was what we were here for.

When we awoke this morning, the air in Frisco was dead calm. This considerable improvement from the day before was omen enough to convince us to resist the temptation of a lazy morning and proceed Mt. Sherman's trailhead.

After driving up over Hoosier Pass for the second straight day, we made the turn onto the long dirt road up Fourmile Creek towards Sherman's lofty base. The drive was surprisingly smooth, and we were able to get Ella’s Subaru to nearly 12,000’. Though I’m not normally a fan of high trailheads (I prefer to climb mountains, not drive up them), we were at the frayed end of our proverbial ropes both physically and mentally after yesterday’s tribulations, and I was more than happy to abridge our day climbing Sherman. The dark side to the morning, however, was apparent from the moment we stepped out of the car and were greeted by eerily similar morning winds to the day before (let the second-guessing begin).

early morning ice forming on the edges of small pond:

The first mile and a half of the climb coursed along old mining roads to a beautiful basin at 13,000’. Though I usually find the scars of Colorado's former mining industry repulsive, here the derelict remains of a 19th century mining operation oddly added to the beauty instead of distracting from it. These hardened miners, we decided, were truly the first Colorado mountaineers. They pioneered the way into these awesome places in more ways than one: literally by constructing the roads we present-day climbers use to access them, and yet also by filling in the blank corners of the map that these mountains once guarded with recalcitrance.

remnants from Colorado's pioneers:

The next part of the climb entailed a steep snow ascent to the saddle between Mt. Sherman and its 13,748’ neighbor Mt. Sheridan. The short climb was steep and icy, so we took a moment to strap crampons back on our feet. With these stainless-steel teeth to provide traction, the icy ascent was not a problem.

more mining detritus (the snow climb to the Sherman/Sheridan saddle visible in background):

Once on the ridge, we had reached 13,120’, and the unfortunate truth of the climb was immediately evident: we were in for another gusty summit attempt. Down in the bowl on the south side of the mountain, we had been sheltered from the worst of the wind's force. Exposed now on Sherman’s west ridge, we could tell that it was only slightly less intense than the day before.

From the saddle, the 900-foot climb to the Sherman’s summit was revealed before us. The climb looked strenuous but passed fairly quickly. At about 13,700’ there was one exposed section where we had to navigate around short gendarmes of rock with icy, hardpack snow jammed into the crevices between them. This short section gives Sherman its class II rating and proved quite intimidating. To the north were impressive views of the southern Mosquito Range and a thousand+ foot drop (at a steep fifty-degree angle) into the Iowa Basin. One tiny slip could easily lead to a vicious tumble. Though not as severe as the day before, the wind added considerable excitement to this section. Excitement that, still gun-shy from yesterday’s thrills, I wasn’t quite prepared for mentally. As a result, I fell into a let’s-get-up-this-and-back-down-as-soon-as-possible climbing mentality.

looking back on the crux section of Sherman's route (note the steep drop-off to the right):

Luckily, Sherman’s long, rotund summit appeared just after this spooky section, and we reached the summit cairn with the morning still young. Much like yesterday, I didn’t feel much into standing on the summit, and we spent just enough time on top to snap off a few pictures before beginning our descent back down.

the view to the north from the summit:

Ella on the summit of Mt. Sherman:

As usual, the descent went much faster and passed with minimal excitement. We did, however, note a disturbing trend: a general un-preparedness of the majority of the climbers we encountered on their way to the summit. We saw everything from a family with kids easily under 12 years old donning sneakers, blue jeans and possessing no water, to an entire group of fifteen or more, each as ill-equipped as the last. Though Sherman (like most of the Tenmile-Mosquito Range mountains) has the reputation of being an “easy” fourteener, any mountain this high demands to be taken seriously. It is “casual” climbers such as these that get into trouble and give mountaineering its “extreme” reputation. Surely, with a dry trail on a hot day in July, Sherman is a Mecca for climbers of this sort, but the conditions today (with the ice and high wind) made this ascent challenging and potentially dangerous. I couldn't fathom exposing a young child to these conditions without even the protection of basic mountaineering accoutrements.

looking down on the valley from near 14,000' on Mt. Sherman:

At the end of the day we were glad that we’d decided to climb, and (with defiance to the accursed wind) had had yet another amazing mountain experience. Each mountain has a unique personality, and climbing a variety of them is far more enlightening than climbing a single favorite over and over.

Ella after descending off Mt. Sherman's windy west ridge:

And so ended the first trip of our “summer of fourteeners”. Though we made only four out of six of the summits we’d planned (and oh-so-close to the other two), the trip was a spectacular success. We can only hope that we have as many great experiences ahead of us as we already have behind.

P.S. Our second trip (to the Sawatch Range alongside the towns of Granite, Buena Vista, and Salida) begins on Tuesday. Thanks to everyone who has been following along. We hope that you have enjoyed our pictures and our tales thus far.

P.P.S. The rest of our summer will all be camping based, so I will not be able to post on this blog as often as I have been able to up to this point.

The Decalibron: How to Climb in a Hurricane

2010-06-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

Mt. Democrat/ Mt. Cameron/ Mt. Lincoln/ Mt. Bross

Mt. Democrat: 14,148 feet
Mt. Cameron: 14,238 feet
Mt. Lincoln: 14,286 feet
Mt. Bross: 14,172 feet

miles hiked: 6.8
elevation gained: 3,444 feet

The Decalibron [De(mocrat)ca(meron)li(ncoln)bro(ss)n], as Gerry Roach's classic guidebook Colorado's Fourteeners calls it, is the only reasonable route on any of Colorado's fourteeners where you can climb four mountains in one day. Several of our friends and family members, when viewing our itinerary, commented that it seemed "over-ambitious" to attempt four 14ers at once. The truth is that, on a normal day, this loop is probably an easier hike than many single mountains in the Sawatch Range.

Today, however, was not a normal day.

We reached the trailhead at Kite Lake at 5:45 in the morning, anticipating a long, arduous climb and hoping to get an early start so we could finish before the weather turned sour in the afternoon. It was a cold, windy morning, and we hit the trail just before six, winding our way along the icy trail toward the saddle between Mt. Democrat and Mt. Cameron.

The view back toward Kite Lake from the first part of the trail:

After just under a mile and half of twisting and turning our way through scree and ice, we arrived at the 13,380' saddle and were rewarded with a dramatic view of the Tenmile/Mosquito Range to the north. We could clearly see Mt. Quandary and other rugged, impressive summits.

The view from the 13,380' Democrat/Cameron saddle (Quandary is the big peak on the right):

and to the northwest:

It was windy but manageable, and after a short break we turned west up the ridge towards the summit of Mt. Democrat. Here the climbing became much steeper and more interesting. To the north the mountain dropped precipitously, and with the heavy wind we adopted a technique of spreading out our ski poles and crouching low during the more intense wind gusts and marching upward during the short lulls between. The trail was steep and icy, and we decided to put on our crampons for better traction. Slowly but steadily, we made our way to the summit of Mt. Democrat.

Ella struggling her way to the Democrat summit:

At the summit the wind changed from being a nuisance to being a little frightening. Neither of us dared to stand for any length of time, and we had to be careful when rummaging through our bags not to let any of our gear catch the wind and take flight off the mountain. Because of the intense wind, we considered hiking down after Democrat and returning tomorrow to complete the loop. After a short debate, however, we decided that we had come too far to stop now. This was a decision that we would come to regret.

me on the summit of Mt. Democrat:

Ella on Democrat:

While descending back to the saddle we encountered two new friends we had made climbing Quandary two days earlier. It's a small world above 14,000 feet! Crampons made the icy descent far easier, and we were feeling good when we reached to the 13,380' saddle. The wind seemed to be dying off, and the decision to continue the climb seemed reasonable. We had a quick snack and began ascending Cameron's west ridge.

looking down Democrat's ridge:

Unfortunately for us, the break in the wind was only temporary and gusts gradually intensified as we ascended. Our technique of dropping to all fours for stability when confronted by the stronger gusts became a ritual we now relied on. The power of the wind was enough to nearly knock us over, and the exposure to the north was becoming more and more intimidating. The possibility of being blown off the mountain seemed very real. But our progress towards Cameron's summit was slow and steady, and we still felt confident in our ability to complete the four-mountain day.
Our pleasant day, however, took a sour turn on Cameron's summit. The powerful gusts had now turned into a constant blast, strong enough that neither of us felt comfortable standing for more than a few moments. We could see Lincoln's summit not far to the northeast, but the prospect of climbing in gale-strength wind was unpleasant. We decided once again, however, that we had come too far to turn back. We tightened our jackets and started towards the final climb.

Ella with a wide stance on Cameron's summit to keep from blowing away:
me trying to find something to smile about on Cameron's summit:

me looking melancholy with the last ridge to Lincoln visible in the background:

It was on the last ridge to Lincoln that we encountered the strongest wind of the day. I read when we got down from the mountain later that a person will have trouble standing in wind blowing around 70 mph. This was surely the case for us, and we spent more of our time crawling than walking. I had experienced wind in the 40 mph range but never anything like this.

At an ant's pace, we struggled up to Lincoln's false summit. The most intense wind now had become constant. Gone were the days of dropping to all fours to wait out the more powerful wind gusts. Later that afternoon, I discovered after plotting my GPS data for today that we had had less than a tenth of a mile in distance and forty vertical feet to climb when we decided to turn around. The thought of being on that summit in hurricane-force winds was enough to deter us from making the final ridgline. It was sad to be so close, but without a doubt the right decision to turn back.

The day had gone from being fun to frustrating to downright horrific. This was easily one of the most-bizarre and scariest moments I have had while mountaineering. I hope never to have another day like it.

Mt. Lincoln's summit (we made it to the false summit on the left):

Now we were faced with a tough decision: how to get off the mountain. We could either return the way we had come back up and over Mt. Cameron and down its tedious west ridge, or climb the shorter route up Mt. Bross and descend directly back to Kite Lake. Both options seemed bleak, but we decided eventually on the latter. Although we would have to climb back (once again) over 14,000 feet, it was a shorter hike. We were ready to be back at the car. We traversed along the west face of Mt. Bross without even considering doing the twenty-minute sidetrip to its summit. Checking off summits was beyond the point now, we simply wanted to get off the mountain with souls and bodies intact. The sound of the wind roaring up the basin was deafening, like standing behind a 747 as it kicked into gear for liftoff. Sometimes you could hear the bigger gusts ripping toward you a moment or two before you felt them, giving you just enough time to drop to your hands and knees for balance.

The horrible wind was nearly constant as we did the agonizingly long traverse along Bross. After an excruciating hour and a half of traversing, we finally turned down the gulch on Bross's southwest face. It seemed at this point that the nightmare would never end.

Mt. Bross:
Eventually, we made it to our car at Kite Lake. I couldn't remember having been so thankful to get inside a vehicle. We could laugh at the crazy experience we had just had now that it was over. It was easily the most strenuous, most difficult, and most frightening day of mountaineering that I have ever experienced. I hope to never have to face such wind on a mountain again. In retrospect, not all was lost. We learned a valuable lesson about ourselves and about mountaineering.

The forecast for tomorrow is more of the same, so it is likely that Ella and I's first trip of the summer could be coming to a conclusion three summits short of our goal. I don't feel, however, as bad about this as I could. We have had a great time already, and there is plenty more to come. The reality of mountain climbing is that you never conquer a mountain, as some people like to claim, but that the mountain is simply kind enough to let you pass. We can only hope for better luck for the remainder of the summer.

Quandary Peak: No Such Thing as an Easy 14er

2010-06-15T13:35:00.001-07:00

Quandary Peak (14,265')

length: 6.7 miles
elevation gained: 3,256 feet

After two days of relentless clouds, rain, and snow, we were surprised to wake Tuesday morning to perfect, crystal-blue skies and zero wind. After a bagel and some tea, we drove the half-hour to the Quandary Peak trailhead on the north side of Hoosier Pass. We were the third car to arrive, and two other groups were preparing in the early-morning light as we strapped on our shoes and tightened up our jackets for the long day.

Ella excited for the first climb of the season:

For the first two miles we leap-frogged with the other two groups and spent some time getting to know them during short rests. It was a chill--though beautiful--morning. The rising sun cast pearls of light on the slopes of nearby mountains, all of which were covered in fresh accumulation from the past two days. We found ourselves de-layering as the day grew warmer and our bodies generated heat.

Here I am after shedding my jacket, still trying to wake up and keep the rising sun out of my eyes (Quandary is in the background and still quite far off in the distance):

At 12,000' we climbed past even the hardiest, high-altitude trees and began trudging through the snow, which was the standard for the rest of the climb. We climbed our way up the tortuous switchbacks that led to Quandary's east ridge. Ella and I both remarked how great we felt and how easy Quandary was.

The view up Monte Cristo Basin off Quandary's south side from around 12,500':

At 13,000' the trail level out and offered a brief reprieve from the otherwise relentless climb, but the main challenge loomed before us: the last 1,200 feet which ascended steeply through un-tracked snow. We overtook our new friends for the last time and began hiking up the final, daunting pitch.

Here I am at 13,000' with the last pitch behind me:

Somewhere around 13,500' the thin air began to take effect. I fell into my standard, super-steep climbing pattern of counting out forty steps on one foot, taking a short break, and counting out forty more. It was brutal terrain, and Ella and I (now out front) were breaking trail. This forty-step routine helps me to break the mountain into edible-sized pieces and gives my mind something to focus on other than how difficult climbing at this altitude is. It seems best not to think about how much climbing you still have to accomplish. Focusing on just forty-steps (well, eighty if you count both feet) keeps me from getting overwhelmed by what is still ahead. Slowly, steadily, we progressed towards the summit.

I couldn't help, at this point, but remember how not long before I'd dared to call Quandary the easiest 14er I'd ever climbed. It now seemed funny that I had allowed myself such a thought since I hadn't really climbed it yet. Quandary has a reputation as being on of the easiest 14ers, and perhaps I too-easily bought into that notion. Though, ultimately, it may be true, it dawned on me as I struggled up this last thousand feet that there is no such thing as an easy 14er (driving up Evans or Pikes discluded).

From somewhere along the relentless final pitch:

Finally, we reached 14,000' and decided to sit and take a longer break. The summit was tantalizingly close yet frustratingly far. We ate a granola bar and gave our legs a rest before starting up the final summit push.

Me on the final push to the summit:

The final push was easily the hardest climbing of the day. The snow was deep and hadn't been touched for days. It was a fight to get a full breath at this altitude. I found it difficult to even make my forty steps. Twenty-five was all I could manage before keeling over my ski poles and gasping for air. With a few more climbs, I hope, this will improve. Though it was only 1/4 of a mile and 250 vertical feet, the climbing was slow going. Finally, after three and a half hours of climbing, we made the summit.

Ella making the final heave to the summit:

As usual from the summit of a great mountain, the views were simply amazing. We could spot some familiar peaks. Lincoln, Cameron, Democrat, and Bross were visible to our immediate south (we'll be comin' for ya soon!), Pikes Peak could be seen off to the southeast, the Maroon Bells, Pyramid, Capitol, Snowmass, and even Mt. Sopris could be seen far off to the west. We could also see much of the northern portion of the Sawatch range. It was still a cloudless blue day, and there was no wind. Neither of us could remember the last time we were on a summit with no wind.

This was the view to west from the summit (note the small but distinct shape of the Maroon Bells in the distance in the center):

And here was the view to the north:

There were very few exposed rocks on the summit, and therefore no place really to sit. So we stayed for a few moments, snapped off the obligatory summit-victory photos, and began our descent:

The descent was, of course, much faster and easier than the ascent, and we passed numerous groups still on their way up. It was a particular source of pride to me that we were the first on the summit today. Not that climbing a mountain is a race, but I was encouraged that we had climbed so solidly on our first mountain of the season. Many groups were eager to ask us how much farther they had to go. In the cases of the parties still quite far down the mountain, we had to gently break to them the bad news. Several groups thanked us for breaking trail or "kicking steps" for them.

At the end of the day we were tired but not exhausted and headed to Breckenridge for a sandwich. We were pleased with the perfect day and glad to check the first of many fourteeners off our list.

Rain Delay

2010-06-14T10:09:00.000-07:00

After weeks of hot, dry weather, a cold/rainy front moved in (as per Murphy's famous law) on our first weekend. Our plan was to begin climbing today but a mid-June snowstorm kept us off the trail today. According to all the weather projections, tomorrow is supposed to be considerably better, so we are re-arranging our plan to begin tomorrow. We haven't yet decided if that means we'll have to forego one of our rest days or return home a day later in order to fit in the six mountains we planned to climb this week. Hopefully we will see more of that beautiful weather that has been the norm the past month.

Tomorrow is the Day!

2010-06-08T14:33:00.001-07:00

(note: the date of this blog post is when I started working on the draft, not when it was published. The publishing date was Saturday June 12, 2010) The day has arrived at last. The time for our "Summer of Fourteeners" to begin is here. The past month of training, exploring, and waiting for the snow to melt has been incredible. I only hope that it will be dwarfed by the adventures ahead.

Here are the totals from the last month of training/hiking:

(since May 17th)

miles hiked: 88.17

elevation gained: 30,791 feet

miles jogged: 21.47

miles biked: 61.57

The second two weeks of our training month was just as, if not more, exciting than the first two weeks. Here are some of the highlights:

We started Week 3 with a trip up to the Maroon Bells. Though I've seen the Bells from the tops of nearby mountains like Castle Peak, Mt. Sopris, and others, I had never actually been to Maroon Lake. It is incredible that after thirteen years living in the Roaring Fork Valley, I've missed out on this wonder. On our visit, the majestic Bells did not disappoint.

We got an early start from Glenwood so we could beat the 8:30 gate closure on Maroon Creek rd. This way we could avoid having to pay to take the bus. It was a beautiful morning despite a few threatening rainclouds to the west. We misjudged, however, the amount of time the drive would take in the morning rush hour and passed through the gate at 8:15, just a few minutes before the closure. Phew! We arrived at Maroon Lake to find eye-blue skies and a panorama view that, although I had never seen it in person, was already familiar. Surely this is one of the classic photographs of Colorado:

It was a little too windy (and the lake, therefore, too choppy) to get the famous mirrored-reflection of the Bells in the water that you see on phone books, King Soopers cards, and tourist guidebooks.

We began our hike in good spirits, planning to make the two-and-a-half mile journey past Maroon Lake to Crater Lake with good time. From there we intended to hike a few miles past Crater Lake toward Maroon Pass to get a little beyond the well-beaten path.

These pictures show the Bells and the Sleeping Sexton emerging over the last ridge before we dropped into Crater Lake:

When we arrived at Crater Lake, the weather was still holding, but the sky was dampening under a gloss of thin clouds. We set the camera on a stump with a ten-second delay and took this picture of the two of us:

The melt was at its peak and Crater Lake was overflowing its banks, swamping the trail in several locations, so the journey to the far-side took some time.This picture looks back on Crater Lake:

Not far past Crater Lake we quickly encountered some snow and the remains of a relatively fresh avalanche. We were right at the very foot of the Bells now, and we could see the ski tracks of a few few hardy souls that had skied the so-called Bell Chord Colouir between the two massive peaks.

Some ugly clouds had moved in, and we reached a section of (arrg!) post-holing, so we decided to call the day short. Though we didn't make it as far as we intended, it was an excellent day in one of Colorado's most beautiful places. This last picture looks up at Pyramid Peak and Thunder Pyramid as the rain/snow began to overtake us:

We knew it was going to be difficult to top the Maroon Bells, but we had quite a few more hikes we wanted to accomplish before D-Day, so we kept plugging away. The next hike we undertook was Lookout Mountain east of Glenwood Springs via "Suicide Ridge". This ultra-steep climb gains over 2,000 feet in about a mile and a half and was a good test piece for those steep fourteener ridges we would be climbing soon. Suicide Ridge, as opposed to the far more mellow Boy Scout Trail, is the most difficult way to climb this mountain. Needless to say it was a struggle. I guess a trail doesn't get the moniker "Suicide Ridge" for no good reason. From the top we were rewarded with a hawk's view of Glenwood:

The following day we climbed to the bridge past the three-mile marker on Glenwood-area standard No Name Creek. This mini-waterfall has always been one of my favorite sights in No Name Canyon:

On Sunday, one week before D-Day, we ventured back into the high country to take on Cathedral Lake, a gorgeous trail that I had hiked once about six years earlier.

Cathedral Lake trail starts in the upper reaches of the Castle Creek Valley near the ghost town of Ashcroft and famed restaurant, the Pine Creek Cookhouse (excellent, high-high end food, by the way). The upper Castle Creek Valley is home to some amazing sights. This photo looks south up the valley from the trail not far from the trailhead:

Cathedral Lake trail is considerably steeper than Crater Lake trail and gains about 2,000 feet in just two and a half miles. It is beautiful, and while we sweated our way upward, we were rewarded with breathtaking sights of the high peaks of the area including Malamute and an unnamed thirteener just to its north:

After cresting a steep section of switchbacks, we were almost at 12,000 feet. I knew we were very close to the lake at this point. The trail, however, disappeared suddenly under three feet of snow. It was slow, frustrating progress, and we alternated every few steps between being able to float on top and sinking thigh deep. We followed as best we could a trail laid out by some snowshoers ahead of us and tried to keep in high spirits. We were admittedly unprepared for post-holing through three-feet of snow:

After cussing and struggling for the better part of half an hour, thinking all along that we had to be getting close, we suddenly encountered the very snowshoers that we had been following, returning the other way and asking us where the lake was. Turns out, they were not the best group to follow, and we had overshot the lake by about half a mile. We turned to the south and saw the lake below us, mostly frozen and glacier-blue in color. We could tell from here that if we wanted to get to the lake, an ugly amount of frustrating post-holing was in our future. We gave it an honest effort but soon gave up.

This photo shows Cathedral Lake below us. The teal, glacial blue color just doesn't quite show up in the photo:

Having had a pretty substantial workout, and seen yet another amazing Colorado high country basin, we turned around and hiked out in good spirits. We would have liked to have made it to the lake, but that journey will have to wait for another time. We decided to view the day as a good learning experience and good practice for the snow that we will undoubtedly encounter this summer. This last photo looks up at Cathedral Peak (13,943') on the hike out:

Our next adventure was one of my off-the-beaten-path ideas and a place where I thought we could get some experience with difficult, un-roped scrambling and climbing (a necessary evil in mountaineering). It was a small mountain just north of New Castle and a place that Ella and I had climbed before (but never summitted). We gave the mini-mountain a shot and made it about 5/6ths of the way to the top. The climbing was loose, exposed class IV with an occasional 5.0-5.4 section. Here is an overview of the peak and the route we attempted:

I was shaky and nervous and did not climb as well as I had on our previous attempt at this route. Ella did much better than me, and I made her turn around at the base of the last forty-foot class ~5.2 pitch before the summit. I guess I didn't have my fifth-class free solo (climbing term for un-roped) hat on that day.

Here is Ella at the base of the first wall, about to tackle a lengthy, exposed 5.0-5.2 section (I cheated and instead climbed a fourth-class crack not far to the right):

On Wednesday we climbed the strenuous Storm King trail. Storm King is an interesting, introspective hike through the burned remains of the 1994 South Canyon Fire that took the lives of 14 wildland firefighters. The hike follows the route the firefighters took on that fateful day to the grave/memorial site. This was a tragedy beyond measure and visiting the site where it took place is always a little bit emotional. The hike itself is steep and exposed to the sun, as there are very few trees left to provide shade. The thermometer touched the mid-eighties as we hiked. Surely, we lost a pound or two in sweat alone.

The last training hike of the summer I undertook alone (Ella was at orientation for her upcoming enrollment in Colorado Mountain College's nursing program). I decided to tackle a 10.7 mile loop in the Flattops called the Devil's Causeway trail. Devil's Causeway is a steep climb to a dramatic escarpment in which passage takes you over a three-foot wide cliff with drops of several hundred feet on each side. I got an early start from New Castle and arrived at the trailhead at about nine o'clock in the morning. It was a clear day but unsettled weather was moving in. A strong breeze ripped across Stillwater Reservoir. I had this entire basin to myself for most of the day, which was both exhilarating and oddly intimidating. This first photo shows Flat Top Mountain as viewed from Stillwater Lake near the trailhead:

At 12,354 feet, Flat Top Mountain is the tallest point in the Flat Top Wilderness area.

The snow grew steadily deeper as I hiked around the lake and towards a steep bowl that is the only practical route onto Devil's Causeway from this trailhead. It wasn't long before I was forced to strap on may gaiters to wade through knee-deep snow. The cliffs on the south side of the Causeway towered above me, and beautiful spines of water trickled down them. I could tell from the amount of snow still remaining on top that my ten-mile loop was probably over-ambitious. I instead re-set my goal to reach just the Causeway itself.

After over an hour of struggling through snow, I finally reached the bottom of the steep bowl. From close range it was steeper and more foreboding than it had appeared from a distance. A wide cornice at the top blocked any easy passage and the only way around it was up the steepest part of the slope. I could see, however, that people had been skiing down my route, but the tracks were old and faded, and it was clear that nobody had been this way for quite some time. After a lengthy ponder, I decided that to try the ascent alone on such a windy day was not the best decision. Despite being equipped with crampons, an ice-axe, and gaiters, I reluctantly decided to turn back.

I stopped for a snack at a flat spot on the trail overlooking Little Causeway Lake and had the distinct impression that the entire basin was on display only for me. There was not a sign or sound of any human activity. The only noises, in fact, were the warbling of birds and the squishy gurgle of the melting snowpack. It was truly magical moment.

At the end of the hike I knew that my training was officially over. For the past three months (the last month especially) I have been working hard to prepare for our long awaited summer of mountaineering. The time has come at last for the real adventure to begin.

Two Weeks to Go!

2010-05-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone! We are now halfway through our month of training and have only two weeks left to go. Although the official "Summer of Fourteeners" hasn't even begun, we have already discovered some amazing places and had some unbelievable experiences. Here are the numbers behind the last two weeks of training:

miles hiked: 57.50
elevation gained: 18,926 feet
miles jogged: 12.57
miles biked: 34.89
push-ups: 175
squats: 250
curls: 300
calf-raises: 370

Exactly two weeks from today we will be departing on the first of our four major trips for the summer. I can only hope that the next two weeks are as fun and enjoyable as the last two and that they are only a tiny taste of what's to come in the many climbs and hikes we will be doing later on.

Some highlights from the last two weeks:

Among the first places we explored was the area just north of New Castle off the Colorow Trail. We found a massive cliff set/sandstone formation that is very difficult to see from anywhere besides this remote vantage. These amazing cliffs are so remote and hidden, in fact, that even after living less than five miles away for ten years, I had no idea even of their existence until doing this hike.

A few days later, on a hike in a similar location, we were approached by a desperate faun whose mother was mysteriously absent. It was clear that this poor baby deer was on the brink of starvation, but, sadly, there was little we could do to help. It tried to follow us for a while but soon gave up. Not far away we found a kill site with several half-masticated deer corpses and tried not to guess that one of them could have been this baby's mother. This was a sad reminder of the brutal nature of nature.

To begin week two, I explored Main Elk Canyon, northwest of New Castle. Main Elk is a relatively short, beautiful hike into a narrow defile that is lush with ferns and a canopy of green pines and aspens. The following picture is taken near the canyon's mouth looking upstream:

The day after hiking up Main Elk I explored nearby Hadley Gulch, which is an off-shoot of Main Elk. The trail here is very steep and a good test for my leg muscles in preparation of much harder climbs ahead. As it winds tortuously to the top, the trail offers impressive views of the nearby canyons as well as dramatic formations in the top layer of limestone. Sport climbers covet the area for some very good climbs as well as for the "Fortress of Solitude", a formation that boasts several 5.12-5.14 climbs. I have heard the Fortress described as the "future of sport climbing in America".
Some sights along Hadley Gulch trail:

This past Wednesday Ella and I hiked up Williams Peak just west of the Sunlight Ski Area and looped down Babbish Gulch, which divides Williams Peak and Sunlight. This beautiful hike offered views of the Fourmile area and the Elk Range to our southeast. Williams Peak's summit is just over 10,000 feet and spring had not yet greened the aspens in the area. In the following picture, taken from the summit of Williams Peak, you can see the southern flank of Mt. Sopris (12,953') on the left, Capitol Peak (14,130') in the center, and Snowmass Mountain (14,092') just to the right of Capitol. I admit that with just over two weeks until our first fourteener, it was disturbing to see so much snow still on these tall mountains.

The view to the west/northwest from the summit of Williams Peak:

The view back at Williams Peak from the ridge at the head of Babbish Gulch:

Yesterday we decided to return to the same region. This time, however, we set-up a car shuttle and started at Marion Gulch outside of Carbondale and crossed over into Babbish Gulch where our other car was waiting. The backcountry between Marion Gulch and Babbish Gulch was only lightly trodden, and we found some amazing sights including teal-blue springs, green meadows, and towering vistas of Mt. Sopris and the other Elk mountains.
This teal-colored pool was even bluer before Keebler and Mia (dogs, not humans, for those of you that don't know them) jumped in for a swim:

Mark and Ella hiking through just one of several beautiful, green meadows between Babbish Gulch and Marion Gulch:

A striking view of Mt. Sopris, Capitol Peak, and Snowmass Mountain:

And finally, to close off the first two weeks of training/hiking, I hiked to the top of Grizzly Creek in Glenwood Canyon today. This has been a favorite hike of mine for over a decade. It is a beautiful eight-mile roundtrip to the top, and today was a perfect, azure-sky day. Unfortunately, since it was Memorial Day weekend and nearby favorite Hanging Lake trail was closed, there were many other hikers.

That's it for now. What a great couple of weeks of hiking. I hope everyone is having a great summer. Only two weeks and counting until the real adventure begins! Happy trails!

Summer is Finally Here!!!

2010-05-15T19:26:00.000-07:00

Well, ladies and gentlemen, the summer has finally arrived. This past week I completed the last of my finals at college, survived the extensive debauchery of graduation weekend, and began to prepare for our long-awaited "Summer of Fourteeners". In one month (June 14) we will climb the first of the twenty-seven fourteeners that we plan to ascend this summer. With the beginning looming, the time has come to notch up my training program, so I am going to embark on an ambitious agenda that will include running, biking, weight-training, and a long series of very difficult day-hikes around the Roaring Fork Valley. Our upcoming adventure has been long planned and much anticipated, and I can't even begin to articulate my excitement now that the time has finally come. The high country and the backcountry have meant so much to me all my life, and this summer represents the most ambitious and extensive outdoor adventure that I have thus far participated in. I am excited that to share our experiences with everyone here on this blog.

Best wishes to all and I hope everyone has a very happy summer!

Summer of Fourteeners 2010

2010-04-18T17:08:00.000-07:00

This summer we are going to spend a good deal of our time in Colorado's backcountry seeking the state's highest points. For us it is a chance to do something to refresh our lives from the stagnation of the daily grind that everyone seems to know all too well. In this blog our goal is to keep our friends and family informed of our progress as we travel around the state and share photos and stories from these unbelieveable places for anyone who is interested.

Friends and family that are interested in joining us: we are more than happy to have company! Please contact us and view our tentative list of dates and mountains and let us know which you are intersted in hiking with us.

Trip #1

Quandry Peak (June 14) (mon)

Mt. Lincoln (June 16) (wed)

Mt. Cameron (June 16) (wed)

Mt. Democrat(June 16) (wed)

Mt. Bross (June 16) (wed)

Mt. Sherman (June 18) (fri)

Trip # 2

Mt. Huron (June 23) (wed)

Missouri Mountain (June 25) (fri)

Mt. Belford (June 27) (sun)

Mt. Oxford (June 27) (sun)

Mt. Harvard (June 30) (wed) **3-day Backpack trip (6/29-7/1)**

Mt. Yale (July 1) (thur) **3-day Backpack trip (6/29-7/1)**

Mt. Princeton (July 3) (sat)

Mt. Antero (July 5) (mon)

Mt. Shavano (July 7) (wed)

Mt. Tabeguache (July 7) (wed)

North Massive (July 10) (sat)

Mt. Massive (July 10) (sat)

Mt. Elbert (July 12) (mon)

Trip #3

Holy Cross (July 20) (tue) **2-day backpack trip (7/19-7/20)**

Grays Peaks (July 22) (thur)

Torreys Peak (July 22) (thur)

Mt. Bierstadt (July 24) (sat)

Mt. Evans (July 24) (sat)

Pikes Peak (July 27) (tue)

Longs Peak (July 30) (fri)

Trip #4

Snowmass Mountain (Aug 9) (mon) **8-day backpacking trip (Aug 8-15)**