Longs Peak and the Diamond
Sometimes the universe seems to conspire against you. My best efforts to have meaningful (or any) progress climbing this spring and summer have been consistently shat upon by the cosmos. After six months of setbacks, I was hardly surprised when my wife/climbing partner hurt her wrist a week before our planned road trip. Accepting that my climbing agenda had been set adrift on the cosmic tides, I simply threw my hands up and decided that I was along for the ride. No Sierra granite for us. Time to find a Plan B.
Having taken a fatalistic approach to this chunk of time off, I looked for signs. Diane was keen to get into the backcountry, but I am loathe to carry a pack without the carrot of climbing something. Humping loads from point A to point B to point C is personally unappealing. Could we find common ground? I asked the universe.
I got an answer when my brother, an overworked second-year medical resident at the University of Colorado had a day off and invited us to Denver. The second sign from the gods came via email. Andy Wellman, a friend and owner of Greener Grass Publishing, shared that he is working on a guidebook to Colorado’s fourteeners (peaks above 14,000 feet of elevation). Suddenly our trip was coming together: we would hike on the Front Range with my brother, then rather than simply backpacking, we planned to set up shop in the San Juans with Andy. We’d join him in his research and act as hiking models for his forthcoming book. With our newly conceived itinerary, we unwittingly entered a unique niche of the climbing world: that of the intrepid peak bagger.
The state of Colorado has between 50 and 60 peaks (depending on one’s qualifications) above 14,000 feet. This arbitrary distinction of stature exists only in our antiquated English system of measurement (folks on the metric system have the bar set higher, with mountains above 6,000m [20,000ft] meriting respect); it nonetheless creates a quest to stand atop these peaks. Reaching the summits by the path of least resistance requires no technical climbing, yet they can be very exposed, very loose, and, at times, very crowded.
Trail to Navajo Lake
On any given day during the summer months there are an average of 25 cars at every trailhead in Colorado that leads to the summit of a 14,000-foot peak. License plates on said vehicles tell the tale of modern westward movement: Oklahoma, Nebraska, Kansas, and, of course, Texas. Having jumped into the fourteener game on the Front Range (on a weekend, no less) we were shocked by the number of folks trudging up Longs Peak—admittedly one of the most popular. We arrived at the trailhead at 7am to find the parking lot FULL. Higher up, we overheard that most suitors began their hike—er I mean climb—at 3am, some as early as 1:30am.
Although distinctly lacking in climbing, the fourteener game has plenty of hazards: the top three being weather, loose rock, and humans. As with all threats in the mountains, the aforementioned dangers can work in unison to create misfortune. Afternoon thunderstorms are the rule rather than the exception. It is wise to start as early as necessary to be up and off before noon. With our “late” start we encountered surprisingly few people until we reached the upper part of the mountain, where the other dangers came into play. Above the “keyhole,” an interesting broken arch in the ridge, the trail becomes exposed and has sections of third class. Every 10 feet of the upper section of the keyhole route has a name. They all ran together to me, but apparently being gripped—as many of our fellow hiker were—makes things more memorable and thus nameworthy: the narrows, the ledges, the trough, the home stretch, and, finally, the summit.
Despite seeing thousands of ascents a year, and a fresh coat of paint to the red and yellow bullseyes marking the way, Longs Peak is still a tall, chossy mountain. The sheer number of people up there made me uncomfortable. Although we did see some fit, competent hikers/runners, most were extremely fatigued and seemed uncomfortable with the exposure and the terrain. The human threat worked in conjunction with the loose-rock factor, as these weary souls were unable to ascend or descend without sending massive amounts of rocks down. We hiked off-route simply to stay out of the line of fire. Keeping an eye on the building clouds, I wondered how quickly I could get around these people should we hear a crack and a boom.
Initially indignant about the quantity of people sketching, I eventually softened when a fellow hiker commented that it was great that this many people were up there. He went so far as to hypothesize that a correlation existed between hiking 14ers and Colorado having the lowest obesity rate in the union. Made sense to me. Once the Diamond was out of view, I stopped festering about being unable to climb and enjoyed “just” walking in the alpine environment. The thin air, the views, and the simple pleasure of moving all day reminded me why I started climbing in the first place. In short, I had fun.
After Longs Peak (and a few too many Gubnas), we bid farewell to my brother and to the Front Range. Our next stop was Rifle, where we met Andy and kitted up for our next adventure in the decidedly less-crowded San Juans. A 4.5-mile rainy hike through meadows teeming with wildflowers led us to our “base camp” at Navajo Lake. The setting could not have been better. Situated in a basin at 11,000 feet, we were surrounded on three sides by 13,000-foot ridges. Above loomed the objects of our 14k peak-bagging desires: Wilson Peak, Mt. Wilson, and El Diente.
Summit shot from Mt. Wilson
The next three days passed pleasantly with (relatively) early starts, exposed ridge traverses, frigid swims in the lake, and good food (and wine) in camp. I even took some pleasure in the “fun” of dodging daily storms and the incessant rocks sent down by helmeted hikers. Pulling a fifth-class move with 400 feet of air below me (to avoid people), I found myself wondering about other peaks in Colorado. As the desire to further explore the San Juans grew in me, it all made sense. I understood why these mountains, piles of choss from a climbing perspective—at least when held up to the Sierra Granite standard—were such a magnet for people. I got why Andy had largely stopped rock climbing this summer and was spending his time in the backcountry researching this book. Moving all day (or at least all morning) in the mountains was a great break from hanging around dusty crags. In the quest to climbing harder, I had lost sight of something that peak baggers got: the simple pleasure of getting on top of a beautiful peak. Standing on the small summit of Mt. Wilson as clouds streamed past, I smiled, knowing that this was where I needed to be.
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Tags: fourteeners, mountain climbing, peak bagging
There are few places as close to heaven as Colorado’s mountains.
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