A Solo Winter Fourteener Climb

Yesterday I attempted my first solo winter fourteener climb. My goal was the summit of Mt. Yale (14,196 feet) via the East Ridge. I chose this route for several reasons: A) the trailhead is accessible in the winter, 2) the round-trip distance of 10.5 miles can be covered in one day, and D) the route is generally avalanche safe.

Route overview

I set my alarm for 2:15 AM and was out the door by 3:00. I was at the trailhead by 5:45 but decided to wait for first light before setting out. I ate breakfast (three chocolate cupcakes and orange juice) in my truck, took off my slippers, laced up my mountaineering boots, and started hiking at 6:45.

The objective in the distance

I followed the Colorado Trail (which I solo thru-hiked for its entire ~500 mile length in the summer of 2009) for three miles due north up Avalanche Gulch to a saddle at 11,900 feet. Snowshoe traffic since the last storm (way too long ago) meant I could keep my snowshoes (I hate them) on my pack and simply boot up the packed trail, saving me time and energy.

From the saddle I got my first glimpse of the East Ridge. It looked long, exposed, wind scoured on the north side, and loaded/corniced on the south side. I began the two mile climb up the ridge.  The wind was blowing hard so I ducked behind a large rock and added an extra layer of insulation plus my balaclava, goggles, and hood. The ridge would be a cakewalk in the summer months, but snow and ice forced me to slow down and focus on my footwork.

On the East Ridge with Point 13,420 in the background

After maybe 90 minutes of climbing I reached a prominent rock formation at 13,400 feet. The wind speed had really picked up and I was forced to stop every dozen or so steps to turn my back to the wind, brace myself with my legs and ski poles, and wait out the latest gust. I had another 800 vertical feet to go; given the conditions it would take me over an hour to reach the summit, plus another hour to get back to treeline. That was too long to spend in such high wind, risking frostbite or a fall on a solo climb, so I turned around. The siren song of the summit is hard to resist, but in situations like this I remind myself of a quote - "The mountains will always be there, the trick is to make sure you are too" (Hervey Voge). I heard you can see 30 fourteeners from the summit, so I will be back!

Ranger, not looking pleased

To my disbelief, the gusts were even stronger on my descent. I was forced to turn my back to the wind and brace myself for ten seconds, then take advantage of a few seconds of "calm" to descend a few steps only to be forced to hunker down again. I can say without exaggeration that I was knocked off my feet no less than a dozen times. Eventually I made it back to treeline, where I took a much deserved break.

Happy to be back to the safety of treeline but a bit disappointed that I didn't make the summit, I decided to take a "long-cut" on the descent for a change of scenery and a chance to test out my new Northern Lites Elite snowshoes. I descended the drainage west of the drainage I took earlier in the day for about 1,000 vertical feet. The snow was untracked which made for a beautiful but extremely tiring journey - even with snowshoes I was postholing through knee-deep snow. While waiting for my dog to catch up (I thought it was hard to move through knee deep snow but realized it's much harder for a knee-high dog) I marveled at how quiet the woods are in winter.

I was glad to have made the detour but I was ready to get back to my truck, so I angled to the southeast and eventually intersected the packed trail from earlier in the day. Travel was now twice as fast and five times as easy! I made it back to my truck at 3:45, just as the sun was setting behind the mountains to my west. Nine hours, nine miles, and 4,100 vertical feet - equivalent to climbing from the ground level to the 86th floor observation deck of the Empire State Building four times!

On my drive home I saw a sign indicating that Route 285 was closed for inclement weather. Weird, I thought - it wasn't snowing and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Two CDOT employees were manning the closure and I inquired as to the reason why. It turns out that wind speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour were measured at Kenosha Pass (9,997 feet). As I detoured onto 24-W towards Colorado Springs it dawned on me that I must have experienced wind speeds over 100 miles per hour as I was 3,400 vertical feet higher and well above treeline. That translates to a strong Category 2 or even a Category 3 hurricane, which made me feel better about my decision to turn around! [edit: wind speeds were probably more like 60-70 mph - equivalent to a strong tropical storm.]

Yale from the southeast ("Mascot Peak" on left and Point 13,420 on right)

Skiing Arapaho Lakes

It snowed hard in Denver Wednesday night into Thursday with more than 12 inches in my yard. Plans were hatched to ditch work on Friday and ski powder.

Today, Scott E., Scott J., and I toured from the East Portal to the Arapaho Lakes in the James Peak Wilderness. On the drive to the trailhead we all expressed hope that the terrain we were to ski picked up much needed snowfall from the recent storm, but upon arrival we realized the storm favored areas further east of the Continental Divide and dropped maybe six inches of fresh on the zone. Nevertheless, it was a bluebird day, hand-numbingly cold when we left the truck but warm once the sun climbed above the mountains.

We spent maybe two hours leisurely following the existing skin track, meandering through the trees, heading up and generally to the north and west, until we found ourselves above treeline and staring at the Continental Divide. We found a spot both in the sun and sheltered from the wind and sat down for a break. I enjoyed a Thermos of hot tea before peeling my skins, buckling my boots, and stepping back into my bindings.

The view from the turnaround (it didn't suck)

We descended a few short pitches of wind-affected snow before skiing across a frozen lake and reaching the denser trees that we had passed through earlier in the day. Here, the snow conditions improved significantly, as these trees protected the snow from two powerful change agents - wind and solar radiation. The result was fluffy, knee-deep snow all the way back to the skin track at the bottom of the valley!

To me, there's not much better than spending time in the backcountry/with friends/skiing powder/followed by drinking beers/on a "workday." I'd guess we covered six to eight miles and 2,000 feet of vert roundtrip.

That being said, we've had less than stellar snowfall totals so far this season. Last year's strong La Niña conditions (cooler than average sea surface temperatures in the Eastern Pacific) resulted in record-breaking snowfall totals across the state (Vail received 524 inches last season). It truly was an epic season. I, for one, am praying to Ullr (the Norse God of Snow) for an equally epic season for 2011/12, and I urge you to do the same!

Ullr, the Norse God of Snow

Packrafting in October

October is a weird transition month for me. For some reason (waiting for the snow to fly perhaps?) I don't get outside much in October. Right now the mountains are cold and snowy, but not snowy enough to ski . In years past I've spent time in the Utah desert but not this year. Instead, I decided on a late season packrafting trip on the Upper Colorado River.

The original plan was to drive to the river, lock my bike at the take-out, drive to the put-in, float 14 river miles back to my bike, bike 14 miles back to my truck, drink a beer, and drive home. Sometime during the drive I decided to switch things up and leave my truck at the take-out and bike to the put-in. I'm very glad I did.

I parked my truck at Rancho del Rio, a funky little riverside "resort" that caters to boaters. The "resort" consists of some rental cabins, a gear rental shop, a tiny liquor store (which conveniently sells single beers), and a campground. It also hosts an awesome music festival every summer, complete with a floating stage (this video shows what it was like when I went in 2010).

I loaded my boat, paddle, PFD, warm clothes, and rain gear into my pack and hopped on my bike. I very quickly realized that the ride was going to be much more difficult than I had planned. The road was unpaved and featured what seemed (to me) like Tour de France worthy hill climbs. I was on the last major uphill, spinning in my lowest gear and breathing heavily, when a passenger in a passing car stuck his hand out the window and raised his fist in recognition of my struggle. This provided just the spark I needed to power up the remainder of the climb (thanks man). I was riding to the put-in, which by definition is higher elevation than the take-out (rivers flow downhill!), but there were several long, gradual descents and a few short, steep ones. The short steep ones were particularly frightening because the loose rocks on the unpaved road impacted my ability to maintain a straight line while at the same time severely reducing my braking power (imagine riding a bike down a dirt road covered in ball bearings). I consider myself lucky to have made it to the put-in without crashing!

I locked my bike at the Pumphouse put-in, inflated my boat (a red Alpacka Yukon Yak) and geared up. It was sunny and unseasonably warm but it was late October and one must dress for the water, not for the weather. I wore river shorts, rain pants, neoprene socks and trail runners, plus a short sleeve shirt, puffy vest, rain jacket and wool ski hat on top. My gear worked well - on past packrafting trips I wore a long sleeve shirt, but water tended to drip off my paddle blades and under my rain jacket cuffs so the sleeves got wet quickly and remained wet for the whole day. This time I managed to stay mostly dry, although on the few occasions when I lifted my arms over my head cold water ran from my rain jacket sleeves down my torso which was unpleasant. The one thing I would do differently next time is bring gloves - I was in the shade in Little Gore Canyon and when my hands got wet they got really cold, but most of the run was in the sun so it wasn't much of a problem.

I saw a few fishermen along the bank during the first mile or two, but after that I had the river entirely to myself (aside from the bald eagle that followed me down the river corridor). This was very different from the last time I ran this stretch (on a Saturday in August), when the river was full of drunk tubers (not that there's anything wrong with that!), private boats and commercial rafting operations.

Most of the run is class II, with some class I flatwater stretches and two class III rapids - Eye of the Needle Rapid in Little Gore Canyon (go left or right, just don't hit the rock!) and Yarmony Rapid in Red Gorge. The river was running about 1,000 cfs so neither rapid posed much of a problem.

The last stretch of flat water was excruciatingly slow. A late afternoon upstream wind intensified (why does this always seem to happen - does the anabatic wind dynamic also apply to the gradient of a river?) which meant I needed to paddle or else get blown back upstream. Packraft hull speeds are frustratingly slow, so I paddled hard to make modest downstream progress. I finally reached the take-out, threw my boat in the back of my truck, cranked the heat, and enjoyed a can of New Belgium Ranger IPA.

Reflecting on this trip, I can honestly say that this was one of the best Mondays I can remember. Granted, I used to spend almost every Monday in a cubicle but the combination of a challenging bike ride, a relaxing float on a river I had all to myself, fall colors along the banks of the river, snow on the peaks, a delicious beer, and a spectacular red sunset over the Gore Range combined for one special day.

I've been hesitant to bring my camera on river trips (I ruined my previous camera when it got wet in a freak hailstorm while climbing two Fourteeners a few summers ago) so I don't have any pictures to share, but Annie thought my post-trip attire was ridiculous enough to photograph it. I don't see anything wrong with short shorts, slippers, a fleece, and a wool hat with pigtails. Do you?

Wind River Range Traverse

I had a blast traversing the Weminuche Wilderness and proved to myself that I was able to sustain a 25 mile per day pace for several days through rugged mountains, but what about off-trail travel?

I have traveled off-trail in the past. When I worked in Montana, the Climber's Guide to Glacier National Park was my Bible, and I faithfully bagged peaks and followed Edwards' "Routes Among the Peaks," off-trail mountaineering routes that were either useful shortcuts or beautiful destinations themselves. And I suppose all of my backcountry skiing can be considered off-trail, as can my summer 14er and 13er climbs. But these trips were typically day trips, and for some reason all of my high mileage, multi-day summer trips (to date) have been on-trail experiences. I wanted to further my skills, and when I got my hands on a copy of Beyond Trails in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming I feverishly started planning an aggressive itinerary through the mountains I'd wanted to visit for several years. For anyone familiar with the Climber's Guide, Beyond Trails is 400 pages of "Routes Among the Peaks," with more detailed descriptions than "turn left at the large gray rock with the white blotch that resembled a backwards capital 'F' in 1960."

My route had me entering at Big Sandy Opening in the south and exiting at Green River Lakes Trailhead in the north. I was planning to walk about 80 miles, with about half of my time spent off-trail. Originally, I planned to leave Ranger at home but circumstances dictated that he join me on this adventure. I initially planned on parking my truck at Green River Lakes TH and hitch-hiking down to Big Sandy but a dog makes for a harder hitch, so I arranged for a shuttle with The Great Outdoor Shop in Pinedale. Afterwards, I realized how remote the trailheads in the Winds really are, and how infrequently traveled, and was glad to have paid for the shuttle.

On day one, I followed the trail to Jackass Pass, the gateway to the Cirque of the Towers. The Cirque is an incredible place - an alpine climber's Disney Land. Sheer vertical granite walls and blocky towers surround you on all sides and Lonesome Lake sits in the middle of it all. There are hundreds of routes on peaks named Warbonnet, Shark's Nose, Wolf's Head and Pingora. The Cirque has graced the pages of the Patagonia catalog more than once, and for good reason.

Cirque of the Towers

But this was not a climbing trip, so I left the trail and headed north towards "Texas Pass," an off-trail pass that would lead me to the Shadow Lake drainage and the backside of the Cirque of the Towers, where I would camp that evening.

The descent from Texas Pass was STEEP and rocky and irritated Ranger's paws (and my knees). At this point I realized I had a decision to make. I was still 70 miles (per my original itinerary) from where my truck would be parked in a few days. It occurred to me that parts of my original route would be impossible for Ranger to pass - he's a smart dog, but he hasn't learned how to use an ice ax yet. I could either turn around now and be back at my truck the next day (the shuttle wouldn't take place for a few more days) or continue on towards Green River Lakes TH knowing that if Ranger couldn't make it, I'd have a problem on my hands. I didn't want to bail so I decided to adjust my route - I would cut out two unnecessary crossings of the Continental Divide and two cols that likely required climbing and descending steep snow fields.

On day two, Ranger seemed back to normal. I strapped on his booties and hoped he would make it to the truck parked some 50 miles to the north. I avoided the Raid-Bonneville Col and instead traveled the Fremont Trail. I camped that night on the south shore of Dream Lake. There, I found a small sand beach and watched the sun set towards Pinedale.

The view from my tarp at Dream Lake

Sunset at Dream Lake

The following morning I set out for Hat Pass and Beyond. I found myself wearing my rain jacket most of the afternoon but the weather cleared just before I made my ascent and subsequent descent into Bald Mountain Basin. The sunshine lightened my mood (I was feeling the effects of hiking in sustained rain for hours on end) but the downside was quickly obvious - I was swarmed with mosquitoes within seconds of dropping my pack to set up camp. I thought the mosquitoes were bad the first night but this was something else. I put on my rain jacket and rain pants and did my best to ignore the buzzing cloud that enveloped me wherever I went. Eventually I had enough and retired to the safety of my bivy for an early bedtime.

The view from Spider Lake

Day four was the highlight of the trip for me. I woke up early and circumambulated Spider Lake and its many arms before packing up and descending to Cook Lakes. I followed the trail along the eastern shore of the upper lake. Officially the trail ends here, but I followed a well-traveled climber's trail north to Wall Lake, where I had this beautiful lake entirely to myself. I took advantage of the sunshine to dry my feet and socks and took in the view of the lake from high above (the terrain forces you up a sheer granite "wall" along the eastern shore, so from my perch I was probably 50 feet above the water). Eventually I shouldered my pack and continued my off-trail adventure, climbing up and over a saddle towards Island Lake, where I found probably a half dozen parties camped in close proximity. I skirted the western shore of Island Lake although twice my route didn't "go" and I was forced to re-route. Eventually I found an unofficial trail that led to Fremont Crossing and a footbridge that allowed me to safely cross the swollen creek. I spent the night at Lower Jean Lake, above treeline in the howling wind, happy to be in such an awesome place.

Taking it all in at Wall Lake

The next morning I climbed Shannon Pass then lunched at Peak Lake before crossing Cube Rock Pass, which unexpectedly turned out to be the crux of the route. Cube Rock Pass is accurately named - the trail disappears and one must navigate through massive, angular granite rocks. I was frequently forced to take off my pack and raise it or lower it separately, and many times Ranger was unable to get up or down on his own, so I had to lift him or lower him. Progress slowed tremendously and I cursed Cube Rock Pass more than once.

Lunch at Peak Lake

Cube Rack Pass behind me, I made good time over Vista Pass and through Trail Creek Park and Three Forks Park down the Green River drainage, where I camped along the banks of the Green River under the shadow of Squaretop Mountain. I had a small campfire in an unsuccessful attempt to repel the bloodthirsty mosquitoes. The sky was clear, so I decided to cowboy camp (no overhead shelter) under a tree.

I awoke unexpectedly in the middle of the night because of the brightness of the lightning. It seemed that Squaretop was being struck repeatedly. I was still dry, so I rolled over and went back to bed. I awoke again some time later and considered setting up my tarp but I decided to see if the tree and my bivy would keep me dry. After a few nervous minutes of intense lightening and heavy rain, it seemed that the combination would work and I dozed off for the remainder of the night.  

I was up at first light and was pleased to discover both that I was dry and that the storm had passed. I packed up, cruised down the trail along the eastern bank of the Green River (the same Green River that joins the mighty Colorado River in Canyonlands National Park over 700 miles downstream) and found my truck in the trailhead parking lot. With burger and beer on my mind, I rolled down the windows, turned up the Dylan, and drove straight to the Wind River Brewing Company in Pinedale.

As a professional brewer, I'm always interested in sampling other brewers' creations. The dry hopped Wyoming Pale Ale hit the spot, as did the "Brew Master Burger" ("1/2 pound of ground beef, smoked beef brisket, Beer-B-Q sauce, pepper jack cheese, topped with beer battered onion rings")!

As expected, I really enjoyed my first visit to the Winds. I was initially disappointed that I had to cut out the more challenging off-trail segments, but I turned out to appreciate the forced relaxation of 15 mile days versus the hike from sunrise to sunset pace of the 25 mile days of my Weminuche Big Traverse. Before I was even back to my truck I decided that I would return to the Winds for a dog-free, significantly off-trail adventure next summer. And hopefully next year I can time my trip so that the mosquitoes won't be so bad (last winter's huge snowpack resulted in very wet and buggy conditions for several weeks longer than usual this summer).

Weminuche Wilderness Traverse (A Photo Trip Report)

In early August 2011 I walked approximately 100 miles along the Continental Divide from Wolf Creek Pass to the Silverton Brewing Company. Below are some photos from my trip.

Summer Recap

I think most people define the end of Summer as either Labor Day or the Autumnal Equinox. This year, I decided my Summer ended yesterday, September 15, as it was snowing on me at the time. As I lay in my sleeping bag last night, I thought about the outdoor experiences I had over the past few months and how lucky I was to have had them.

One metric to judge "getting after it" is "sleeping bag nights." By my rough count, I spent about 24 nights (or three and a half weeks) in my sleeping bag this summer. That's a record for me (excluding the summer I lived in a double-wide trailer on an Indian reservation in Montana and slept in my bag for ten weeks because I didn't have sheets).

I also skied twice (including on the morning of the Fourth of July), climbed 12 14,000+ foot peaks (another personal best), Big Traversed two large wilderness areas (the Weminuche Wilderness in Colorado and the Wind River Range in Wyoming), paddled the premier multi-day packrafting trip in the lower 48, and explored places I'd never been. By all of these metrics, my Summer was a resounding Success.

I can only hope for more Successful Summers in the future!

Cold Rain and Snow

It rained on me for hours as I hiked through the trees. I missed a trail junction and had to bushwhack over a ridge to the proper drainage. When I got above treeline, the wind blew the rain sideways and through the zipper of my rain jacket, soaking my next-to-skin layer. The cold rain turned into wet snow above 10,000 feet.

This wasn't the most pleasant trip of the summer.

My plan was to cross the Continental Divide at Buchanan Pass (11,837 feet). I looked up and couldn't even see Buchanan Pass. I checked the time. Large wet snowflakes were accumulating fast. There wasn't much daylight left and conditions weren't getting any better. The forecast called for additional precipitation overnight. That wasn't going to make my return trip over Pawnee Pass (12,541 feet) the next day any easier.  Time to bail.

I followed my own footprints through the snow and set up my tarp when I got below snowline. I was too cold and wet and tired to cook a proper dinner, so I crawled into my sleeping bag and ate chocolate instead.

I awoke the next morning to mixed weather. The sun was shining to the east and clouds obscured the Continental Divide to the west. I retraced my steps from the day before. I was warm and dry and I could see the views that I missed 24 hours prior - the distinct profile of Sawtooth Mountain to west and Longs Peak, the monarch of the Front Range, to the north in Rocky Mountain National Park.

The view of Sawtooth I was hoping for

Approximately what I saw

It wasn't the trip I had planned, but I did have fun. Two types of fun, actually. Day one was Type II Fun (not fun to do, fun to talk about later) and day two was Type I Fun (fun to do, fun to talk about later).