My first look at Crestone Peak’s Northwest Couloir

GPS profile of my route

Elevation profile

It’s been awhile since I’ve written about my journeys this winter/spring. Even though I’ve been out every weekend and have taken PLENTY of photos, I sometimes just lose the urge to write. I guess if I didn’t write so much, it wouldn’t be an issue. I just like to keep an accurate record of thoughts and feelings as well.

I had already been up South Colony Road twice since March; Crestone Peak seemed to be beckoning me. The first time my partners and I failed to summit because of crappy snow conditions near the top. On that attempt, we took the Peak’s standard route up the Red Gully. The second time (just a couple of weeks ago), my partner lost his dog in really bad weather conditions. Steve and I had planned on trying to climb the northwest couloir. Fortunately, though, Cooper was found alive and none-the-worse-for-wear three days later.

This time I felt that I had run out of potential parters after two failed attempts. I’m tenacious and determined; having come off of a successful and difficult spring summit of Little Bear Peak the weekend prior, I felt filled with a confidence that I enjoyed. I had never even seen the northwest couloir up-close; once upon a time, it used to be the standard route up the Peak before the Red Gully became standard. While the Red Gully is wider and a little less difficult to climb, gaining the Peak’s summit by the northwest couloir did not involve the tough re-gain of elevation over Broken Hand Pass — which can be extremely demoralizing.

I knew from my climb with Steve the general direction I needed to go. I also knew from my previous attempt with Sean and Abe that it was going to be an extremely long day. I started on the trail at 3:30 and took the shortcut from the road before crossing the bridge and was depositied along the shoreline of lower South Colony Lake by sunrise. For the past week or so, Colorado has been receiving a steady stream of smoke from a huge wildfire in Arizona. As a result, many of our mornings have been filled with a smoky haze and generally horrible air quality. The one thing that the fire haze does, though, is make our sunrises and sunsets pretty spectacular. As I bushwhacked my way through willows that were completely covered by snow two weekends prior, I spotted what turned out to be a yellow warbler. I had never actually seen one before, so it was sort of cool.

Crestone Needle and Broken Hand Pass

I eventually made my way through the willows and headed to the upper lake. Upon nearing it, I located a trail that led me along its shorline to my left (south) of the lake. Ahead of my was my first real challenge of the day — to climb the slope and gully leading to Bear’s Playground. I imagine that this choice of ascent route isn’t the best in the summer as it’s likely a loose scree- and talus-ridden slope. With snow on it, though, it seemed pretty tame. I made my way further up into the basin and noticed a large wet slide off to the left. The spring snowpack was definitely starting to destabilize in the warm temperatures of the previous week. I knew I had to keep my wits about me and not make any stupid decisions.

On a side note — you’ll notice the size of my photos changing. This is the first time this year that I’ve been out with my DSLR because generally I have a fear of dropping it and it’s an expensive piece of equipment. Depending on the whether or not I felt comfortable carrying it outside of my backpack, I took photos with it or my compact. My compact takes the standard 3:2 ratio; the DSLR was taking 16:9.

First light in upper South Colony (left) and evidence of a recent wet slide (right)

On my way to South Colony, I noticed that much of the standing water was frozen. A light freeze had occurred overnight. This was good news for me. The snow would hopefully be a lot more firm than I expected. As I walked into the upper basin, I found this to be true! The slope was gradually increasing, so I figured it was probably advisable and put on my points. I stopped, took out my crampons, strapped them on without haste (something I’ve learned to do a lot more quickly since I had been doing it all winter and spring), and aimed my sights high. I noticed a cornice hanging above my intended route. That made me a little nervous. With the sun hitting it, the cornice could start melting, get heavy, and fall — bad news for me. I began to look for other options on my ascent route, but couldn’t find one. I also spotted tracks in the snow — someone else had been up there in the past couple of days. The tracks appeared as far right as possible to continue to stay in the snow, but near an outcropping that could provide some protection should the cornice break. I decided to follow this path, albeit expeditiously.

A look up at the Peak/Needle massif (left) and approaching the wet slide (right)

Making progress up to the top of the ridge.

Cornices on the ridge (left) and the exit out of the gully to the right of the cornice above me (right)
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When I topped-out on the ridge and entered the general area of Bear’s Playground, I immediately noticed that someone recently dug out part of a shelter in the snow at the top of the cornice. Interesting place to set up camp! It looked deep enough that the occupant(s) would have enjoyed a decent break from the wind. I took a few minutes to remember the last time I was standing in this place. After Mike and Dani wisely made the decision to turn back due to the weather, Steve and I continued to this point. It was here that we realized that we had lost Cooper. I remember walking up and down the ridge with Steve calling out his name and eventually trying to summon him with my emergency whistle, but the visibility and brutal winds were extremely disorienting. This trip was almost a complete 180° turnaround, though. Even though the sky was hazy and I couldn’t see down into either the Wet Mountain or the San Luis Valleys, the weather wasn’t going to be causing me any issues. Since I hadn’t been on this route before I was a little concerned about not being able to find my way, but as it turned out I saw a cairn off to my left as I stood and took in the views down the Spanish Creek drainage and of Columbia Point across Bear’s Playground.

Humboldt Peak (left) and Colony Baldy (right) to the northeast

Looking down the Spanish Creek drainage at the haze down in the San Luis Valley (left) and Columbia Point, a Centennial 13er (right)

After spending a few minutes resting, I had to get back to the task on hand. I knew the entrance to the northwest gully was somewhere to the southwest of my current position, but I was a little nervous that I wouldn’t be able to find it or enter another incorrectly and getting cliffed-out or something. Fortunately, upon further examination, I discovered a faint trail that was leading up over a small shoulder. I followed it and when I was able to get a clearer look I noticed another cairn across a small section of snow and between two rock outcroppings. I proceeded to hike down toward the cairn and discovered fairly fresh (within the last day or so) footprints on the snow. Apparently, I wasn’t the only person whom considered this route recently!

Another look down at the Spanish Creek drainage (left). I continued to traverse to the southwest. There were sections of snow with footprints as well as cairns and portions of trail.

As I continued on my solo trek, I began to feel more confident. Because of my predecessors’ fairly fresh footprints, I felt that I could successfully navigate the route by myself. Continuing in a southwesterly direction, I continued to cross intermittent snow fields. The snow was hard and crusty; a few times, I considered putting my crampons back on (I had taken them off when I got to the ridge), but the several dry sections of rock convinced me to do otherwise. Fortunately, the snow was not-so-hard enough to prevent me from being able to belay myself with my ice axe. As the trail continued to the southwest (left photo), I gained and lost elevation a few times. The sun was warm when I walked in it, but I was chilled by a light breeze every time I entered a shady area. Eventually, the trail took a slight turn to the south and I left the sections of snow behind me.

I continued to walk what I believed to be the trail. Up and to my left, I got my first look at what I came to climb — the northwest couloir (photo is at the very beginning of this post). I rounded a corner and, taking a sharp left, I found myself staring up a short, west-facing couloir. In the snow were footprints heading up, but I also spotted a cairn atop a rock rib above and behind me to the left. There appeared to be a ledge system on the rib, so I decided to explore it further. I wasn’t quite ready to put my points back on, so I was hoping I could get on top of the short entrance couloir by following the ledges. As it turned out, the ledges didn’t really lead me anywhere and I found myself staring down at the snow in the couloir below me. I retraced my steps and brought myself back to the bottom of the couloir. I stopped to eat a quick snack and after donning my points I prepared for the start of my ascent. It was time to get excited!

The steps that were kicked-in to the snow were really useful (thanks to whoever did them!). I followed them up and to the right. Near the top of the entrance couloir, the snow thinned out a little and I started encountering a mix of wet and dry rock in-between sections of snow. At the top of the entrance couloir, I turned right and was welcomed by the sight of the northwest couloir. My GPS read 13,300 feet at the bottom of the entrance couloir and I knew that the red notch between Crestone and East Crestone was at about 14,160 feet, so I had over 800 feet of couloir to climb. It was a bit disconcerting to immediately see a mound of water-ice a the bottom, though. My axe and crampons weren’t really designed to climb water-ice, but hopefully there would only be short sections to deal with. I front-pointed as I headed up and used the pick on my axe to aid me in getting up the ice. It took a little bit of effort to extricate the pick from the ice, though, so each move was met with trepidation. Had it not been for Darin Baker back in January and my experience on Little Bear’s Hourglass the previous week, I don’t think I would have even know how to approach it. I’m still not comfortable climbing ice, though, so I hoped that there wouldn’t be too much of it involved.

The climb up the couloir was filled with mixed conditions. The snow at the very base of it was just a little soft — firm, but not quite consolidated probably because it didn’t receive that much direct sunlight. Above that short section, it was a whole lot better and made for relatively easy climbing. Continuing on my way up, I chose to avoid subsequent sections of water-ice by climbing some dry rock adjacent to it. The rock sections had ample room to climb with my points on without making me too nervous about it. Other than that, the climb was pretty straightforward. The next series of photos were taken as I continued up the couloir.

The crux of my climb of the northwest couloir came as I approached the end of it. To my left was a large mound of water-ice that I just didn’t feel comfortable about climbing over. Again — I’m just not quite comfortable climbing over ice yet and being by myself one screw-up would mean the end of Terry. The problem was that the rock I could climb to the right of it was smooth and I could not find any cracks to stick my points into. I stood there for several minutes to consider my fate. I wasn’t going to be trying anything that made me overly uncomfortable. I went over both scenarios in my head: Climb the ice and take the chance of slipping and falling or climb the rock and risk doing the same. As much as I detested doing it, the only option left to me was to take off my crampons, scramble up the rock, and put them back on again. It was the safest option available to me. I proceeded to take off the points, placed them on the rock ledge above me, and gingerly scrambled up it with wet boots. There was one more pitch I had to scramble up after that, so I repeated the process before locking back into the points.

Stopping for a moment of vanity

Looked up above me, I noticed a small cornice. I checked my GPS and it indicated that I was above 14,000 feet. I was nearing the top of the couloir! I climbed the steps left by previous climbers up and to my right. The last time I was at the red notch was with Sean and Abe. When Abe and I tried to cross the snow that filled it in, a portion of it broke off and sped down the red gully. That was enough to tell us that the snow was unstable and that we shouldn’t be doing it. We turned around at that point. I knew that I was going to be topping-out at virtually the same spot and needed to cross that snow again. It was not something I was looking forward to. When I reached the red notch, I took a moment to savor the fact that I had just climbed the northwest couloir solo. While not the most difficult climb in the world, it was quite an accomplishment in my personal growth.

Looking back down the final pitch to the red notch

Seeing dry rock above me toward the summit, I decided to remove my points again. I also stashed my snowshoes (which I had been carrying, but never used) at the top of the red notch to lighten my load a little bit. I pulled myself up on the rock and began moving toward a cairn Having been exposed to sun for several hours, the snow I walked on was wet and unstable. When I stepped on it, I felt it shift. Taking my points off was a bad idea. I took off my pack yet again to dig them back out and once they were donned I continued. My motions were deliberately slow as I tested every step that I made on the snow and made sure I could belay with my axe. A couple sections of thin snow and ice provided me with a few moments of nervousness. Once I was across the mixed snow conditions, I could see that most of the remaining climb was dry. I made the decision to take my crampons off and leave them. I was less than 100 vertical feet from the summit.

When I topped out, I was pleased to see that there was no sections of snow keeping me from reaching my goal. There’s a little depression that climbers have to drop into to reach the true summit that was filled with snow, but it was solid and compacted. I reached my goal that day, but the journey was only half-over.

Crestone Needle (left) and looking down at my ascent route from the summit of Crestone Peak (right)

Humboldt Peak (left) and the San Luis Valley (right) — or what I could see of it through the smoke

After a snack and a SPOT message, I decided it was time for me to get out of there. I knew descending to the notch was going to be slow-going again due to the stability of the snow. I made my way back down to my crampons and put them back on before continuing my descent. At one point while crossing a section of snow, the snow gave way and I slipped. Fortunately, I was able to self-belay but it still shook me up a little. That was the only mishap I had, thankfully. I made it back down to the notch, collected my items, and again considered my fate as I needed to descend the red gully. I knew that the steepest part of the descent was right off of the red notch, so remembering how Sean, Abe, and I descended previously, I faced in and downclimbed the first couple hundred feet. The snow was extremely sloppy and wet. Once I was down far enough, I turned around and proceeded to plunge-step for the next couple of hundred feet. The snow became a little harder it got difficult to punch through it with my heels, so I decided that I wanted to try a slow, controlled glissade in self-arrest position. Due to the wet sloppiness of the snow I was able to do so successfully, but didn’t want to tempt fate after about 150 feet or so so I stood up and began to plunge-step again. Below me was slide debris — probably from the previous day or two. It look like it released from a side slope to my right. I didn’t want to get too close to the slide path and gingerly continued down. Below the slide debris and scattered above, I encountered water-ice where either the snow was thin enough to expose melt-off or water had actually run atop the snow and frozen. In order to avoid having to downclimb ice, I opted to climb down rock. There was one section to the right of a steady flow of melt-water where I was forced to remove my points and downclimb. I hung them down by their straps and dropped them onto the rock below me. A couple times of doing this and I was able to get back onto the snow below the melt-water and ice. The rest of the descent to the bottom of the red gully was done by plunge stepping. I was relieved to be down!

I’ve illustrated this photo to show how I descended certain sections of the red gully.

Red = downclimb on snow
Blue = plunge-stepping
Green = slow, calculated glissade in self-arrest position
Orange = slide debris (tried to avoid)
Yellow = downclimb on rock

One last look at Crestone Peak

Cottonwood Lake

I mentioned it before, but it bears mentioning again: One of the most demoralizing aspects of Crestone Peak’s standard route is the hike back up Broken Hand Pass from Cottonwood Lake. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot of snow to go up. I refused to break out my crampons again for this one short section, but in hindsight I probably should have. There was some really hard ice under a thin layer of snow and I could not kick-in steps. I ended up on all fours — using the pick of my ice axe to slowly pull myself up and across until I was able to reach some rocks. That little stunt expended a lot more energy than I should have. I continued to lumber up Broken Hand Pass in complete zombie mode. My breathing was labored and was probably made worse by the smoke from the fire in AZ. I took a moment at the top of Broken Hand Pass to rest before beginning the descent.

The first 100-200 feet of the descent was on mostly dry rock and dirt, so it was relatively easy. Once I reached the snow again, it was time to crampon-up. Only about another hundred feet below me I saw butt prints as well as ski tracks leading down a long section of the pass. There was a safe run-out below, so I decided to follow suit. The glissade was fast, but fun! Footprints led off to the east and I saw a couple of giant cairns so I knew that was the direction I needed to head in. I was able to get another short glissade of about 150 feet in before plunge-stepping down to the trail proper and eventually down close to lower South Colony Lake.

Instead of heading back the way I came, I decided that I would take the standard trail back to the road to get some observations on conditions. Man, was that ever a mistake. There was still A LOT of snow left on that route and sidehilling on wet, sloppy snow was not the easiest thing to do in snowshoes (but at least I finally got to use them). About half-way out, I ran into another hiker making his way to the lake. I let him know that I was on the trail (I had to use my GPS to located it after I got off-trail). He was just going to stay one night, but I let him know that there weren’t a lot of sites that were melted out near the lake. I also told him that I saw one other tent up there and that was it. He thanked me for the info and we continued on our way. Instead of trying to continue on the trail to the road, I cut across a field on snow. I was tired of slipping and sliding while sidehilling. When I reached the gate at the road, the snow ended abruptly. I packed up my snowshoes, drank an entire liter of water, and began the 2.75-mile trek back to the trailhead. It was another long, 17-hour day for me, but I felt that I had accomplished a lot. My experiences make me who I am. I felt just a little more well-rounded.

GPS stats from my climb of Crestone Peak’s Northwest Couloir

Ellingwood Point (14,042 ft.)

GPS profile of our route

Elevation and Google Earth profiles

I made a last-minute call to attempt to summit Ellingwood Point late last week. Because it was last-minute, I didn’t get to solicit partners for the trip. The weather forecast looked excellent and with me starting a new job the following Monday, I really wanted to get out. I hit the road at 2:00 AM and arrived at the turn-off for the Lake Como Road around 4:30. When I was down here a few weeks ago with Anna and Rob, we were able to drive up to 8,800 feet on the road before we decided to stop. The area hadn’t received a lot of snow since that time; I hoped that I could get even higher this time. Looking up higher, I immediately noticed a headlamp shine in my direction. Was someone else up there? I reached the area that we parked before and noticed that the road was completely snow-free, so I continued on. I got into some large rocks on the road a short distance further, so I ended up having to back-up. Looking in my rear-view mirror, I stopped before I almost accidentally backed into a truck that was parked off the road. I pulled forward and avoided a collision, then parked across the road from it and prepared to hit the trail.

I geared-up, walked over to the truck across from me, and took a look at it. It looked vaguely familiar. I started up the road with my headlamp around 5:05, but noticed some fluid on the rocks. Was it from my truck? I immediately walked back down to my truck and crawled underneath it. I was puzzled because I didn’t see any drippage or evidence of fluid leaking from underneath the engine, the transfer case, or the front and rear differentials. It caused me concern; a tow out of that road would cost me a pretty penny and there’s no way I could afford another repair. I hoped for the best and continued on again at 5:20.

When I was driving on US 160, I noticed the peaks of the Blanca Massif shrouded by clouds in the light of a half-moon. I didn’t want another cloudy day in these mountains! I hoped they would burn-off with the rising of the sun. I knew from my last trip up that the campsite where I had parked further up the road was 1.75 miles from where I was parked. The road up to that point was really clear of snow except for a couple of short sections of snow that were probably about 50 feet long. Anyone with a sledge hammer in the morning or a shovel in the afternoon would be able to clear off enough of the road to get by those sections. I reached Jaws 0.5 and knew that my former parking area was only two switchbacks away.

Past the campsite, the road descended down a bit. Shaded from the sun, the road was icy and snow-packed. I was able to stay off of the ice by walking on the far left side, but it was definitely A LOT clearer than it was during my last trip. The snow was firm-enough to walk on without snowshoes. The rest of the hike up the road was mixed bare ground and hard-packed snow. By the time I reached the Lake Como shelter, I had noticed fresh ski tracks. Yeah, there was definitely someone else up here. I stopped at the shelter to rest for a moment, refueled, and rehydrated. After about ten minutes I started getting pretty cold, so I decided it was time to continue on. The clouds that had once shrouded the peaks of the Blanca Massif were clearing out, so the temperature dropped. My lips felt like they were going to freeze off of my face as I walked along Lake Como’s north shore.

Once on the other side of Lake Como, I followed the old ski/snowshoe tracks along with the fresh ski tracks. The route deviated from the norm and went up a hillside through some trees to the left of the standard. I thought about trying to get back on track, but knew that it would almost certainly end up on the standard route. When I was high enough to see across the basin, I noticed a solo climber making his way up Chasm Lake’s headwall. He seemed to be following the same track that Rob, Anna, and I took when we were down here last. I kicked it into high gear as I made my way across the basin and past the Blue Lakes to see if I could catch up to him. When I had reached the bottom of the headwall, I found the snow to be firm and solid. I raised the heel bars on my showshoes and trucked right up it in a straight line (man, those heel/ascent bars REALLY help on steep snow). Once I reached the top of the headwall, the heel bars went down and I spotted the climber skinning along the trail on his skis ahead of me. His orange shell looked familiar to me, so I continued in high gear to catch up with him.

As I got closer to the skier, I was fairly certain I knew who he was — Bill Middlebrook from 14ers.com. It was an odd coincidence that I was meeting him again on the trail; the previous weekend we met on the summit of Mt. Columbia, but that was a pre-arranged event. When I caught up to him, he turned around and I said, “I didn’t know you were going to be up here today.”

“Terry?” he asked. “Hey, it’s Bill.”

“Yeah, I know. I recognized you down lower. I thought that was your truck parked along the road, but wasn’t sure.”

“Did you see that I was going to be up here on Facebook? I thought I made a post for Steve to see.”

“Actually, I made a post around 6:00 last night saying that I needed to get to bed because I was going to be attempting Ellingwood again today. I don’t think I saw anything from you about it.”

“Oh, I must have sent Steve a PM.”

Bill and I stopped for a few minutes to engage in friendly conversation. I asked him if he had grown his hair out because I remembered it being a lot shorter when I first met him at the Spring Gathering last year. He did and explained a little bit why. His wife was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. “Only two other people know about this, so I’d appreciate you not sharing this information with anyone.” I promised him that the information would not leave my lips (Bill has since made it public within our community). Since his wife was going to be getting chemo treatments and will likely lose her hair, he wanted to grow enough hair for both of them. I told him that I would make a donation to the Susan G. Komen Foundation in her name as soon as I was able to financially (which I’ve actually done already). That bit of a personal connection was unexpected, but I was glad that Bill afforded me the opportunity to get to know a little bit more about his personal life. As the founder of 14ers.com, a lot of people tend to put him on a pedestal so I think that I can understand why he would want to keep most at an arm’s length or more away, but in the end all of us are just as human as anyone else is with all of the same human vulnerabilities. I don’t believe I’ve known anyone whose spouse has been affected by the disease before now. Thankfully, the prognosis seems good. I wished him and his family the best and hoped for a speedy recovery.

I’m still a newbie when it comes to snow ascents. With my first winter summiting peaks now behind me, I feel that I’ve grown quite a bit into a more well-rounded person. I am in no way someone of “experience” and as someone who is new to winter mountaineering it has allowed me to view the actions of others through a perspective innocence. I want to learn as much as possible and hope to take something new away from every trip that I make. I’ve not only received some actual instruction this winter, but I’ve also absorbed SO MUCH just from being around people who have been doing this much, much longer than I have. In addition to some of the instruction that I received back in January, I tend to learn a lot from observation and from conversation. As with a lot of people I know from 14ers.com, I have a lot of respect for Bill’s experience. I know the basics of a lot of things, but wouldn’t consider myself advanced or an expert at anything. Because of this I haven’t a lot of confidence when on snow, but I have a lot more than I did at the beginning of winter.

“Don’t climb directly behind me,” Bill instructed as we continued up further into the basin on skis and snowshoes. “Sometimes, my skins will slip and I’ll slide backward about ten feet. I don’t want to knock you over.” I nodded in understanding and staggered myself a bit to the left of him. We reached a point where I stopped to inform him that this was where Rob, Anna, and I made the decision to turn around. It was here that my snowshoes could no longer gain purchase due to a thin crust and sugary snow underneath. It seemed Bill was having the same issue on skis. The snow was a bit intimidating for me, so i just kind of hung back to see how Bill was planning on tackling this. “Well, I know what I’m doing,” he said and proceeded to take off his skis. I, in turn, took off my showshoes. I don’t think I would have even considered booting-up the slope had I been solo and may have turned around again, but that just illustrates the value of experience. Someone once told me that the only way to gain confidence on snow is to actually get out on it. Even though I’ve lived in Colorado for thirty-four years I never picked up any snow sports as a hobby, so I’ve not yet developed the confidence that people who have been winter mountaineers or skiers/boarders do. Each time I get out on the snow I learn a little bit more. Knowledge truly is power — and confidence comes with that.

Looking up at Blanca Peak from the upper basin. Bill said there wasn’t a single line to ski down it.

Chopping steps into snow can be pretty tiring! Bill started out in the lead, but with skis heaved over his shoulder he ran out of gas after awhile. I offered to take the lead and with my ice axe in my right hand and a trekking pole in my left, we quickly made progress up another headwall above Chasm Lake. As usual, my backpack was quite hefty and I brought a few extra items this time since I expected to be out on the trail solo. Running into Bill was a welcome event. We continued our friendly chit-chat on our way up during our frequent stops. I get out in the mountains on weekends to help alleviate stress that I build-up during the week. With his wife’s recent diagnosis, I couldn’t help but think how therapeutic an outing like this would be for him.

At the top of a small shelf, the snow began to turn into a firm wind- and sun-hardened crust and we neared rockier sections of the south face. It was here that I decided it was time to ditch my snowshoes while Bill strapped his skis to his back in preparation for the final 700 feet to the summit. “I think I’ve already spotted my descent line,” he told me and turned my attention to a snow field leading down from Ellingwood’s false summit along the ridge. We fastened on our crampons, tested the stability of the snow, and continued on with Bill in the lead.

Bill considering our ascent options (left) and postholing across a short traverse section (right)

After being in the lead for awhile, my partner-for-the-day stepped aside and asked me to go ahead. I caught up to him and proceeded at a fairly slow pace. From behind me, he shouted out directions for me to ascend up and to the left — closer to the false summit. “We’re not going to head right up to the false summit,” he explained, “but it’s better to gain the ridge higher rather than lower. You should be able to see sections of the trail pretty soon. Also — I’m going to put a little bit of distance between us. If this snow decides to slide, we both don’t want to get caught in it.” Again, his experience was, for me, a valuable resource.

There were sections of snow that weren’t necessarily firm enough to walk up easily, so I found myself continuing to chop-in steps. At one of the times when Bill caught up to me, he asked, “How are you doing?”

“Getting tired,” I told him.

“Yeah, me, too.”

It wasn’t too long afterward that I spotted a cairn, but the trail was difficult to see. “Do you think it goes that way?” I asked as I thought I spotted a line going up and to the right.

“Maybe,” he replied. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to start switchbacking a bit.” I switched my axe’s leash to my left arm and began to ascend in that direction.

We made slow, but sure, progress up Ellingwood’s south face and were closing ranks on the ridge leading up to its false and true summits. The coaching that I received back in January about crampon techniques definitely came in handy as I found a very firm section of snow and rapidly walked up it. “This is definitely duck-walking territory!” I shouted down to Bill.

“It beats postholing!” came his reply. I laughed and agreed whole-heartedly

“You having fun?”

“I’m have a blast!” I said, but, man — were my calves ever getting a work-out!

Ellingwood’s false summit and a glimpse of the true summit from just below the ridge.

After a slow ascent with heavy packs, Bill and I finally began to really close in on Ellingwood’s southeast ridge. I reached it first and turned around with enough time to snap a photo of him gaining the last section of snow. Up on the ridge, the one of the first things I noticed was Lily Lake and the Huerfano River Basin below. With Mt. Lindsey off to the right, I scanned the valley for any trace of human activity. I managed to spot a faint trail in the snow that was probably left by Kiefer and Steph the week before as I doubted that any one had been up there since that time. The sun shone brightly and surprisingly enough — despite the spin drifts we saw further below, the wind wasn’t all that bad and easy to bear.

My ugly mug on the ridge.

Looking down into the Upper Huerfano River Basin

Mt. Lindsey

California Peak with the Crestone Group in the distance

A closer look at Crestone Peak and Needle over California Peak

I studied the reminder of our route; while there was a clear cornice on the the climber’s right, there was a lot of exposed rock on the left. “I think I may just boot-up to the summit,” I said.

“I’m going to keep mine on,” said Bill. “They’re kinda old, so it’s not a big deal if they get messed up.” I decided to give it a try as well and began to trek up toward the summit. At one point I tried to keep my balance with my ice axe and plunged the spike into the snow to my right thinking that there would be rock underneath it, but it went all the way down to the pick and adze. “You should probably get over to the left a little further,” I was told. “You really can’t tell where the rock ends and the snow begins right there. That would be a long ride down!” I heeded the advice and stuck to the solid rock on the left.

After gingerly walking up in my crampons for a few minutes I started getting irritated at the sound of metal-on-rock, so I sat down next to a cairn and took off the crampons. It wasn’t too long after that when I encountered a bullet-proof section of hard snow and I regretted taking them off. Fortunately, there was an exposed rock right in the middle of it that I was able to use as a step and continued on. I reached the false summit and looked over at the true summit. It was only a stone’s throw away, but I still had to drop down into a notch onto some snow before reaching it. As I began to descend, I noticed a missing partner-for-the-day. I hung tight for a minute to see if he would go across the top of the false summit or stay lower on the left. When he didn’t appear in either direction, I continued on. Down closer to the notch, I spotted Bill near the false summit. He waved me on and I asked if he was heading down. “I’ll wait for you!” he shouted back. I quickly made my way over to the true summit. It was a week too late to be considered a true winter summit, but the snow conditions were still certainly winter-like!

Blanca Peak

Little Bear Peak

On the summit of Ellingwood Point. Photo by Bill Middlebrook.

After taking some photos and video on top of Ellingwood, I hastily made my way back over to the false summit. When I asked Bill why he decided not to go over, he replied, “There isn’t that much of an elevation difference between here and there and I couldn’t see any lines to ski down from there. I have one from here, but it’s still going to be a crappy ski!” I knew his descent was going to be 20x faster than mine, so I prepared to part ways with him. “Oh, I’ll probably see you down there,” he pointed across the gully, “and further down there. It’s not going to be a very quick descent to start out with.” I told him I’d try and get some good shots of him on the way down. “Just follow our tracks back down. Don’t deviate or try anything fancy.” The last part wasn’t only for my safety, but for his as well. I crossed the gully quickly and positioned myself to take a few photos. Bill’s fun was about to begin!

Bill worked his way slowly down the gully as I watched. He skied across some short sections and appeared (to me, at least) to be testing the snow. He looked up at me. “It’s icy!” he called out. Ick. Even I knew that wasn’t the best kind of snow to descend on skis. He waited for a few more seconds and was off to the races!

I packed up my camera and hurried down the ridge to my crampons and took a few minutes to lock them on before continuing down. I reached the snow and nervously looked down it. As with any kind of climbing, going down can often be just as or even more treacherous than going up. I didn’t have a lot of experience descending snow, but I felt fairly confident that I could. I extended the length of the trekking pole in my left hand and slowly began to plunge-step down the snow. The relative easiness of doing so surprised me and I increased my descent speed slightly. I moved quicker than I thought I would and actually found myself a little bit below Bill in the gully. “I’m heading down that way,” he shouted out as he pointed down and to the left. “I’m going to drop down from there and I’ll meet you down below. We’ll be off of this dangerous stuff.” As he started to drop in again, I yelled for him to wait so I could get a few more photos. I got my camera out again and he was off!

Again, it didn’t take me as long to descend the snow as I thought it was going to and I had quite a bit of fun doing it. I met up with Bill next to my snowshoes. I took off my pack and opened it to get some food. I hungrily began to devour some macaroni salad that I brought with me with a sliver of a plastic spoon that I had accidentally broken. “You see that over there?” Bill said and called my attention to an area behind me. “It looks like there was a small slide recently. You can see the crown if you look closely.” Luckily, it was pretty low on the slope, but in the warm spring sun the snow was getting a bit sloppy and wet. I was going to have to keep my crampons on until I reached the bottom of the headwall near the blue lakes because I didn’t think I was going to be able to safely descend some of the steeper pitches in snowshoes with the snow like that.

Now that we were both safely off of the most difficult section of the climb, Bill needed to jet out of there. He had a family to return to, after all. We shook hands and I watched him disappear into basin below. He would likely reach his truck hours before I would. Again, I found myself thankful that I ran into him. It was probably one of the most beneficial trips (from a learning standpoint) that I’ve had thus far. Even though the outing wasn’t for instruction, I always want to take away lessons that will help me develop into a more well-rounded mountaineer. This trip was certainly no exception.

On my way down the Crater Lake headwall, I ran into a bit of an issue. I was heading down a steep section when I noticed that the snow was pretty slushy. Plunge-stepping was causing me to slide; I thought about riding it down in a glissade, but there were rocks below that I wouldn’t be able to avoid. I ended up turning around to face the slope and backed down by chopping steps into the snow. When I was off of the steep section, I didn’t have any trouble getting down to the lower basin. I switched out my crampons for snowshoes and headed back down to Lake Como. When I was heading back down the road, I took a moment to send a few text messages, had a brief conversation with Kiefer about snow conditions, and enjoyed another snack. I was less than four miles from where I parked, but hiking back down that road in stiff mountaineering boots (I can only imagine how painful/irritating it is to hike down in ski boots) is not very pleasant.

There’s one uphill section right before the campsite that I’ve parked at in the past that is a pain in the ass. When you’re hiking out with a backpack full of camping gear, it feels morally defeating! This section of the road was still pretty icy and I nearly made it to the top, but I ended up slipping on the ice and I went down in a miserable heap. I picked myself up with as much grace as possible and was thankful no one was around to see that happen! I reached the top of the uphill section and took off my snowshoes. The road below was mostly clear of snow and I wouldn’t need them. As I drank some water, another hiker approached me. I was surprised; I didn’t expect to see anyone else on the road — especially heading up it! I asked if he was planning on trying to reach the lake (even though he wasn’t dressed for it), but he indicated that this was as far as he was going. He had a wife and daughter lower on the road waiting for him. The hiker asked if I was with the guy with skis. I told him that we knew each other, but we had come up separately.

When I made it back to my truck at 5:30, I took off my pack and immediately climbed underneath it to check to see if there were any puddles. There were not. I unloaded and packed everything before I opened the hood to check the oil and transmission fluid levels. Both seemed to be normal. It made me wonder whether the fluid I saw along the road when I first started that day was actually from another vehicle. It seemed really fresh, though. I closed the hood and drove out.

Google Earth .KML file of my route (right-click and “save target as” to save the file). NOTE: For some reason, if you’re using Internet Explorer, when you “save target as”, it changes the file extension to .XML. This is incorrect. To be able to view this in Google Earth, change the file extension to .KML before saving the file. It downloads correctly in Firefox.