I was up at 4:00, and pulling out of the driveway at 4:50. At 6:20, I was at the trailhead atop Guanella Pass, shouldering my pack and hoping that the clear skies would hold for the seven or eight hours I would need to make the summit and return. As fate would have it, this climb would be just about the least amount of fun I had ever had on a fourteener. I had, however, already been rewarded with my first reasonably close encounter with bighorn sheep. Rounding the curve at Dumont on I-70, I was surprised by a group of six or seven by the side of the road, some grazing serenely, others apparently engaged in play, horns locked. Bierstadt had turned me back twice in previous summit attempts. I was within 500 feet of the summit on one winter outing, but had gotten a late start, and had insufficient time to complete the climb without having someone report me as overdue. And only a week ago, I had come to climb, but had been turned back by a steep portion of the road, covered with fresh snow and too slick for my truck to navigate. I started off, using the trail which strikes off to the south. After a while, I figured I should be far enough to the south of the marshy ground in the bottom of the Scott Gomer Creek drainage, so I started bushwhacking toward the peak. This was the same approach I had used on my ill-fated winter attempt, a year and a half ago. Initially the ground was frozen, and it was fairly easy going, despite the tangle of willows which lines the drainage. Then the sun started to get warm, and the willows thicker. And despite my freshly-sealed boots, my feet were starting to get wet. At the first hint of a blister, I applied some moleskin, and began to doubt that my wet feet and soggy boots would allow me much of a chance at the summit. I entertained thoughts of abandoning the climb; perhaps I would settle for scouting a better route for a fourth attempt at some later date (when I would remember to pack spare socks). I relaced my boots, proceeded across the creek, and started up the peak’s northwest shoulders. Before long, I intersected an obvious trail, and started following it. But I became aware that there are a number of trails on the peak, most of which go for a while, then fade out, either in a patch of willows or underneath a snowbank. I would follow a stretch of trail, then bushwhack for a while, then intersect another trail. I was glad to have my ice axe along, as I climbed above the willows and began spending more and more time ascending on firm, crusty snow. My feet were offering no more problems, but now the weather was starting to worry me. Clouds were building in nearly every direction, with the most ominous beginning to tower over Mount Evans. Committed now to making the summit, I hurried upward. While I had been making for a gentle depression in the peak’s west ridge, the weather convinced me to take a somewhat more easterly course, and steer instead directly for the summit. I wanted as little “upward exposure” as possible. At about 11:00, I dragged myself up the last few feet of rock and snow, onto the top, with snow pellets falling and the rumble of not-so-distant thunder reverberating around me. I quickly located the Colorado Mountain Club summit log, and signed in. I took brief notice of Grays and Torreys, off to the northwest, but found Mount Evans, little more than a mile away, hiding behind a bank of angry clouds. I spent no more time searching for other landmarks. Deciding that the conditions were too marginal for any serious photography — including my usual solo-summit self-portrait — I took a quick shot of the USGS marker, and prepared to start down, having spent less than ten minutes on top. As I descended, the snow became more serious. Soon, the whole valley was socked-in, and I could no longer make out the top of the pass. I spotted my own ascent tracks here and there, but less frequently as I went along. I had hoped to follow my tracks back to one of the more established trails, then use some combination of trails back to the pass. After a while with no sign of track nor trail, I finally stumbled across an obvious foot-path, and followed it. The snow was coming down smartly now, turning the trail into a white-on-white motif, and loading the willow branches with big clumps of wet flakes. The trail was heading in more of a northerly direction than I really wanted to go, but any trail through the wet willows was better than nothing, I reasoned, so I trudged onward. I hoped I’d be able to get back to my truck without having to put on rain pants. But as the trail descended, it had a tougher time keeping back the rampant willows, and my jeans went almost instantly from tolerably damp to thoroughly drenched. I marched on. Having done most of its descending, the trail now swung back toward the west, across the bog toward the pass. Occasional muddy spots began to give way to swamp. Where I could, I circumnavigated the wettest and/or muddiest stretches, but this technique became useless as things got consistently wetter and muddier. In spots, my boots sank completely into the ooze, but there was nothing to be done. I cursed my choice of route, and slogged on. Naturally enough, the snow began to ease as I neared the pass. The peak — and everything else — was now cloaked in white, and patches of fog floated up the valley. I took a couple of pictures which, I hope, will be my reward for enduring this soggy climb, then I lumbered up the last quarter-mile to the pass and my truck. It was 2:00. Inside the cab, I covered myself with a towel, and peeled off my wet jeans. I pulled my nice, new rain pants from my pack —the rain pants I should have put on about 15 minutes down from the summit — and slipped them on. Not fashionable, perhaps, but dry. With a last look at the Sawtooth ridge connecting Bierstadt with Evans, I started slowly down the pass. A thorough examination of that interesting route would have to wait for better weather. Bierstadt had turned me back twice, but hadn’t managed a third victory. Mother Nature had conspired to make parts of the climb fairly miserable, but I was glad to have my twelfth fourteener — and the first for the season — in the bag.

Warning: Mountain climbing entails certain risks and can be a dangerous activity. Many Colorado peaks have seen climbing fatalities. The most common factors in mountaineering accidents are poor judgement, inadequate physical conditioning and improper equipment. When faced with bad weather, fatigue or terrain that may be beyond your abilities, turn back. The mountain will still be there when you’re stronger, more experienced or better-equipped for another attempt. And remember: the summit is only the halfway point. Many accidents occur while a party is descending from the summit. If you climb, do not rely solely on the information contained herein. Do not assume that the route descriptions are completely accurate. The route descriptions were written after-the-fact from memory, and human memory is fallible. In addition, many factors (especially weather) can cause a route that is normally a “walk-up” to become a serious, hazardous proposition. Thoroughly research your route, have appropriate equipment, anticipate sudden and drastic changes in alpine weather, and know your abilities and limitations. Seek professional instruction before climbing, and build your climbing skills gradually: climb several easier peaks before attempting a more difficult route. Don’t become a statistic!

Text and photo(s) copyright © 2001 Mark R. Vanderbrook.
All rights reserved.