Having whetted my appetite for more of what one guidebook calls “class 2+” climbing on Mount Sneffels several weeks before, and having delayed climbing for several weeks because of weather and other obligations, I was ready to do another “interesting but never desperate” climb. Eager to make my first venture into the fabled Elk range, I chose Castle Peak.
Another part of the attraction was the opportunity to ascend the peak’s rocky northeast ridge, then descend the easier northwest ridge to the Castle-Conundrum saddle, and then glissade the snowfields back into upper Montezuma Basin.
I left town Saturday a little after 1:00. Determined to save the expense of a motel room in Aspen, I had borrowed my dad’s tent, and brought along my sleeping bag and pad. I also had freeze-dried food, my stove and all the other equipment necessary for an evening under the aspen trees along Castle Creek.
Just as the guidebooks promised, there were numerous “informal” camping spots along the road to Pearl Pass and Montezuma Basin, starting just above its junction with the main road from Ashcroft. Although several likely-looking spots were posted with Forest Service signs prohibiting camping, there were still several from which to choose, and I selected one well off the beaten path, a little more than a mile above the junction. I was far enough above Castle Creek that its song was ever-present, but never intrusive; according to my map, I was at or just above 10,000 feet. The valley was lined with aspens, some just past their peak but most wearing their best autumn colors.
Pulling out the tent must have angered the mountain spirits: as I began setting it up, the gentle breeze that had refreshed the road-weary camper became a gusty tempest intent on blowing the tent back down the valley. In getting it staked down, I must have invoked even greater wrath, for next came the rain clouds.
Of course, they didn’t look too threatening at first, so I went about fixing my dinner, my stove set up on a log-and-rocks bench improvised by some earlier camper. Thus exposed, I was finally a good target, and was soon being pelted with rain. Leery of the idea but lacking a better alternative, I carted my pot of simmering “citrus chicken” and my stove inside the tent and — trying not to set the tent on fire — resumed simmering.
As it turned out, the citrus chicken might not have been worth the trouble. Despite following the high-altitude directions, it was a somewhat toxic-tasting affair with rubbery little pieces of diced chicken parts and more-or-less done rice. The three or four pieces of dehydrated pea pods were probably the highlight of the dish.
After rinsing out the pot and downing a Pop-Tart for dessert, I unstuffed my sleeping bag and crawled inside. Through a narrow slit between the tent flaps, I watched the rain come and go, and the light gradually fade from the sky. A soggy Irish setter from the next campsite came to visit and gave me a wet kiss, then I zipped the tent flaps against the darkness, and closed my eyes.
Not that it did any good. I tossed and turned the entire night, listening to the rain turn on and off in regular cycles. I might as well have sat up, and spent the night listing ways to spend the $60 I saved by not staying in a comfy motel.
I suspect that I had just finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep when my tiny travel alarm started chirping at 5:15 Sunday morning. I shut it off, then slumped back into my sleeping bag, listening to the rain against the tent. I pondered just how badly I wanted to climb Castle — which would very likely be the final climb of the season — and how willing I was to start the climb in full raingear. Deciding that I wanted to climb Castle very much, indeed, but not in raingear, I rolled over and tried, again, to get back to sleep.
When it became apparent that daylight was finally making headway, and sunlight shining through the maroon tent walls indicated that the time for a decision had been reached — or more likely, passed — I rolled over and glanced at the travel alarm, which now read 7:00. I carefully parted the sodden tent flaps, and was greeted by a mostly clear western sky. I considered the various options, quickly assessed the amount of time I would need to get underway, and decided that the only way to salvage the sleepless night would be to do the climb.
I gobbled another Pop-Tart and a cereal bar, got into my climbing clothes, stuffed my sleeping bag, and carried all the loose gear from the tent to the truck. I decided to leave the soggy tent standing during my climb, in the hope that it would dry out a bit.
At 7:45, more than an hour behind schedule, I started up the remainder of the four-wheel-drive road. I set a good pace, certain that making my pre-arranged check-in time would permit little leisure. After a couple of minutes, I crossed Castle Creek on a stout bridge, and hiked on toward the Pearl Pass junction.
At the junction, I followed the main road northwest into lower Montezuma Basin, quickly climbing above treeline. I was nearly to the end of the road before I was finally treated to a view of the summit, lightly dusted with fresh snow, rising majestically above the peak’s prominent ridges and snowfields.
At the end of the road, the hiking came to an end, and
the climbing finally began. First came a short stretch of talus-hopping,
which brought me to the ragged end of the lower snowfield. The snow was in
good shape, and there were plenty of steps kicked into the slope, so it
wasn’t long before I stood in the narrow saddle at the top of the lower
snowfield.
With a cold wind whistling down from the upper snowfield, I
surveyed my options. I wasn’t sure whether I could really see a trail
slanting across the lower part of the northeast ridge, or not. But I could
definitely see the entire northwest ridge, including the Castle-Conundrum
saddle, and the steep climbing that would have to be done from the top of
the upper snowfield to gain that ridge.
As I stood there, indecisive, scanning one ridge then the other, a couple of snowboarders climbed up and joined me, and the source of the serpentine tracks winding across the snowfields became apparent. Though the summit wasn’t their goal, we discussed the routes, and one of them with sharper eyes (or a better prescription) than mine confirmed that what I thought might be a trail onto the northeast ridge really was one. After best wishes for gnarly times all around, they set off to shred, and I scrambled up snow-dusted scree to join the ridge trail, having apparently missed its junction with the main trail.
The ridge trail switchbacked up steeply, and quickly gained the crest. Soon thereafter, the ridge began to show its teeth, and I found myself on exposed ledges, most with a light dusting of new snow. The ridge top had become too rough, and the best route seemed to cling to the northwest side of the ridge, just below the crest. Parties coming down indicated that I was in the midst of the worst of it, and I had seen at least one party climbing up below me, so I pressed on, carefully testing holds and boot placements on the slick ledges.
Perseverance brought me to the last dip in the ridge,
a couple of hundred yards from the top. Although one well-equipped party
had reported turning back at a point that sounded like this one, the remainder
of the route didn’t look as challenging as the part just completed.
I scrambled up the final pitch, slightly off-route on an exposed bit of loose
scree, and onto the windy, smallish summit at 12:45, 5 hours from camp and
barely on-schedule.
I was thankful that the cap on the threaded pipe containing the summit register wasn’t really torqued down; the steep climbing and the cumulative effect of the adrenaline had combined to make me feel a bit wobbly. I scrawled my name and “#21,” took some pictures (including an above-average self-timed self-portrait) and had a snack. Although anxious to get down on-time, I was also interested to talk with the party climbing behind me, and to learn which route they planned to descend. I wasn’t especially eager to descend the northeast ridge’s icy ledges, still fresh in my mind, but I was at least familiar with that route, whereas the northwest ridge was an unknown. I had watched a large group descend from the Castle-Conundrum saddle, moving slowly and kicking down a good bit of rock, but I hadn’t been able to talk to them.
Within ten minutes or so, the couple that had been following me trudged onto the top, along with their German shepherd, who didn’t seem very enthusiastic about having just summitted the tallest peak in the Elks. I quickly steered the discussion to the topic of descent routes, and I learned that the dog had had a rough time in a couple of spots on the ascent. I indicated that the northwest ridge was supposedly an easier route, and that since I was climbing alone, I was interested to know which route they would most likely use for the descent. When they expressed interest in the northwest ridge, I bade them farewell, and started down it, my confidence bolstered by the likelihood of their descending above me. Despite the pleasant, if windy weather, I had spent only 20 minutes on top.
Although using different routes for ascent and descent makes for a more varied, interesting and richer trip, I will probably always be somewhat uneasy about descending an unfamiliar route, a voice in the back of my head whispering, “...but what if you find an obstacle which forces you to reclimb the peak?” One trip to the top in a given day is generally enough for my tastes.
A reasonable, if steep trail ran down from the summit and onto the northwest ridge, which was easier than it had looked from the top of the lower snowfield. The wind gusted fitfully across the ridge crest, eerily throwing its voice from one rocky outcropping to another. As I crossed the ridge, I was struck by the light: the long shadows made me look at my watch to make sure it wasn’t as late as it looked. Then it occurred to me. The shadows weren’t long because the hour was late, but rather, because the season was. Summer was fading as surely as the last, pale leaves that clung to the highest aspen trees lining the valley, far below.
I soon learned why the large group that had descended from the saddle had done so with such apparent care: it was steep, eroded soil strewn with just enough sand to make it hazardous. I hunted-and-pecked my way down, and was relieved when my boots finally found the snow.
I traversed into the snowfield, and very nonchalantly, trying to look as though it was all very old-hat, sat down and performed my first sitting glissade. Although a fairly short ride, it was a thrilling one, sliding down the snow slope, controlling my speed with the pick of my ice axe. As the slope leveled, I came to a gradual stop, stood up, brushed the snow from around the tops of my boots, and set off to cross some talus that separated the upper snowfield from the lower.
The lower slope was steeper, and I had more opportunity to experiment with speed control. My experiments ultimately brought me to the conclusion that a wrist loop on a general-purpose ice axe is a good idea, after all. I reached that conclusion shortly after I got a little too enthusiastic with the braking action. The axe bit suddenly, and permanently; it stopped, while I, gloved hands grasping only air, continued down the slope, wondering what real mountaineers do at times like these.
I finally brought myself to a stop by digging my boots into the slope, which had already begun to moderate. I looked around, pleased to find that my faux pas apparently had gone unnoticed. Then I trudged back up the snow, retrieved my mischievous ice axe, and hiked down the remainder of the slope.
I talus-hopped back to the end of the four-wheel-drive road, where I took a brief rest and some final photos of the peak. Then I set off, back down the road. Except for a ten-minute ride, hitched down to the Pearl Pass turn-off in an effort to improve my chances of making my check-in time, the descent was quite routine.
At 3:55, tired both from lack of sleep and from a challenging climb, I plodded back into camp. Again fighting the wind, I struggled to get the tent down without it or its rainfly blowing away, and I cursed my frugality. But once the gear was packed and I was steering the truck back down the road toward Aspen, the frustration with camping began to dissolve, leaving behind the feeling of accomplishment that comes with a challenge met, and a feeling of gratitude that I had been permitted to share this beautiful, interesting mountain.
The combination of sunny skies, bone-chilling wind, extended snow climbing and moderate exposure gave this climb a distinctive, “alpine” feel. Although ranked 21st chronologically in my journals, Castle Peak is rated much higher in my memories.
