With the season’s warm-up climbs (Evans from Summit Lake, and Uncompahgre) out of the way, I decided I was ready to do another 4500 vertical-foot Sawatch climb, and Harvard sounded appealing. But the 12-mile round-trip distance from the trailhead would make a backpack trip into Horn Fork Basin a necessity. So I tossed my camping and climbing gear into my backpack, and left town Sunday at about 11:30.
I arrived at the (crowded) trailhead at about 2:30, and just as I did so, it began to rain. Having watched would-be climbers abandon an outing at a rainy trailhead, only to have the weather clear 20 minutes later, I sat patiently in my truck. I listened to the rain-music as droplets hit the roof, the bed, the hood; I had nearly dozed off when, 20 minutes later, the rain stopped and the sky began to clear. I changed into my climbing clothes, hoisted my pack, and left the trailhead at 3:10.
A short distance up the trail, I signed the register, then followed the well-maintained (and heavily-used) trail westward through the forest. As promised in my guidebook, the trail crossed to the north side of a full, racing North Cottonwood Creek on a very convenient (and sturdy) bridge, then climbed gently toward the Bear Lake/Horn Fork Basin turnoff.
Above this junction, the hiking became steeper, but now impressive views
of Mount Yale, only slightly more than two miles to the south, compensated
for the difficulty. At 5:30, I spotted an ideal campsite just after the trail
had swung back to the east, and just below treeline at 11,600 feet. I toyed
with the idea of looking for a suitable spot higher up, but ultimately decided
I wasn’t likely to do any better; I shed my pack and pitched my tent.
Harvard
loomed to the north (see photo), Columbia to the east and Yale to the south;
the Continental Divide lay a half-mile to the west.
Once my camp was arranged, I went down to a small creek which crossed the trail perhaps 50 feet from my tent, and filtered some water for dinner. Back in camp, I prepared my usual meal-in-a-cup, and was sitting on a convenient flat rock, eating, when I was surprised by another climber strolling into my camp.
I jumped when he entered my field of view, and he apologized for startling me. He and a climbing buddy were camped nearby; he was from Kansas, and his friend from Chicago. We speculated as to which of the high points on the ridge at the head of the basin might be Harvard’s summit, and he shared the entertaining story of their trip from Kansas. It seems the Volkswagen Vanagon they were in lost its transmission, but they were able to buy — for $100 — a beat-up ‘79 Chevy Caprice, which they had brought to the trailhead.
After a few minutes, his companion joined us, and we discussed the various merits and detractions to climbing alone, among other topics. It wasn’t yet 7:30, and although the sun had not yet set, it had fallen behind the ridge to the west, and I was surprised at how quickly the temperature was dropping. I found my polarplus jacket inadequate, so when they left I cleaned up “the kitchen” and got into my sleeping bag.
I got my usual rotten night’s sleep, but was asleep and dreaming about dolphins when the alarm went off at 5:00. Heart pounding, I managed to silence the annoying chirping, then I lay back and — after a few minutes — worked up the energy to start the day. I found my headlamp, had my usual just-add-water, granola-and-instant-milk-in-a-baggie breakfast, then I laced up my boots and finalized my packing for the summit. At 5:45, I started up the remainder of the trail in the early morning chill.
Almost immediately the trail entered a boggy mass of willows, and my efforts to keep my feet dry made for slow going. The trail was a muddy, wet mess. Then, not 15 minutes from camp, the trail crossed a swift-moving Horn Fork Creek, at about 11,740 feet. I struggled to find some suitable place to cross, going up and down the eastern bank for several minutes, before finally resigning myself to the inevitable. I took off my boots and socks, replaced my boots, and sloshed on through. On the opposite bank, I poured the water from my boots, dried my feet as best I could, then replaced my dry socks and wet boots. After a frustrating delay, I was off again.
A short while later, I caught up with the two climbers who had visited my camp, on a grassy knoll overlooking a still-frozen Bear Lake. One had gone swimming in the creek (quite inadvertently) and was letting the early-morning sun dry him off. I joined them for a short break, then set off again. Now the fragmented trail led up the grassy shoulder of a broad, lumpy spur, which projected to the southeast, off of Mount Harvard’s south ridge. Ascending the grass and talus, I quickly pulled ahead of the flatland climbers.
Rather than following this ridge spur to Harvard’s 13,598-foot southern sub-peak, the route began to angle northward across a small snowfield, aiming for the shallow saddle between the peaks. I had begun to notice numerous, small, puffy white clouds drifting over the summit, and once in this saddle, the full extent of the deteriorating weather became apparent. It was beginning to cloud up pretty extensively to the west, and there was significant vertical development; I began to wonder whether the weather might turn me back.
From the small saddle, I now angled northward up the ridge. A mixture of grass, more snow and talus deposited me a couple hundred feet below (and to the south of) the summit, where I talus-hopped up a rocky slope which was crowned with a peculiar rock formation. Just as one can see the silhouette of a beaver on the skyline of Longs Peak from certain angles, this slope was crowned with a recumbent housecat. When the slope became too steep, I exited to the east onto snow above a small depression in the summit ridge, immediately east of the summit. At 10:00, the final bit of snow and rock conquered, I stood atop the peak.
By
this time, the weather was a significant worry. I was nearly 3,000 feet above
treeline, and would need at least two hours to descend out of any lightning
threat. So I signed the summit register (supplied not by the ubiquitous Colorado
Mountain Club, but instead by the Forest Service), took a couple of pictures
(including this view south into Horn Fork Basin), took a brief rest then
started down at 10:15.
About 10 minutes off the top I met one of the other climbers I had chatted with earlier; his companion had become sick and turned back, but he trudged on. While still quite high on the descent, I met about 5 other climbers on their way up, and also observed a group of 4 headed west on the peak’s east ridge. They appeared to be crossing from what must have been a very early ascent of Columbia.
My descent was routine. Having paid close attention to landmarks on the way up, I reversed my ascent with unusual precision. I was not surprised to see the weather improve steadily from the time I left the summit. Back down in the basin, below the creek crossing, I began to meet lots of campers and climbers looking for attractive camping spots. At about 1:00, I was back at my tent, and only photogenic, fluffy white clouds punctuated the deep blue sky.
After a very brief rest, I filtered a final batch of water, packed up my tent, and at 1:55, started the trip down to the trailhead.
I met lots of hikers on the trail, many ill-equipped and some in frightfully disorganized groups. One such group was spread out over more than a mile, its putative leader searching for a spot that would accommodate seven or eight tents. His teenage charges were all whittling madly upon pieces of wood when I met them, 15 minutes later. Perhaps they had been given this task to keep them out of trouble while a campsite was located. Or perhaps they were fashioning weapons with which to greet their returning leader.
At about 3:50, I had signed-out at the register, and was back at the (still crowded) trailhead. I changed back into my driving clothes, and left the trailhead at 4:05. I checked-in with news of my success from Buena Vista at 4:45, and arrived back home, weary but with the usual feeling of accomplishment, at 7:15. My 31st fourteener had been somewhat taxing — I find two-day climbs to be so, anyway — but had also been a very pretty outing. I would return for Columbia another year.
