Humboldt Peak

PEAK: Humboldt Peak (W Ridge)
DATE: 7/9/96
TEAM: Mark R. Vanderbrook

Having been thwarted by bad weather two weeks before, it was with high hopes that I set out once again on Sunday for Westcliffe, a camp in the South Colony Lakes basin, and a climb of Humboldt Peak. On that earlier weekend, I had driven through miles of rain, only to have my hopes raised by clearing skies as I approached Westcliffe. Then, as I crawled up the rough road along South Colony Creek, it clouded up again; by the time I had gone as far up the rugged road as I could, it was raining. I waited for 45 minutes for the rain to relent. When it persisted, I drove back home, disappointed. I am willing to get caught in the rain; I refuse to start an outing in it.
The weather was much improved Sunday as I headed down I-25. I got started at 9:30, as planned, and I made pretty good time (having made all the route-finding mistakes on the prior weekend). At about 11:50, I was rolling into downtown Westcliffe. I found the trailhead directions in the Roach guide to be fairly accurate, though there were some minor discrepancies. At 12:35, I was once again at the highest point on the road that I could reach without risking serious damage to my two-wheel-drive truck. This was a point just above the crossing of South Colony Creek, at about 9880 feet, and about 4.2 miles from the “T-junction” at the end of Colfax Lane. Here I changed into my climbing clothes, shouldered my pack, and at about 1:00, started up the remainder of the road.
I have never been overly fond of hikes up four-wheel-drive roads, and this was no exception. Finally, however, the road reached a large parking area at about 11,040 feet, and here a trail branched west, just as the road prepared to swing southwest under the slopes of Broken Hand Peak. The road would eventually wind around and terminate on the southeast side of the middle of the three lakes, while the trail led almost due west, keeping to the north side of the lakes. I took the trail, signed the log at the wilderness boundary, and started the climb along the chain of lakes, toward treeline.
I had gotten my first glimpse of the Needle while trudging up the dusty road, and now the view became even more impressive. The reason behind the naming of Broken Hand became evident, as well. And I noted with some concern that the clouds coming over the peaks from the west were increasing in size, frequency and darkness. I wanted to camp as high up in the basin as possible, but I also wanted to get my tent pitched before the inevitable rain hit. Convinced that I had the time to do so, I continued up the trail, eventually crossing treeline, and watching the green lakes march past. As I ascended, I began to wonder whether I might have passed by the best camp sites; pitching a tent in the middle of a thicket of willows didn’t appeal at all. With the sky darkening, I became rather concerned that I would not find a spot to camp before the rain came — and then began to fear that I might not find a decent spot at all, without a retreat to treeline.
Finally, just a few yards above the point where the trail up Humboldt branched right to head for the peak’s western saddle, a dandy camping spot appeared. At about 4:10, with dark clouds scudding overhead and a fresh breeze whispering of rain to come, I set to work, erecting my tent with all possible speed. At 4:20, I tied the last lead from my rainfly to a tent stake. At 4:21, the hail came pelting down. I tossed my gear into the tent, climbed in after it, zipped the fly shut, curled up and listened to the staccato note of the hail soften as it eventually gave way to rain. After about 30 minutes, the rain gave way to sunshine, as the storm drifted down the valley. I got my camera and took a couple of pictures of my camp site, then stretched out on a rock formation a few yards north of my tent. This formation was perhaps 15 feet tall, and steep on its south side, but with several cracks and ledges to play on. Its north side was gentler, and provided a perfect perch from which to lay back and watch the clouds drift by.
Although I was not alone, camped at that highest lake — there were three other tents pitched around the lake — we were all far enough apart that the other campers weren’t intrusive. One of them did, however, put on quite a display of kite flying skill for a while.
At about 6:00, I prepared my usual dinner (Cha-Cha Chili and the remaining half of a Power Bar). As I did this, I observed a couple descending the peak. As they approached the trail junction just below my camp site, I wandered over, reconstituted chili in hand, to chat with them. They had passed by my parking spot while I was changing into my climbing clothes, and I had noticed their jeep at the large parking area just below the wilderness boundary. I asked, and they said they had indeed been on the peak during the storm; they said they had huddled under a tarp, not looking out for fear of seeing how bad it was. I wished them a safe descent (and would have wished them continued success at tempting lightning without getting struck, had I been more daring).
They headed down the mountain, I finished my dinner, and as the reddish light of dusk slanted across the peaks and the breeze became cool, I settled in for the night.
I could tell that I was camped at more than 12,000 feet: it took two ibuprofen to quell the pounding headache. Several hours after the light had faded, I finally got to sleep. As ever, I awakened periodically — at 11:19, when I peered out to see an obsidian sky dotted with innumerable, fiery star-diamonds, and again after 2:00 to the sound of rain drumming lightly on my rainfly.
I was blissfully asleep when my alarm went off at 5:40. I got the beeping silenced, then lay there, letting consciousness ooze back into myself. Then I opened the rainfly and looked out at a rack of clouds to the east, glowing red underneath, lit by the rising sun, which was still hidden behind Humboldt’s southern shoulders. My thermometer read 38 degrees.
I had a meager breakfast (a blueberry cereal bar and some water) then I pulled on my climbing clothes, and ambled down to the lake where I refilled my water bottles with filtered water. At 6:20, repacked for the climb, I started up the mountain.
The trail climbed steeply up from just below my campsite to the saddle on the peak’s western ridge. I ascended, keeping an eye on the clouds. I hoped that the sun would help to scatter them as it climbed higher in the sky, but they persisted, silently urging me to climb as quickly as possible.
From the 12,850-foot saddle, a false summit eastward on the ridge beckoned, and I continued up the trail, which remained easy to follow for most of the remainder of the route. The weather held, or deteriorated only slowly, and I climbed on, apparently the only climber on the peak. This belief turned out not to be correct, but I wouldn’t learn of my error until later.
The trail spent more time on the north side of the ridge than it did on the crest, and it occasionally got lost among the talus, but there were numerous cairns to follow, most of them in reasonable places. There were fine views of the Crestones to be had, and a pretty basin north of the ridge. In a couple of spots, that side of the ridge became a very abrupt face, and the trail crossed grassy tundra a few feet from the precipice.
As the trail bent around the very crown of the western false summit, the true summit came into view, and the final effort up the remaining talus brought me to the top at 8:40. In the east, blue sky was beating a more-or-less dignified retreat in the face of advancing layers of cloud, which were becoming somewhat dark to the south. A cool breeze whispered among the rocks that had been assembled into a leaky windbreak.
I had a well-earned snack, took the usual summit photos, signed the log, then whipped out my cell phone and made a couple of calls. I had never packed a phone before, and I had mixed feelings about this. I felt glad to have it along, in case of a real emergency, but sitting in that wild spot, talking on the phone did seem to rob the place of some of its magic.
In any event, I lounged on the summit until I felt ready to depart, no longer feeling any real urgency about the weather. By 9:20, I felt rested, and had finished off a roll of film, so I started down. As I did so, I noticed thin wisps of cloud floating across the peak’s southern shoulder. I once again took heed of the lowering clouds, and set off down the talus at a prudent pace.
As I skirted the tiny false summit to the south once again, I observed a single climber a few hundred yards below me, making a good pace up the peak. I also noted several people resting in the saddle. As I worked my way back down the talus, more people joined the group in the saddle, and I met the fellow who was ascending. We chatted briefly, and I told him, correctly, that at his pace, he would likely overtake me on the way down.
This he did, and quickly. He had been perhaps more alarmed by the worsening weather than I, and had wasted little time relaxing on the summit. We chatted for several minutes while we descended, and yet more bodies accumulated in the saddle. As it turned out, they were all members of a rather large church group. Their goals seemed to depend upon which of them I queried.
My companion was an interesting fellow, a technical climber (he mentioned adventures on El Capitan, and on the Needle’s Ellingwood Arête just the previous day) who climbed an occasional fourteener for fun. We talked climbing for a while, then he bid me a pleasant descent, and resumed his previous, quick pace down the mountain.
The trip back to camp from the saddle was uneventful. Some of the church group members were fun to chat with, and the steep trail required some degree of caution. By 10:35, I was back at my camp site, packing for the trip out. At 11:20, I set off again, back toward treeline, the comfy cabin of my truck, and home. No backpacker at heart, I endured rather than enjoyed the walk out. It was cloudy and cool, and occasional thunder reverberated in the basin as lightning smote the summits above. Rain and some brief, small hail dogged my steps, and I had to shelter under some trees briefly twice when the rain and/or hail grew heavier, but I made it back to my truck at 1:20 without having to don raingear.
My pack stowed in the passenger seat, I delighted in my bootlessness as I changed back into my driving clothes. As I pulled out to drive down the rough road toward Westcliffe, the rain started; it lasted for much of the ride home. I checked-in by phone from Westcliffe at about 2:30, and was home shortly after 5:00. Although the weather had won two weeks before, this weekend, I had beaten the weather, and had climbed my 34th fourteener, the first for the season, and my second summit in the Sangre de Cristo range.

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!