Having enjoyed a straightforward walk-up on Humboldt two weeks before, I wanted something a little more challenging for my second climb of the season. Accordingly, I chose the “class 2+” north face route on Mount Lindsey, which promised some “steep and loose” terrain and some exposure.
I left Denver at noon on Sunday, and took I-25 south to the Walsenburg exit. A short distance off the interstate, I turned right onto highway 69, and drove the scenic 25 miles to the hamlet of Gardner. Just past Gardner, I turned onto the road toward Red Wing. I followed the directions in Gerry Roach’s guide, and within an hour and fifteen minutes found myself at about 10,600 feet and stymied by a steep, rutted, tight S-turn that my two-wheel-drive would not willingly navigate. Wondering precisely how far I was from the trailhead, I backed gingerly down the rough road to the preceding tight turn, where several sets of tire tracks wound around the hillside. I got out and followed the tracks on foot, and discovered a delightful camp site nestled in the trees and sheltered from the incessant wind. Returning to my truck, I drove cautiously through the trees, and parked. Then, eager to learn the remaining distance to the trailhead, I decided to take a short stroll up the road. After only two or three minutes, I spotted vehicles parked ahead, and learned to my relief that I was easily within a quarter mile of the end of the road. I chatted briefly with another climber at the trailhead who was planning on tackling Lindsey in the morning, then I walked back to my truck, and pitched my tent.
I had been enjoying dramatic views of Blanca’s north face for several miles during the drive in, and another fine view had presented itself from a short walk up the road. I grabbed my camera, strolled back up the road, and found a reasonably flat rock to perch on. It was relentlessly — at times howlingly — windy, but the wind pushed only puffy, benign clouds over the western hills and across the sky. I took some pictures and let the wind blow my hair around for perhaps half an hour before the sun went behind those western hills, and I returned to my camp.
I fixed my usual, spartan dinner, and ate it in the cab of my truck, listening to talk radio on a Denver AM station. Then, with the light fading from the sky, I arranged my gear for the morning, and settled in for the evening.
The wind whistled through the trees, the stars came out, the air grew chill — and I observed it all, being quite unable to sleep. It was one of the worst “ideal” evenings I’ve spent in a tent. When my alarm went off at 5:00, I was sure I had slept no more than two hours.
After a good groan and a couple of minutes indulging in doubting my sanity, I pulled on my climbing clothes. Then I had a light breakfast, packed up my tent, strapped on my pack, and started up the remainder of the road. It was 6:00, and there was now plenty of light, though the sun would not technically rise for a few minutes yet. A couple of minutes later, I bade a couple of climbers at the trailhead a good morning; a couple of minutes after that, I was signing in at the wilderness boundary.
From there, the trail wound through trees and then along a meadow, neither gaining nor losing much elevation. It plunged back into the trees, and after about a mile, crossed the Huerfano River (really only a creek here) via a logs-and-rocks arrangement. Now on the east side of the river, the trail — while never terribly difficult to follow — became much weaker. Soon it wound its way through the trees along a scree slope, then it turned southeast up an unnamed drainage.
“Up” is the operative word here. The trail now climbed steeply along the north side of the small drainage, and after an uneventful while, it crossed the creek as it approached treeline. Still climbing steeply, the trail brought me into the pretty little basin at the head of the drainage. The Iron Nipple had been the most striking view for some time, but now Lindsey’s summit rose above the ridge at the head of the drainage. Finally, at about treeline, the vertical northeast faces of Blanca and Ellingwood Point came into view, as did the route up the ramp from the basin onto the ridge.
Not a single cloud troubled the azure sky, and without weather worries to spur me on, I took the day’s first leisurely break at treeline before heading for the ridge. One climber, with whom I had chatted briefly the previous evening, had passed me just below treeline, and I watched his speedy progress as I munched trail mix and guzzled water.
The trail, faint at times, now angled southeast across the basin. It then gained the grassy ramp which led to the ridge, and yet more impressive views of Lindsey, Blanca and Ellingwood. After another rest stop there, I followed the trail as it bent across the scree from the Iron Nipple’s south ridge over to Lindsey’s northwest ridge. As I strolled along this gentle, almost horizontal stretch of ridge, I gazed up at the challenge to come.
After a short distance along the ridge crest, the trail contoured
onto the ridge’s northeast side, making its way for the “steep,
rubble-filled chute” Gerry Roach describes. A short stretch of talus
later, I was peering up this chute, watching the climber who had passed me
earlier carefully descend it. Rather than fight the “two steps forward,
one step back” battle, I climbed the rocks on either side — first
on the right side, then across onto the left. Just past the top of this chute,
another small col appeared, demanding more four-point climbing. I recall
thinking about how time-consuming the downclimb would be. But mostly, I was
concentrating on route-finding.
Finally, the difficulties relented and I found myself doing an easier, ascending traverse across scree, talus and trail segments into the shallow saddle between the lower, western summit and the true, eastern one. A short stroll brought me to the high point and its semi-circular rock windbreak at 10:55. The sky remained utterly devoid of clouds. Six-thousand feet above Fort Garland I stood, surveying Blanca, Little Bear and Ellingwood Point to the west, Kit Carson, the Crestones and Humboldt to the north, and the Spanish Peaks to the southeast. I took a quick GPS fix for grins and giggles, then I signed the register (actually just a scrap of paper; the capped PVC tube contained no “official” CMC log). I was luxuriating in the sunshine when five climbers I had observed following me lumbered onto the summit.
They were a pleasant group with various levels of experience, and together we identified the nearby fourteeners and discussed other peaks we had climbed. We ate and drank, I had one of them take my picture, then I packed up my gear and started down. It was 11:50; I had spent nearly an hour lounging about on the top, and I wanted to be in front of them descending the steep and loose stretches, in order to minimize the rockfall hazard I might create.
I had some queasiness about the descent, as I had encountered a couple of spots on the way up that gave me pause: small ledges covered with sand, poised over steep terrain which would not afford a second chance if control were lost. I was quite pleasantly surprised, though, when I found myself at the bottom of the upper chute, having downclimbed a couple of those spots without encountering any problems. I took a deep breath, and continued cautiously descending.
The lower chute also went easier than I expected, though not without considerable face-in, four-point downclimbing. I greeted two more climbers on their way up there, making for a total of nine of us on the peak to my knowledge — a lot, I thought, for a Sangre peak on a Monday. The five climbers above me had started their descent, and seemed to be gaining on me, but no one dislodged any rocks that went further than 10 or 15 yards. I gave myself a mental pat on the back at the bottom of the lower chute, then I crossed the talus back to the ridge, where I took a well-earned break. The other climbers joined me there.
After a change of outerwear, I started down once more: down the ramp into the basin, then down the trail. Perhaps through inattention, I managed to lose the sketchy trail in a couple of spots, but regained it quickly. The rest of the descent was uneventful, and I made it back to my truck without incident at 4:00. I changed back into my traveling clothes, and pulled out of my camp site at 4:20, with my 35th fourteener under my belt. After a pint of Gatorade in Gardner, I felt surprisingly rested and relaxed, although my feet ached. By 9:00, I was home, unpacking the truck.
I’ll remember “class 2+” Lindsey as a pleasant, scenic climb, graced with fabulous weather, good company and considerably more sustained challenge than the “class 3” west ridge route on Wilson Peak. But my vote for best “class 2+” Colorado fourteener still goes to the solid rock of the enchanting south slopes route on magnificent Mount Sneffels.
