Missouri Mountain was the second summit scheduled into a four-day weekend I had arranged. The preceding Friday, I had driven to Ouray; I had climbed Mount Sneffels on Saturday, and driven to Buena Vista on Sunday. I stayed at the clean but inexpensive Alpine Motel, just south of Buena Vista in Johnson Village.
Monday morning, I arrived at the Missouri Gulch trailhead at 6:30, in light drizzle. Having climbed both La Plata Peak and Huron Peak from Winfield, another couple of miles up the road, I had passed Missouri Gulch several times. I had known about the trailhead, but never known its precise location; I had approached the area wondering how much hunting around I would have to do in order to find it. A new sign, posted right on the road dispelled my anxiety; I took the indicated turn, and found myself at the trailhead.
As I pulled into the parking area, I observed a couple, wearing hiking attire, hovering about their car, gazing up at the clouds, and looking generally dissatisfied with the weather. I parked, and started trying to decide what the weather would do, and whether I really wanted to start a climb in the rain.
The couple appeared to give up on it, and they drove off. I sat there, watching drizzle collect on my windshield. Finally I decided the clouds were breaking up; a couple of minutes later, the drizzle had stopped. At 6:45, concerned about the late start I was getting and its implications for my checking-in after the climb, I shouldered my pack, and started up the trail.
Actually, I started down the trail: down to the wilderness area register, where I signed in, and across the bridge over Clear Creek. Then it was up the switchbacks into Missouri Gulch, as low-flying clouds floated up the valley below me.
The trail was steep, but very well-maintained, with downed wood positioned near each switchback to discourage short-cutting. At about 10,800 feet, the trail crossed to the east side of the creek, then continued up across treeline, at about 11,400 feet, where the summit finally became visible. Although Missouri’s neighbor Belford had been visible for some time, Missouri had been hidden by the steep walls of the gulch.
As I took a brief rest, a party of four climbers overtook me.
They were headed for Belford and Oxford, and after the usual pleasantries,
they headed up the trail. I followed, about one-quarter of a mile behind
them.
Shortly after I first noticed that they were starting up Belford’s northwest ridge, I came to a trail junction. It was clear they had taken the left fork to get onto Belford’s flanks, but it wasn’t obvious which fork I wanted to take for Missouri. My plan was to stay on the trail to about 12,600 feet, where the trail would swing east and make for Elkhead Pass; there, I would bear west and seek a route onto Missouri’s northwest ridge. I pondered for a bit, then took the right-hand fork.
Encouragingly, the trail remained strong as it wound among some willows and crossed and re-crossed the creek. It contoured around a bench, and continued climbing up the gulch; after perhaps another mile, it gained a reasonably level area beneath Missouri’s steep north face. Here, another solo climber caught up to me, as I sat on the decaying remains of what must have been a miner’s cabin. A low, wooden frame and a single, weathered floorboard were all that remained.
The climber was a fit-looking gentleman of perhaps 45 or 50 years, carrying an ancient-looking canvas rucksack. Bob was the Fire Chief of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and Missouri would be his 10th fourteener. After we had both caught our breath, we set off again, both of us feeling that the remainder of the climb would be more enjoyable together.
The weather, which had been worrisome from the start, was now becoming more so. The stratified layers which had produced the morning’s drizzle were starting to give way to discrete cumulus clouds with dark underbellies, especially to the north. But exposure to lightning risk wouldn’t be severe until we gained Missouri’s northwest ridge, and anything could happen, so we climbed on.
Although we hadn’t yet reached the point where the trail swung eastward, we immediately encountered a cairn at the base of a steep scree slope which led up around some rock outcroppings, then steeply up to the ridge. Since much delay in starting onto the ridge would commit us to a north face couloir, we started up the slope.
As the slope steepened, it became a case of “two steps forward, one step back.” But it was obvious that we had been preceded up the slope, so we toiled upward. Once above the rock outcroppings, the slope steepened yet again, and the real grunt work began. The loose surface of the slope made standing still all but impossible; when not moving forward, we found ourselves sliding backward.
Finally, we climbed out onto the ridge, where the view to the west opened before us. Perhaps our dauntless display of energy on the scree had swayed the weather gods; while things worsened to the north, our peak was awash in sunshine.
After a brief rest stop, we set off down the ridge, only 150 vertical feet (and about one-quarter of a mile) separating us from our goal. The ridge threw a couple of cuts at us, but we downclimbed them on the southwestern side, and at 11:25, we strolled up the final few feet onto the windy summit. Although the sun was warm, the wind was quite cool, and we crouched behind a small rock windbreak when not taking pictures.
When I used his camera to take his picture, it behaved oddly: the mirror hung up for almost a full second. To ensure that he would have pictures, I took his picture with my camera, and promised to send it to him.
With the weather borderline, and the cold wind whistling among the rocks, we weren’t anxious to spend a lot of time on top, so we signed the register, quickly had some food and water, and prepared to start down. At about 11:40, we set off, back down the ridge.
Our descent was routine. Bob proved the more skilled boot-skier on the scree slope, but we both descended the thing one helluva lot quicker than we had ascended it. At the bottom, back at the cabin ruins, we took a long break, he to eat lunch, and I to recline on that single remaining floorboard, my hat shading my face, listening to the buzzing of the flies and soaking up the sun.
Now that we were off the peak, the clouds started to thin out, although they still looked nasty to the north. I was glad I wasn’t on Elbert.
As we prepared to head back down the trail, a fellow we thought we had observed on the summit much earlier in the morning came down the main trail. Had he descended the infamous east ridge? When he was close enough to shout to, we inquired. Yes, he had spent the evening up at the headwall, and had done the best — i.e., the worst — part of the east ridge. We congratulated him on his daring accomplishment, and wished him, and his wife and kids well.
After Bob had washed his hands in the creek, we set off once again. Soon, we were overtaken by the four Belford/Oxford climbers, descending from the Elkhead Pass area. They seemed to have had a good climb, and we wound up swinging leads with them back down to the trailhead, which we reached at 3:15.
While the other climbers cooled various amounts of their tired bodies in the chilly waters of Clear Creek, I prepared to drive down to a phone and check-in. Although my 20th summit wasn’t as dramatic a climb as Sneffels, two days before, I was relaxed, and felt as though I’d done a good day’s work.
After checking-in from Granite, I headed for Leadville, then home, very satisfied with my four days and two climbs. And I was very glad I hadn’t attempted Elbert — or Massive, for that matter — that day, as I drove through the rain, listening to the thunder, and watching the lightning as it smote the high peaks of the north-central Sawatch.
