A month had passed since Donna and I had made our rewarding climb (for me) and ill-fated attempt (for her) on Handies Peak, and I was anxious to add another San Juan summit to my log. We had gotten a good look at Redcloud and Sunshine while climbing Handies, and bagging two summits with the expenditure of little more energy and no more cash that either peak would require by itself was an appealing idea.
I left town Saturday afternoon at 2:15, and pulled into Lake City just before 7:00. Aware that they roll up the streets pretty early, I immediately gassed up the truck, checked into my room at the Silver Spur (3 beds for the price of 3!) and headed for dinner. Based on the recommendations of my friendly innkeeper, I chose the Lake City Café (for the alleged diversity of its menu) over the Happy Camper’s pizza and the prime rib in the bar ‘round back of the motel. Being a minor-league cheapskate, I wound up ordering the $7.95 fettucine with tomato sauce, which was burdened with an overabundance of one of my least favorite items: mushrooms. Maybe I’ll try the pizza at the Happy Camper next time I’m in town.
I was up at 4:10, and heading out of town at 5:15; by 6:00 I was pulling into the Silver Creek/Grizzly Gulch parking area. There were 4 cars already parked there, and all looked to have been there for a while, so I anticipated that there were some folks ahead of me. At 6:10, I started up the Silver Creek trail.
The trail climbed through the trees on the northwest side of the creek, and I quickly passed a couple of vehicle barriers and a “wilderness study area” register box. There was quite a bit of graffiti scribbled on and about the posted notice having to do with development of a skid trail by the owner of a private inholding up the drainage. I learned, among other things, that BLM stands for Bureau of Livestock and Mining.
It was a pleasant walk, with impressive displays of wildflowers and fine views of Handies and Grizzly Gulch as I hiked toward treeline. An hour up the trail, I noted the trail junction where one could cross the creek on a crude log bridge and head southeast up the drainage just west of Redcloud. This route offers access to the peak’s steep west-face scree slope, and would become part of my descent route from the saddle between Redcloud and Sunshine, if I made both peaks.
Before very long, I had left the trees behind, and climbed into a world of alpine grasses and flowers, all colorfully backlit by the slanting rays of the early morning sun as it climbed above the ridge at the head of the basin. The trail flattened out for a bit, and I made good time, pausing once to note how quiet it was: I had left the rushing creek behind, and the air was still. My breathing was the only sound.
I was starting to become concerned about the weather. As I started my climb, I had made note of the 50% or so of the sky that was covered by puffy, cotton ball clouds, mixed in spots with patchy, thin stratus layers. As I climbed up the drainage, however, I was able to see more of the western sky, and I didn’t like what I saw. Significant vertical development was apparent, and the worst of it was due west. At first, I began to doubt that the worsening weather would permit a visit to Sunshine; as I started up the switchbacks below the 13,000-foot pass on Redcloud’s northeast ridge, I began to doubt that I’d bag either peak that day. But anything could happen with the weather, and I had yet to ascend into terrain which would expose me to serious risk in an electrical storm, so I climbed upward.
I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any hikers above me, despite the cars at the trailhead. But just below the pass, I became aware of a threesome below me, working their way up the trail. I decided I would keep up a pace which would put me on top of Redcloud — weather permitting — before they could overtake me.
Climbing into the top of the pass, I was treated to fine views of Uncompahgre and Wetterhorn to the north, Peak 13,832 to the northeast, and a long stretch of the Lake Fork of the Gunnison, off to the southeast. After a brief pause, I started up the ridge.
The trail remained clear and easy to follow, but became quite steep in spots as it made its way up the rocky false summit just north of Redcloud. With the marginal weather, and determined to beat the threesome to the top, I gave it all I had. From atop the false summit, I surveyed the final 100 or so feet, caught my breath, and started off again.
At
9:55, I trudged onto the top. I was on an island in a sea of mountains, the
rugged peaks of the San Juan range strewn about me. I dropped my pack, and
pulled the plastic cylinder containing the summit register from the dilapidated
rock pile which passed for a summit cairn. My energetic pace from the pass
must have taken a toll: though the cap turned smoothly, it seemed to require
great effort to get the container open, and I seemed to be moving in slow-motion.
When I finally got the cap off, writing my name turned out to be a painfully
slow and deliberate endeavor.
The weather seemed to have turned the corner. Although the western sky was still full of billowy clouds, some clearing was evident, and there was no immediate threat of lightning. A brief rest seemed to have restored my strength, and after taking some pictures, I started a little maintenance work on the summit cairn. A Power Bar™ in one hand, I tossed loose rocks atop the pile with my other hand. As I was thus entertaining myself, the threesome trudged onto the top.
Rick, Bev and Jody were from Arizona, and they turned out to be well-versed in the geography of the San Juans. They spent much of their free time in the Telluride area, and they had climbed Uncompahgre just the day before. We discussed the steepness of the trail up from the pass, the questionable weather and the chances of a successful assault on Sunshine. The consensus was that we should at least head for the 13,500-foot saddle between the two peaks, from which a rapid descent could be made. We would watch the weather on the way, and decide at the saddle whether to go for Sunshine. At about 10:20, we set off.
The trip to the saddle was a delightful change of pace, a gentle downhill trail across grass and rock on the west side of the ridge crest. My companions turned out to be an agreeable group, and I enjoyed their company.
At the saddle, we noted the steep descent route, well to the north of Sunshine’s northern cliffs. Agreeing that the weather would permit an attempt on Sunshine, we again set off.
Sunshine’s summit was a gentler affair than Redcloud’s,
and by 11:15 we stood atop our second fourteener for the day. For some reason,
signing the register was considerably less demanding than it had been on
Redcloud. The local weather was improving slowly, though clouds had obscured
Wetterhorn’s summit, and many of the western San Juan peaks were socked-in.
We took pictures, pointed out prominent peaks, and — with the help of
binoculars — discovered where the occupants of all those cars back at
the trailhead had gotten to. There was quite a crowd on top of Handies.
We ate and drank, soaked in the on-again, off-again sunshine, and put on heavier clothing for the descent. At 11:40, well-fed and well-rested, we started down.
Soon, we were back in the saddle, necks craned, peering off the western side of the ridge, trying to get a look at the descent route, which spilled steeply into the basin below. After a few lingering doubts about the route were quelled, we started down.
It turned out to be mostly scree and loose soil, with a little talus and mud thrown in for diversity. It was fairly slow going in spots, and some of us made better time than others. We all agreed we wouldn’t want to have to reclimb it, but we also decided it was a better alternative than reclimbing Redcloud, then having to descend its steepish northeast ridge.
About an hour from the top of Sunshine, we were at the bottom of the steep stuff. The scree had given way to talus, and the several adjacent routes down the slope had merged into a single trail. After a long look back at Sunshine’s steep north-face cliffs, we set off, down the drainage.
The sun was warm on my back as I walked along, trying to keep my eyes on the loose rocks I was crossing, rather than the inviting peaks and ridges beyond Silver Creek. Each stumble helped me to refocus my efforts.
Before long, the wind-whipped, bent but defiant pines of treeline appeared along the trail. As we descended into the thickly-forested drainage, the trail assumed that pleasantly springy texture that damp, needle-covered trails have, in delightful contrast to the rugged and rocky trails of the ridges and summits. We passed the decaying remains of a miner’s cabin, and cautiously descended a steep and mud-slickened hillside, the roar of noisy Silver Creek rising up through the trees to greet us. Soon, we would cross the creek on the log bridge I had noticed early in the morning, then descend the final 1.5 miles of the Silver Creek trail.
Just above the bridge, Bev and I stopped to wait for Rick, who had taken a time-out to commune with nature just below the old miner’s cabin. Glancing casually down the trail, she spotted Rick’s neon-pink cap among the trees, dancing down the trail at least a quarter-mile ahead of us. Somehow, he had taken a variation on the trail down to the bridge, and had managed to pass us. He appeared to be moving right along, probably thinking we were still ahead of him.
With the roar of the creek, there was no hope in shouting to him. We crossed the bridge and gave chase, setting as energetic a pace as our weary feet would allow.
We made good time, and as we neared the trailhead, we found Rick coming back up the trail with a perplexed look on his face. He had arrived back at the trailhead, still thinking we had preceded him, but had found no sign of us. Comparing notes, we concluded that he had indeed found a shortcut down to the bridge.
The mystery solved, we walked the remaining tenth of a mile back to the trailhead. At 2:20, only two hours and forty minutes off Sunshine’s rocky summit, I was sitting in my truck, doors open and feet dangling, savoring the gentle caress of the cool, crisp mountain air on my bare feet, and the remnants of an unfinished blueberry muffin, left over from breakfast.
I had bagged my fifth and sixth fourteeners for the season, and my sixteenth and seventeenth overall. I still had 255 miles to drive, but I had the deep sense of relaxation and accomplishment which accompanies any good climb. And although there hadn’t been any real climbing challenges on these peaks, I had gotten two summits for the price of one, had shared much of the climb with pleasant companions, and hadn’t even had to break out the raingear once.
