San Luis Peak

PEAK: San Luis Peak (E Slopes)
DATE: 7/11/94
TEAM: Mark R. Vanderbrook

For the second climb of the season, I wanted a reasonably easy peak, and distant, remote San Luis seemed my best option.
Sunday afternoon, I loaded my camping and climbing gear into the truck, and headed for Gunnison. Eight miles east of town, I turned south onto Colorado 114, expecting another hour and one-half of travel, mostly over dirt roads. I had caved in, and at the suggestion of the author of my favorite guidebook, purchased the closest thing I could find to a Gunnison National Forest map. This proved to be a good thing, for neither the guidebook nor my Gunnison Basin Area map seemed to present a completely accurate picture of the approach to the trailhead. Using both these sources, however, I did eventually find the trailhead.
For the benefit of anyone reading this who is contemplating a climb of San Luis, my directions to the trailhead follow. Take Colorado 114 south from US 50 for 19.7 miles; turn right onto (dirt) Road NN14. Proceed in a generally westerly direction for 3.3 miles, then turn right onto Road KK14. After approximately 5.5 miles, pass the Old Agency Work Center; about 3.2 miles further, turn left onto Road 8EE, Big Meadows Road (from Forest Service 788). Follow Big Meadows Road for 10 miles, then turn left onto Perfecto Creek Road (from Forest Service 790). After nine-tenths of a mile, cross Pauline Creek on a good dirt road over a drainage culvert; about 1.5 miles further, cross Perfecto Creek the same way. About 1.5 miles past Perfecto Creek, turn right on Forest Service 794. After another eight-tenths of a mile, cross Chavez Creek, then cross Nutras Creek after 1.5 more miles (both on smooth dirt over culverts). On a downgrade about 1.8 miles from Nutras Creek, note an appealing campsite on your left; descend another two-tenths of a mile to the Stewart Creek trailhead. Nearly two hours and fifty miles from US 50, you have arrived.
Colorado 114 is a delightful little piece of highway, carving graceful arcs through Cochetopa Canyon. On the way in, it occurred to me what a great motorcycling road it would be. On the way out, CDOT was making a mess of it with fresh tar and flying gravel.
As dirt roads go, the 30 miles between Colorado 114 and the trailhead aren’t too bad, and most passenger cars should be able to navigate them.
At about 6:30, I started pitching my tent at the aforementioned appealing campsite. The mosquitoes were numerous and hungry, and once the tent was up and the gear inside, I climbed in, zipped up and stayed there. Reaching through the tent door with quick, cautious movements, I boiled water on my stove, then ate my dinner of Cha-Cha Chili and freeze-dried peas. Then I unstuffed my sleeping bag, and crawled inside about 8:30.
I felt as though I was just ready to nod off when the rain started. I decided the noise it made on my rainfly was a relaxing sound, and felt smugly warm and dry in my shelter. But I could not sleep. As is usual with me and tents, I could never get comfortable enough to sleep for more than a few minutes.
When my alarm went off at 4:45, I awoke feeling as though I had just set a personal record for the evening of thirty minutes of blissful, uninterrupted sleep. There was no perceptible light in the sky, so I rolled over to snooze, and await the sun. By 5:15, there was enough light to get started, so I donned my climbing clothes, stuffed my sleeping bag, and packed all my gear — minus my Thermarest pad — into the truck. I left my soggy tent standing, in the hope that it would dry out a bit during my climb.
Inside the bug-free cab of my truck, I added cold water to a baggy containing granola and powdered milk, shook, and had breakfast. Then I drove the two-tenths of a mile down to the trailhead. At 6:08, with the sun hiding behind a bank of clouds to the east, I started up the trail into the La Garita wilderness. There were only a few clouds to the west, and I hoped that the sun would soon burn them off.
The trail meandered up a grassy, shallow drainage, along the north side of Stewart Creek. A fraction of a mile from the trailhead, the trail plunged into the trees which marched down to the water; the first several miles of the climb would be a gentle, steady ascent up the basin, through the trees.
Even as I crossed timberline, the summit remained hidden behind the lower peaks which lined the basin. But the route was simple, and when the trail finally petered-out, it only took a moment to locate the faint climber’s trail which crossed the creek and started up the slope to the southwest. This trail would deposit me on the east-west ridge connecting San Luis’ north ridge with Organ Mountain’s 13,480-foot western sub-peak, in a saddle at 13,100 feet.
I had been trying to keep up a good pace, but found myself more winded than I expected to be. At one point, I noticed that I was getting a headache, and starting to see a sparkling “aura” in my peripheral vision — the kind I associate with a migraine headache. I considered abandoning the climb, but I felt better after a rest break of several minutes.
As I huffed and puffed my way up the grassy slope, I saw ptarmigan, pika, and a couple of fat marmots, enjoying the occasional, brief patches of sunshine which floated across the basin. These weren’t the most tame marmots I’ve met, however, and they refused me a close-up.
I finally gained the broad saddle, and a view of the summit, still 900 feet above me. Where I had thought I would follow the ridge crest west and then south, I discovered that the climber’s trail continued across the rocks, keeping south of the crest until the ridge bent south, straight toward the summit. I plodded on, feeling surprisingly out-of-shape. Looking back, down into the saddle from my lofty, rocky perch, I noted a couple who had climbed to the saddle from the south; they seemed to be taking a breather.
As the trail met the ridge’s curve to the south, it joined the ridge crest, and Uncompahgre and Wetterhorn came into view. There was some vertical development in the clouds to the west, but I saw no weather that would call for a retreat. I continued my slow ascent, and watched the couple behind me gain on me.
Only a couple of minutes from the top, they passed me. At 10:58, spurred to a final exertion, I trudged onto the summit and surveyed the surroundings. In addition to the couple, there was a young man, who was three weeks into a seven-week exploration of the Colorado trail. Noting that the peak’s proximity to the trail made the climb too difficult to pass up, he indicated that he had climbed it from the south, like the couple.
I settled into the rock windbreak, signed the register — I found a likely spot on one of several loose sheets of paper, the “official” register apparently carried down without a new one yet carried up — and munched the remainder of a Power Bar. Fed and watered, and with my pulse and respiration back in a normal range, I took some pictures, and shared some peak-identification speculation with the other climbers. At his request, I took the seven-week backpacker’s picture for him, then had him take mine.
Luxuriating in the warm sunshine, the cool breeze and the gorgeous scenery, I gradually turned my attention to the weather, which was beginning to deteriorate. Showers were moving in from the west, and clouds were building in the east. Reluctantly, I made my preparations for the trip down and, after wishes for safe journeys all around, I set off. It was 11:15, and the others were preparing to start down, as well.
The descent was uneventful. Working my way down from the saddle, the sky tossed a few snow pellets at me, then relented. Making good time was easy, especially back below treeline; any pause brought a swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. So I kept moving, taking only a couple of pictures on the way down, and eating and drinking while walking. The weather continued to worsen to the east, and occasional thunder rumbled and reverberated up the basin. I was fervently hoping to get back to the trailhead and get the tent packed up before the rain hit.
About 1:55, I was back at the trailhead, and still dry. I tossed my gear into the truck, downed a cold Mountain Dew from the cooler, and drove up to my campsite. I packed up the tent, changed into my driving clothes, and at about 2:35, started the long haul back to “civilization.” At about 4:40, I called in my success from Gunnison; I gassed up, grabbed a burger, fries and a milkshake, and at 5:00, headed for Denver.
I was home at 8:30, and had my 27th fourteener under my belt. Finally at the halfway point, I’d had a good, if unexceptional climb. Although no real fan of camping, and feeling rather more out-of-shape than I had expected, the scenery and the feeling of accomplishment were enough to make up for the mosquitoes and the sleepless night.

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!