I was looking to continue a progression of sorts when I chose this climb. Having climbed “class 2” Humboldt, then “class 2+” Lindsey thus far in the season, I wanted a “class 3” peak on which to test myself. Scanning the list of such peaks, I decided to save the complicated routes on the Crestones for later; Kit Carson didn’t especially appeal to me, so I wound up essentially flipping a coin to see whether I would climb Wetterhorn or Snowmass. Obviously, Wetterhorn won.
I pulled out of my driveway at noon on Tuesday. After stops at the bank, the post office and McDonalds, I was finally headed for the Matterhorn Creek trailhead. The weather was good most of the way, and by 5:10, I was rolling through Lake City. The Roach guidebook does a nice job — as usual — with the directions to this trailhead, and the Henson Creek road was smooth and dry. I made good time, and by 5:45, I had reached the junction where the four-wheel-drive road heads up the Matterhorn Creek drainage.
Shortly after I turned onto the North Henson Creek road, a light rain started, and although it was light, it was coming down steadily by the time I reached Matterhorn Creek. I went a short distance past Matterhorn Creek, quickly surveyed a potential camping spot, then headed back down the road for about a quarter-mile to another potential spot which looked flatter. I waited, and after 10 or 15 minutes, the rain had all but stopped. I pitched my tent, fixed my dinner, and listened to the radio for a bit. Then I took a picture of clouds over Redcloud Peak, glowing pink — not red — in the sun’s last rays, and I settled in for the evening.
Although I tossed and turned quite a bit, I got a better night’s sleep than I usually do in a tent. I was intrigued by the numerous, apparently very distant flashes of lightning I saw illuminating the northern sky at one point. I never heard any thunder, and I wondered just how distant that storm was.
The alarm went off at 5:00, and I was eating breakfast soon thereafter. I packed up my camping gear by headlamp, then I organized my pack. I was ready to start just as there was enough light to do so, at about 6:10.
I hiked the quarter-mile up to the Matterhorn Creek road, and began following it through the trees. Although I might have felt otherwise behind the wheel, I thought I could have navigated it in my two-wheel-drive truck without too much difficulty, sparing myself perhaps a half-hour of road hiking (round trip). Live and learn. After a short distance, I came to the parking area at the end of the road (and the national forest boundary), where I chatted with two other climbers from Denver who were just getting underway themselves. Mark and Scott and I set off together, and they were agreeable company. They were going to try to bag both Wetterhorn and Uncompahgre if the weather permitted. And although the sky was far from clear, there was little vertical development apparent in the clouds. What the midday heat would do with that moisture was up for grabs.
They were both in good shape, and in a bigger hurry than I, so after a while I bid them good luck, and — after catching my breath — resumed my normal pace. A few minutes into the national forest, I met an older gentleman starting his climb of Wetterhorn from his camp site along the trail. Jack was from Ouray, and had abandoned a climb of Wetterhorn once, late in the day, after climbing Uncompahgre from Nellie Creek. We chatted as we hiked along, Jack setting an energetic pace, but one with which I could keep up. He was an EMT, and had retired from the chemical industry to live in Ouray, where he was involved in a number of activities. Among other endeavors, Jack did volunteer trail maintenance and competed in the Imogene Pass run. I commented that I only hoped I would be able to maintain his pace when I was his age. I never asked, but I felt certain Jack was in his sixties.
A few minutes up the trail, we passed the wilderness boundary marker, then we came to a point where a faint trail left the “stock driveway” trail we had been following. Mark and Scott were there, pondering their choices. The four of us agreed that the main trail was the best option for some distance yet, and we set off again.
Jack and I had been discussing the shapely peak at the head of the basin, and finally decided it was Matterhorn. A pretty fierce-looking ridge runs west to Wetterhorn, the summit of which was still hidden behind the steep buttress where the peak’s southeast ridge terminates.
About a mile from the North Henson Creek road, the trail makes a couple of switchbacks up and to the right. At about 11,760 feet and perhaps six-tenths of a mile further north, about where a spring appears on the map, we encountered a large, flat cairn of sorts, shaped into an arrow pointing west. One of our two companions from Denver was following this new path, and he seemed encouraged; he waved and his friend and Jack followed him. I pondered for a bit, having planned to stay on the main trail to 12,000 feet. After a brief look at the map, I decided it was a plausible way to go, and might shorten the route onto Wetterhorn’s southeast ridge. I followed them.
We crossed a small branch of Matterhorn Creek, and angled onto the slopes on the western side of the basin. Although we had passed a couple of additional cairns shortly after leaving the main trail, we soon found ourselves with no trail and no cairns. We continued climbing in a northerly then a northwesterly direction, and after a while we saw a faint trail angling up from the east: probably the higher trail I had planned to take. We intersected this trail, and followed it as it climbed steeply westward into the saddle on Wetterhorn’s southeast ridge. A fine view of stately Uncompahgre Peak to the east had developed as we climbed up the basin, but now the layers of cloud which hid the sun were solidifying, and descending slowly upon that peak; the summit was wreathed in cloud. We had also had a good view of Wetterhorn’s summit for a while, and I watched an occasional wisp of cloud drift by it.
As we gained the ridge, a San Juan panorama unfolded before us: dozens of peaks, some yet ornamented with snowfields, stretched to the horizon under the broken cloud cover. We quickly spotted Sneffels, and might have identified Handies. What I at first had thought to be the buzzing of dirt bikes now became clear: the tundra in the basin to the west was dotted with several dozen noisy sheep. They made quite the steady, rather annoying racket. Despite the sheep, we took a brief rest here, then we pressed on up the ridge, wanting to make the summit and descend to relative safety before the weather jeopardized that goal.
After a short, easy stretch, the cairned route angled onto the southwest side of the ridge, where it ceased being a hike and became a rock climb. Here we met the first climber to summit, who was on his way down (and perhaps, on to Uncompahgre). His was the bright blue tent we had seen pitched high on the eastern side of the basin, along the main trail. If things got wet, he said, we were welcome to stop by and get out of the rain.
Mark and Scott were now well ahead of us, and Jack and I shared route-finding responsibilities. I found an exposed spot or two here which gave me pause, but I collected my thoughts, planned a route, and got through them. Eventually, we found ourselves back on the ridge crest, passing several steep alternative routes which we might have taken. Here we met Mark and Scott as they descended, and we wished them good luck on Uncompahgre.
The route now climbed steeply along the east side of the 40-foot shark-fin tower at about 13,840 feet. At the northeastern base of the tower there is a notch; just above this notch is a second notch. We followed cairns through this second, slightly higher notch, and found ourselves descending a short, smooth low-angle ramp to a ledge on the west side of the peak. We traversed north a short distance, and then the summit gully appeared.
I had seen the photo, of course, in the Roach guide. But steep rock is always more impressive in person. The climbing here wasn’t really that tough, but it was exposed, and steep. The rock further to the north was vertical. After looking up at the clouds rushing over the top of the gully, I reassured myself that I could “do this,” then I started up. This shallow, steep gully presented plenty of handholds, though most were sprinkled with sand, which spiced things up a little. The rock itself was pretty solid, fortunately. Perhaps halfway up, it seemed prudent to traverse a few feet to the north again. I avoided looking down, focused on the climbing and found myself stepping onto the northwestern end of the summit at 10:15.
Jack (right) was right behind me, and the clouds were right above us. They seemed to have come out of nowhere. I recall turning to look back to the northwest, to see Jack appear over the edge of the summit, but what I saw was this rapidly-moving layer of clouds, maybe 40 feet above us. Apparently, I had been so focused on moving safely up the rock I had forgotten about the clouds. They instantly imparted a sense of urgency, at least in my mind. I was on a mission now, and the goal was a safe descent. That meant getting down at least to the shark-fin tower before any precipitation hit.
I found the summit log, and signed in. There was no PVC capsule to be found, just the log, a pen and a pencil rolled up in a plastic bag, the whole affair wedged into a large rock cairn. Having recorded my success, I intently devoured the remaining half of a Power Bar, washed it down with some water, and made ready to depart. I had Jack take the obligatory summit photo, then I took his, and promised to mail it to him in Ouray. When he asked, “Do you think we should start down?” I was already passing him, heading for the cairn at the northwestern end of the summit. It was 10:25. As we started down, a couple of climbers I had observed behind us on the ascent were climbing onto the top. One of them knew Jack, and they chatted briefly. I said hello, good-bye, and began my descent.
The exposure, at least for me, becomes even more of an issue when descending a route such as this, and I moved slowly and carefully. Jack caught and passed me. I picked my way down the rock with great circumspection. Finally, I was back at the base of the steep gully. Jack and I were both glad to be climbing together; while I had waited for him in a spot or two on the ascent, he waited now for me. I climbed the short ramp, climbed back through the notch, thought about digging my camera out of my pack and taking a picture of the shark-fin, thought better of it, and started down again.
We may not have taken exactly the same route down onto the southwestern side of the ridge, but much of it looked familiar. I got in a nerve-wracking, exposed, short traverse across a dark-colored slab at one point to get back on the route. But before very long, most of the peak’s difficulties were behind us. And as is so often the case, once we left the summit, the weather began to improve, if briefly. Although thunder would rumble down from the heights before I reached my truck, the clouds were now breaking up, and a dramatic shaft of sunlight stabbed down at Uncompahgre’s western flanks (below), across the basin to the east.
The rest of the descent was routine. While we had ascended nearly to the ridge from the basin without benefit of a trail, and spotted a higher trail, we now found another trail, faint at times, which descended directly along the western side of the basin. Before we reached the main trail, this little trail faded away in the grass, but a short walk eastward put us back on the “stock driveway.”
At his camp site, Jack turned aside to pack up his gear before backpacking back down to the parking area. We wished each other pleasant climbing, then
I started down the remainder of the trail, with the clouds thickening and darkening in all directions. At 1:25, I was back at my truck, changing back into my traveling clothes.
By 1:45 or so, I was rolling back down the road toward Lake City. The rain soon started, and it continued with few pauses all the way into Denver. At 2:30, I checked-in by phone from Lake City; I grabbed a Gatorade and some chocolate-chip cookies, and headed for home. Despite the rain, I made good time, arriving at 7:15.
With my 36th fourteener “in the bag,” I wondered about the distortions of memory that occur with time. Was Longs’ Keyhole route as challenging as this climb of Wetterhorn? I want to say that it can’t have been. But I climbed Longs five years ago. Do I really remember accurately how tough it was? I look at pictures of the Narrows, and I remember how easy they seemed. I look at pictures I took on the Homestretch, and it looks tougher than I remember. Of course, classifying a route as “class 3” indicates only the difficulty of the hardest move on the route; it says nothing about how sustained the difficulty is. And then, there’s exposure. But I think it must be human nature to more readily allow past difficulties to recede from memory, and to more easily remember prior pleasures.
Enough musing on human nature. Wetterhorn was a beautiful, dramatic peak with an interesting route, a lot of personality and more exposure than I really need. Only marginal weather marred the outing; a nice, leisurely rest on the top would have been just the ticket. And with three “class 3” peaks done, I feel ready to see what the “class 4” climbs entail, although that may have to wait for next summer.
