Having two free days remaining at the end of my vacation, I decided to try to pick up the season’s third summit. Having suffered a miserable defeat on Kit Carson three weeks before, I went looking for another class 3 climb, but one without the drudgery of a backpack trip to a high camp. I settled on Wilson Peak, a mountain that had turned me back once before, in early October, 1994. On that occasion, snow, wind, cold and poor visibility stopped three other climbers and myself at the crumbling mine building at about 12,140 feet.
I left town at about 10:20 Monday morning with my daypack and my car-camping gear. Stopping only for gasoline and a drive-thru burger in Gunnison, I arrived at the trailhead parking area at 10,400 feet at 5:00. Just as I reached the trailhead, the rain began.
I chatted briefly with a climber who was preparing to head down, then I settled in to wait for the rain to stop. About 45 minutes later, it had slowed to the point where I began scouting out a camping spot. I found an agreeable if somewhat soggy site back in the trees, and quickly pitched my tent. Then, after dousing myself with insect repellent, I fixed and ate dinner on the tailgate of my truck.
By the time I had finished, it was beginning to get cool and the light was failing. I made my final preparations for the morning, then put on my long undies and got into the sleeping bag.
Next, I did something I rarely do: I slept in my sleeping bag in my tent. Usually, I barely get a wink while camping, and often listen to the alarm going off without having to wake up first; not this evening. For the first time in a long time, I awoke to the alarm (at 5:20) reasonably refreshed. By 5:45 I had worked up enough energy to start the day, so I sat up and had breakfast.
I packed up as much gear as I could — everything but the tent — and by 6:30, I had registered my visit at the trailhead, and had started up the remainder of the roadway above the locked gate at the trailhead.
I made pretty good time up the old roadway — 1200 feet per hour when I was feeling motivated — and before long I reached the picturesque ruins at 12,140 feet. Thankfully, the conditions were significantly better than they had been the last time I stood there. I took the first sit-down break of the day there, pausing to apply some moleskin to a tender toe, and admiring the scenery.
Rested and refreshed, I set out once again, now following trail fragments
across scree, snow and talus below the 13,020-foot saddle between Wilson
Peak and Point 13,540, about a mile west of the peak. The snow was still
somewhat icy, but many boots had kicked many steps into the several snowfields,
and I reached the saddle without having to break out my ice axe. As I climbed
the last 10 feet into the saddle,
Gladstone
Peak (see photo), Mount Wilson with its perennial snowfields and El Diente
sprang into view across pretty Navajo Basin.
I had been looking back down into Silver Pick Basin to see whether anyone was climbing below me, and I could find no evidence that anyone was. Neither had I spotted anyone climbing ahead of me to the saddle.
From the saddle, a climber’s trail led east along the crest of Wilson’s southwest ridge; when the ridge steepened, it began a gentle ascending traverse along the south side of the ridge. Assorted scree and talus brought me to a tiny saddle — really more of a flat spot — at about 13,260 feet on a ridge running southward from Wilson’s southwest ridge to Gladstone Peak. Here the view opened eastward, revealing Lizard Head and a panorama of high, sculpted San Juan peaks to the east.
I did not pause long to enjoy the view. The sky had begun clouding up fairly early, and now some vertical development was in evidence. I had no intention of losing this summit to weather a second time, so I snapped one picture, then launched into the route’s first class 3 pitch. Here I started northward, back toward the peak’s mounting southwest ridge, across some broken cliffs. There was some minor exposure, but there were several convenient ledges, and I was soon back on trail segments through scree and talus, working to regain the ridge.
At about 13,500 feet I was back on the rocky crest. Here the route was obvious, and I huffed and puffed along, pushed by the knowledge that bad weather was stalking me. At about 13,700 feet I was disheartened to hear a sudden thunderclap from somewhere nearby. It echoed back and forth between the peaks for several seconds before finally dying away. At first I thought it was the death knell for my climb, but then I realized the lightning must not have hit my peak: the thunder would have been deafening. I paused for a minute, and hearing no more thunder, I set off again, reminding myself that I mustn’t ascend any terrain that I could not safely descend in a downpour.
Very shortly, the route’s second class 3 pitch presented itself. A rather dramatic cut interrupted the ridge, calling for a 50-foot downclimb on the north side, a 50-foot traverse on broken ledges, and a scramble back to the ridge. Here I paused, carefully considered the weather and my energy level, and concluded that I could make a dash for the summit without incurring unacceptable risks. It was only 150 vertical feet away, and I would turn back at the first sign of any precipitation.
I cautiously navigated around the cut, and regained the ridge. Scenting victory but haunted by dark clouds and a freshening breeze, I hurried up the final bit of ridge, and felt that triumphant sense of achievement as the ridge finally eased, revealing the summit with its small rock windbreak. At 10:55, I shed my pack, then quickly started extricating the summit register from its cylinder.
Mine was the first ascent in two days, and very likely the only one that
day. After signing in, I took a few pictures (including the view of the Mt.
Wilson-El Diente ridge seen here), had a quick snack, and prepared to start
down.
The weather hadn’t kept me off the summit, but it certainly
wouldn’t permit me to linger there.
At 11:05, I set off, back down the ridge. I carefully retraced my route down to, and around the cut, then back down the ridge, across the cliffs and into the tiny saddle. Still somewhat exposed to the threat of lightning, I again paused for only a brief look back into the heart of the San Juans, then started back down the descending traverse into the lower saddle.
The rest of the descent was routine. The icy snowfields of early morning had of course become slushy, but still required no ice axe. I made pretty good time, not taking a break until I reached the crumbling mine building at 12,140 feet. As usual, the weather — having failed to deter me from making the summit — now relented. There were still plenty of puffy white clouds about, but the dark undersides of most had vanished.
I got a couple of cute marmot pictures here, then I started the hike back down the rocky road amidst echoes of mining history to my campsite. I did manage to avoid a considerable loop of roadway by descending a handy snowfield which connected a higher section of road with a lower one. At 2:25, I was back at my trailhead campsite, changing into driving clothes; by 3:00 I had packed up my tent and was easing my truck onto the rough road down to Placerville, where I would check-in, and on toward home. I had seen no other climber during the entire day.
I checked-in at 3:40, then started the long drive back. This had been only my second class 3 route, but it really hadn’t reminded me so much of Longs’ Keyhole route — my “other” class 3 route — as it had, say, Sneffels’ South Slopes route. I felt good about the climb, and found it quite enjoyable, but I didn’t really feel as though I had pushed my limits — at least not very far or very hard. Perhaps Longs made such an impression because it was only my seventh summit, and my first class 3 ascent. Perhaps I won’t feel that degree of accomplishment again until I tackle and conquer a class 4 route.
All that aside, my 32nd fourteener (and my third peak for the season) was a very pretty, very pleasant outing. I considered it something of a test piece, a useful indicator of my skill level and my chances of completing my own 55-peak grand slam.
