Chased by Lightning Down Windom Peak (#29)

Looking toward the upper basin before dawn. 

I awoke at 6:30 am to the sound of voices on their way up the trail. I didn't get out of my tent until 15 minutes later.

Darkness began to dissipate. Nearby peaks were now illuminated enough for recognition. I detected no glow on the summits, so I knew the sun had yet to rise.

I walked down by the other tents and could hear stirring, but no one was up. The same tame doe loitered outside.

Once they got up and cooked some breakfast, a fox with his bushy tail came to visit, but then quickly left.

By the time everyone was ready it was 8:15 and I noticed clouds already forming around the peaks. Theoretically, we could climb four peaks in one day: Windom, Sunlight, Eolus, and North Eolus⸻all above 14,000 feet. Windom was our first goal. Sunlight was too technical, so I didn't even consider it. The Eolus peaks would require an additional 1,500 feet of climbing, and I wasn't sure I was up for that, nor did I think we had the time. Eolus also had a “catwalk” and a steep pitch to the summit that made me hesitant.

The trail to Twin Lakes was steep and we quickly gained 1,000 feet. The trail stayed close to Needle Creek, which had several waterfalls.

Climbing toward the upper basin. 

High elevation cascade. 

We arrived at Twin Lakes. It was very beautiful, but I was disappointed there were no mountain goats. Apparently they're really tame up here. From here we could see Eolus and North Eolus, but Windom was hidden behind a craggy ridge.

A common trail for both Windom and Sunlight leads to the east. As we climbed we gained greater views of Sunlight and the Sunlight Spire, a gnarly-looking pinnacle that only crazy people climb. The spire rises to just under 14,000 feet.

Rest stop to enjoy the view of Twin Lakes. 

Twin Lakes from a higher vantage. Now in view are Eolus (left) and North Eolus (right).

Sunlight Peak on left, Sunlight Spire on right.

Finally we began our ascent toward Windom, sometimes on a trail and at other times climbing over boulders. More and more climbers seemed to appear out of nowhere, some going up and others coming down. Some had already climbed Sunlight, and without exception, everyone said it was very sketchy!

The higher we scaled, the more precarious it became. On the north side were still patches of ice.

Ascent to Windom Peak. 

When we arrived near the peak, we still had to climb atop giant blocks to reach the true summit, which only had room for one person. After getting my obligatory pictures I joined the rest of the group off to the side.

The view atop Windom was wild. Just like most places in the Colorado Rockies, there were craggy peaks everywhere, a few over 14,000 feet, but most in the 13,000 range. Among the few I could recognize were the two Eolus peaks and Vestal Peak.

View from Windom Peak, looking back toward Twin Lakes and Eolus Peaks.

Sunlight Spire in foreground. Arrow, Vestal, and Trinity Peaks in background. 

As best as I can tell this is Monitor Peak on the left, Peak Thirteen on the right, and Animas Mountain peeking from behind. 

Below us were several high mountain lakes, each in their own cirque or basin. One of those, directly below us, was Grizzly Gulch. As the story goes, back in the late 1800's during the mining days of the San Juan Mountains, one prospector had rheumatism so bad that he had to be helped onto his horse. One day, after dismounting his horse, he found a cure for his rheumatism when he spotted a grizzly bear and took off running. He ran until another man was able to scare the bear off. Thus, they named this location Grizzly Gulch.

Apparently the peak was named in 1902 after William Windom, a senator from Minnesota. I think it is quite silly to name a peak after someone who likely never saw it.

Chilling on the peak.

Windom and Sundom Lakes. In the distance is the Rio Grande Pyramid, and if you look closely, "The Window."

Looking into Grizzly Gulch. 

We took our time near the peak until we were the last ones there. I knew it was time to get down. Darker clouds were now gathering.

It seemed as if the way down was more difficult than the way up. I felt as if we were always losing the route.

As we descended, the air felt different. It was subtle, but it now felt cold and dank. I knew something was moving in.

Dave, Britt and Devin were well ahead of Derek and I, but they kindly waited for us. They waited next to a cairn that was six-feet tall!

Not long after we met up it started to hail. It wasn't much and didn't even blanket the ground, but it was enough to keep us on our toes.

On the way down storm clouds are gathering.  Viewing Twin Lakes and Chicago Basin. 

Devin was pretty set on hiking up to Eolus, but I didn't feel good about it. I was confident there was more storm to come. To accomplish this we would have to hike all the way back down to Twin Lakes (which we had to do anyway) and then ascend 1,500 feet on the other side.

Finally we arrived at Twin Lakes and it was there we finally took a well-deserved break. I laid down on the rock, popped my back, put a ball cap over my face, and closed my eyes. It felt as if I were laying on a heavenly cloud!

Final rest at Twin Lakes before the storm. 

Our view into the basin was limited, but I could sense the storm was coming from that direction. I felt uneasy and suggested it was time to leave. Then we heard the first rumbling of thunder.

I first noticed raindrops piercing the surface of the lake, then I felt them on my skin. We quickly gathered everything and hurried down the trail.

Another clap of thunder and we moved even quicker. I stopped to put on my poncho, fumbling with the clasp on my pack. As we scurried down the trail I noticed the reflection of a flash from the corner of my glasses, then suddenly a boom of thunder from behind that pushed us along.

Everything was wet now―the trail, the trees, the bushes. Devin and Dave fell behind with Derek, who struggled to find traction with his tennis shoes. Britt pushed far ahead.

Luckily for us there was no more lightning. Derek fell pretty hard and hit his funny bone. There was no time to enjoy the scenery because it was a mad dash to get down.

Near the bottom I talked to a couple who were fleeing just like us. They had been on the catwalk of Eolus when it started to hail, so they turned around. They thought they might try North Eolus, but that's when the first lightning struck. They didn't bag a single peak.

When we got back to camp, Dave and his boys found their tents flooded with water. Luckily for me, mine was dry.

For the next two hours I listened to the rain patter on the roof of my tent. During that time I wrote, ate and slept. My pants near my lower legs were all that was wet.

When the rain finally stopped I got out of my tent and found the Dunnell men busy hanging items up to dry and gathering wood. Although it is prohibited in this area, they built a fire and I can't say I blame them.

Everything they brought was wet, and if it weren't for the fire, nothing would have dried.

Hanging out to dry.

Devin cutting fire wood. 

The warmth of a fire!

For the next several hours they fed the fire and held socks and sleeping bags near the flames. Even I, who was mostly dry, appreciated the warmth.

After the sun set we remained by the fire. We told stories of skinwalkers, possessed people, and anything else that came to mind. The clouds finally moved out and a canopy of stars unfolded over the basin.

We listened to the crackle of the fire and constant rush of the stream. It felt good to be disconnected from the rest of the world. ♠

Milky Way in Chicago basin.

Windom Peak

Distance from camp: 2.4 miles

Distance from train: 9.1 miles

Elevation gain from camp: 2,842 feet

Elevation gain from train: 5,821 feet

Final elevation: 14,061 feet

Total round-trip mileage from train (including small detour at end): 20.8 miles

Brutal, but Beautiful: Climbing Mount Sneffels (Peak #8)

Lower Blue Lake is one of the most picturesque places I have ever been. Sitting at 11,000 feet, it is surrounded by stunning snow-capped mountains, colorful alpine plants, and even a tall cascade that tumbles from the upper shelf of the mountain into the far side of the lake. The lake mesmerizes the eye with its turquoise water. We couldn't help but to look at the lake in disbelief, as if it didn't really exist. Undoubtedly, it was a surreal world we had just entered. 

Lower Blue Lake.

Another angle of Lower Blue Lake.

Waterfall cascading toward the lake.

Tomorrow we would attempt to summit Mount Sneffels, a Colorado fourteener that has eluded us in the past. Two years ago we had this trip all planned out, then, within a week of our departure, Dave unexpectedly got called to a high ecclesiastical position that compelled him to stay home. Suddenly, all our plans were squashed. 

Now we were at it again, this time with two of Dave's sons and wife, Laurie. We set up camp on the northwest shore, with a beautiful view of Lower Blue Lake. That night the wind roared voraciously. One of our tents had the pegs yanked from the ground. None of us slept well. 

Lower Blue Lake is one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen.

At 11,000 feet, the lake is not only beautiful, but also cold.

One of many waterfalls along the trail.

After a restless night, the first streak of dawn peered over the eastern ridge. The wind hadn't relented as we each ate a bite for breakfast. It was cold enough that I wore my coat and gloves, with a beanie over my ears. Laurie stayed behind while the four men began their ascent along the trail. 

Our plan was to ascend the Southwest Ridge, a more technical route that included some class-3 climbing and a section near the top with significant exposure. I will admit that with the strong wind, I was now becoming hesitant to hike the ridge. I've been on mountain summits in the past that have had gusts strong enough to blow a grown man over the edge. 

Majestic view of Upper Blue Lake and Middle Blue Lake.

The uphill pitch was relentless and soon we were well above Lower Blue Lake. The next mile of trail continued to climb and took us past Middle Blue Lake and Upper Blue Lake. By now we were above the treeline, which created a beautiful setting, but also allowed the wind to speed through unobstructed. 

Beyond Upper Blue Lake the trail follows a series of sixteen switchbacks, gaining 1,200 feet to Blue Lake Pass. This section is long and tedious, involving sections with very loose small rock. Here I was worried about losing my footing, as it would have been an ugly downward slide. 

Hiking along the switchbacks.

We made it to Blue Lake Pass, a major crossroads on our hike this day. It is here where the hiker catches his first glimpse of Yankee Boy Basin, which is where the majority of the hikers who ascend Mount Sneffels begin their journey. With a good four-wheel drive you can access a road that will bring you within a couple miles of the peak. 

But it was also here where I knew we would have to make a decision: Do we hike up the Southwest Ridge to the summit, or do we take the standard route, which involves dropping a few hundred feet before climbing a very difficult talus-filled slope? The wind was the major factor as I turned the situation over in my mind. I didn't want to climb all the way up, within 200 feet of the summit, and find that the wind was blowing at hurricane force on the steep exposed section. Maybe I'm just a chicken, but I made the executive decision to take the standard route. 

At Blue Lakes Pass, looking at the Southwest Ridge.

Long view of the Southwest Ridge.

After our decent on the east side of Blue Lake Pass, we came to a wooden sign that pointed north. We had only .8 miles to Mount Sneffels. Making it difficult, however, was the fact that we would be climbing 1,500 feet with little or no trail, over slopes of talus and scree. Anxious to reach our destination, we let the journey begin. 

It didn't take long before the steep ascent began to wear on our endurance. Every stride was a conscious effort to step on a stable rock. That didn't always happen. Often the scree would wobble or come sliding down, adding to the difficulty. Even with stable footing, our stamina was tested. I felt I had an advantage since I had already climbed several peaks over the course of the summer. 

As usual, I would set my eye on a rock ahead, then attempt to keep moving until I reached that goal. Then I would take a short breather. This tactic usually worked. I noticed as I advanced higher up the slope that Dave was struggling and lagged further behind. For someone his age he is far more active than most, but age takes its toll. 

Our hike took us up this steep slope to the gap between the two craggy peaks.

Looking down from the steep climb up.

At 13,560 feet is Lavender Col, which is a saddle between Mount Sneffels to the north and other unnamed craggy peaks to the south. Here we waited for Dave. Devin had arrived just before me and Derek was down closer to Dave. The two of us removed our packs and rested against the rocks. 

From this point forward we were to head up a chute or gully, which would be even steeper than what we had already climbed. From where we rested, the rocks appeared much bigger, but stable. I worried about Dave being able to tackle this steeper section. 

At Lavender Col, looking up at the gully.

Finally Dave and Derek arrived. Immediately Dave took off his pack, laid flat on his back and closed his eyes. He didn't look good. “I don't think I can make it,” he said. “I am really light-headed.” We gave him words of encouragement, but knew that for now it was best to let him rest. At least the skies were blue and there was no threat of storms anywhere. 

Although this was the “standard route,” it was by no means a walk in the park. Even as we rested, we encountered some, who upon seeing the next phase in this already arduous hike, decided to turn around. All of us were exhausted. It was hard to tell if Dave's issues resulted from exhaustion, dehydration or altitude sickness. 

“You go on without me,” Dave said. “I'll wait for you down here.” We knew that in his right mind he didn't want that. We traveled over seven hours solely to hike this peak! This would be his very first fourteener and we didn't want to leave him behind. 

“You rest as long as you need to,” I said. “We're not going without you.” So we waited. 

This gave me time to scan to landscape. It was rugged as hell. Craggy pinnacles arose from the far side of the col and the slope to the other side was so precipitous that I didn't care to look down. As far as the eye could see were more mountains, all appearing just as jagged as the one upon which we now sat. 

At last Dave showed a little encouragement. I gave him a couple ibuprofen for his throbbing headache. After a little more rest he stated, “I think I can do it if I take it slowly. But let me rest a little longer. You guys can get going.” 

With that, Devin and I started moving again. If I remember correctly, Derek stayed down with his dad.

Although this next phase through the gully was a bit steeper, I enjoyed it much more. The boulders were big and everything was solid. Nothing shifted under our feet. I stayed close to the right-side wall and slowly made my way up. 

Looking down the gully.

I glanced down toward the bottom and saw that Dave was on his feet and trekking upward. This made me happy. I wasn't exactly sure what to do in this situation, whether to wait or go on. I continued to the very top of the gulley and there Devin and I waited while we assessed our next move. 

At this point was the infamous “V-notch” in the rock. It was necessary to climb up through this notch (a class-3 move) to gain the summit. I had studied this move on YouTube and felt confident I could do it. But what I didn't realize was that there was a significant drop-off on the left side. If for some reason your hands slipped from the rock, you'd have a pretty nasty fall that probably wouldn't kill you, but would certainly break bones. 

This "V" notch near the hiker's head is a little more difficult than it appears.

Dave was making progress slowly, but surely. I worried that he would be so tired that it would be difficult to climb through the notch. 

When Derek made it to the top, Devin and I decided it would be best to climb through the notch so we could help the others up. The climb wasn't too bad. All the grips were secure and as long as you knew where to put your hands and feet, and didn't look down, you were fine. 

I will admit that after I climbed through the notch and learned that we still had another steep climb to go, I was a little discouraged. There was another lady that climbed through the notch just before us and when she saw the final climb, she opted to turn around. I didn't understand why she would get so close to the top just to turn around. 

Finally Dave made it. He had no problem climbing through the notch. I knew he could do it. He is an animal and in his prime was a far better athlete than I ever was. 

Now the four of us were together again. From this point it required a little route-finding and climbing up rocks. My goal was to stay away from the ledge as the exposure was significant. 

At last we made it to the top of Mount Sneffels, elevation 14,158 feet! 

The view from the top was magnificent! We could see all the Blue Lakes, as well as a lake in Yankee Boy Basin. Further down the basin we could see the buildings of Camp Bird Mine. On the other side of the ridge we could see the upper slopes of ski runs in Telluride. 

Beautiful view from the summit, looking toward the Blue Lakes.

Yankee Boy Basin.

I am always amazed at how many mountains you can see in Colorado. Standing atop Sneffels the land was covered with mountains as far as the eye could see in almost every direction. Up close we could see the thirteeners of Dallas and Gilpin Peaks. Further out I spotted the Wilson group, which includes the fourteeners of Wilson Peak, Mount Wilson and El Diente. To the west of them is the cluster of Dolores Peak, Dunn Peak and Middle Peak. Even further west, and with some isolation, rose the Lone Cone, the first peak I ever climbed in Colorado. To the east was Uncompahgre Peak, the only other peak in the area to rise higher than Sneffels. And if you looked close enough, the spectacular Wetterhorn Peak stood directly in front, the two nearly blending together. 

We spent a mere ten minutes on the summit. We had it all to ourselves with the exception of a lone hiker who climbed the Southwest Ridge. He agreed to take our picture. I was happy that it included the four of us. 

We had reached our goal, but the day was far from over. We still had a long journey back to the truck. Of this I will only give brief details. 

Peaks seen from the summit of Mount Sneffels.

Uncompahgre is the highest peak in the San Juan's.

Mount Sneffels, elevation 14,158 feet.

We left the peak at 2:04. As is usually the case, the walk down a steep mountain hill is nearly as painful. Derek struggled the most on this section because of the lack of traction on his tennis shoes. Once we made it to the pass we sent Devin ahead so he could arrive at camp and inform Laurie not to worry about us (we were much later than our anticipated time). 

The Blue Lakes were just as beautiful on the way down. Now the sun had traveled to the west side, creating new lighting and casting long shadows. The wind still picked up from time to time. 

Upper Blue Lake on the way down.

Looking back at Upper Blue Lake.

It was 5:35 when we arrived at camp. We had an hour and a half to pick up camp before the sun set. By 7 pm we were once again on the trail, now with heavy packs on our shoulders. The mileage to the truck was 3.3 miles, all downhill. Our plan was to hustle. 

Back at camp.

The sun was now making its way to the other side of the world. The alpenglow radiated on the mountainside. A long waterfall tumbled down the canyon. And as if we hadn't seen enough beauty already, a half-moon slowly rose above the snow-dusted peaks. This was truly paradise! 

It was dark by the time we made it to the truck. Our flashlights came in very handy. Devin and I made it first and waited for half an hour. Dallas Creek rushed in the distance. The silhouette of pine trees against a backdrop of stars made for a perfect night. The brisk air had a feel of fall to it. We sat and waited, and for a while, the basin belonged to us. ♠

Half moon rising over the mountain.

Mount Sneffels
 

Miles from truck (one way): 6.9 miles
 

Elevation gain: 4,808 feet
 

Final elevation: 14,158 feet

 

View of Mount Sneffels on the drive in.

Five happy souls, ready to tackle the mountain. (Picture taken before the hike.)

Wilson Peak

I couldn't believe that we just traveled seven hours, hiked eight miles, and climbed 4,600 feet in elevation, just to chicken out!

We climbed to the top of the false summit and looked in front of us at the craggy and steep true summit of Wilson Peak. My jaw dropped.

“Are we really supposed to climb up that? There's no way!” That was my friend, Jordan, who was now seeing the difficult task ahead for the first time. Me, on the other hand, I knew that we would have a difficult Class 3 climb at the very end―and I had seen pictures―but I hoped that it wasn't as bad in real life. I was wrong.

At the very top of the summit, we could see four climbers silhouetted like tiny army men above the curvature of the crest, slowly beginning to work their way down to the false summit. They wore helmets and looked like they had the experience of Everest.

I didn't think I would give in like this, but suddenly, the thought of preserving my life felt stronger than the desire to fulfill my goal of climbing a fourteener. If I turn around and go back right now, I rationalized, I will be fine with that.

Another climber, Jim, arrived just behind us at the false summit, removed his hat, and wiped his brow, peering at the peak. “That looks quite a bit steeper than I remember,” he remarked.

“Have you climbed it before?” I asked.

“When I was much younger. About twenty years ago.” 

He was still going to climb it.  I could tell from the look in his eyes.

Just then, a married couple in their forties joined us on the narrow pad of the false summit. The wife took one look at Wilson Peak and spoke frankly, “I think we're done. We're not going up there!”

So, is that how it ends with most who climb up here, chickening out before the final ascent?

We continued to watch the four climbers very slowly maneuver their bodies down and across blocks of rock. Occasionally a wedge would break loose and tumble below where the fall was long. Every grip of the hand and every placement of the foot was calculated with precision, as the cost of a mistake could be fatal.

So this is how it would end.

For years now, it had been a goal of mine to hike a mountain that was over 14,000 feet high. Colorado has fifty-three; California, twelve; and Washington, two. No other state, other than Alaska, has a mountain that qualifies as a fourteener.

My attention became drawn to the Wilson Massif, a group of three fourteeners in the San Juan Mountains of southwest Colorado: Mount Wilson, El Diente, and Wilson Peak. Of the three, Mount Wilson and El Diente appeared to be the most difficult and out of the range of my ability or desire. So I focused on Wilson Peak.

The first factoid that one usually learns about Wilson Peak is that it is the mountain depicted on many Coors Beer cans and bottles. Even though I don't drink beer, that remains an intriguing reason to climb this iconic summit. At 14,023 feet, Wilson Peak ranks number 48 in Colorado, 60 in the contiguous forty-eight states, and 81 including Alaska.

Lower Navajo Basin, and Dolores Peak in background.

After years of dreaming and even a planned trip that never happened, we finally found ourselves camped in Navajo Basin, elevation 11,160 feet.

The wind howled as I attempt to sleep while in my tent, flapping the corners of the tarp and occasionally sending a drift of cold air through the seams. We set up camp next to the small, but swiftly moving West Dolores River, and in the dark, with gusts of wind racing through the basin, I couldn't tell the wind from the river.

I didn't sleep at all that night, instead conjuring images in my mind of being on the peak, and then being swept away by a sudden burst of wind. I also worried of a storm blowing in and halting our trip to the top.

In the morning we loaded our day packs and began the trek on the rocky trail that leads up the basin. Most of the trail is only an indention in the talus. Navajo Basin is a high mountain valley that gains elevation in steps. As we made it to the next step, we looked back and could see the sky-blue color of Navajo Lake and the lush riparian zone of the river and the golden sunlight hitting the prominent Dolores Peak, three miles to the west.

Upper Navajo Basin and the West Dolores River

Once on this higher level of the basin, the trail came close to the young river again, and we removed our packs for a moment, knelt down to the water and drank. From here, we felt the warm rays of sunshine for the first time that morning, the sun just barely rising over the bulk of Gladstone Peak to the east.

The sky was cloudless, and the strong winds from the night before appeared to be a distant dream. All was perfect in the basin for now.

Sun rising over Gladstone Ridge.

Looking back at the trail as it leaves the upper Navajo Basin.

Old mining equipment still decorates the trail at 12,500 feet.

The trail as it reaches the Rock of Ages Saddle.

The trail climbs to the top of the basin, near the base of the ridge that buoys Gladstone Peak. Then it begins to wend its way northward up the slope toward the Rock of Ages saddle. Looking down into the gully, we saw an old wheelbarrow and other anonymous scraps of metal from the old mining days. We also passed by a mining cart and an old structure. Wooden debris is strung everywhere, a testament to something that once was, but now unknown. It is hard to believe that a working mine once existed at this elevation, now nearing 13,000 feet.

First glimpse into Silver Pick Basin from the Rock of Ages Saddle.

At last, we reached the Rock of Ages saddle and were quickly met with a spectacular view of the other side of the mountain, where other hikers were ascending the ridge using the Silver Pick trail. Looking across the other side, a small trail wends its way down the slope, passing other mining structures, and eventually giving way to Wilson Mesa.

To our right, we met our foe for the first time, the craggy heights of Wilson Peak. The summit was still some distance away, and curled away on the backside of slope, evading our vision before.

I turned around, looking at the direction I just came, and saw the jagged summits of Mount Wilson and El Diente atop the ridge of the southern mountains of the basin. At one point in our trip, we passed a group of four who had just climbed Mount Wilson. After an extremely steep climb toward the top, one of them explained, “there's one part where you have to climb up and over a tall rock and swing one leg over like you're sitting in a saddle, then bring the other leg over. But it's an eight-hundred foot drop on either side!”

From the Rock of Ages saddle, we walked on the spine of the ridge along a meandering trail in the rock, but with exposure on both sides. Then it crossed below an unnamed, rough-looking peak, and onto another saddle, a junction of sorts: turn right and travel one mile on a very narrow spine to arrive at Gladstone Peak, or turn left to find Wilson Peak. We, of course, turned left.

We didn't turn left, however, without admiring our new view. Now we could look wide to the east, noticing an alpine lake below us and the prominent spire of Lizard Head Peak. In the far distance, an endless promenade of blue and black peaks lined the horizon, testifying to the magnitude of Colorado's Rocky Mountains.

Looking back toward the Rock of Ages Saddle.

Gladstone Peak from the ridge-line.

Looking into Bilk Basin. Lizard Head Peak (right), and Sunshine Mountain (left).

From here, the hike turned from strenuous to challenging. The information that I had read about this section said that one could either move in a direct line toward the summit, but it would be a more technical Class 3, or could drop 100 feet and move across the loose scree. We chose the more direct path.

Jordan was more adept to climbing on rocks than me. I am scared of heights and anywhere that I am not secure. I moved onto the rocks with trepidation, worried about a fall that wouldn't kill me, but would snap a leg.

I followed closely behind Jordan, watching the handholds that he used and placing my feet where he placed his. My legs became a little wobbly, and I became relieved when I finally passed this section and once again we were on sure footing.

Jordan on the short Class 3 section.

Peeking over the ridge into Silver Pick Basin.

Although to say “sure footing” might be a stretch. The mountain slope here became considerably steeper, and the fall to the bottom would certainly be fatal. Route finding became more difficult. Illicit paths seemed to patch together along the rocky mountain-side, some of them disappearing all together. Rock cairns marked part of the pathway, but in some ways, the entire mountain was a pile of rocks.

We worked our way up from the side of the slope to the top of the ridge and eventually to the false summit. I was terrified at what I saw. At 13,900 feet, I felt we could go no further. I watched the four tiny climbers make their way off the summit. Not only would we have to rock climb to gain the summit of Wilson Peak, but we would first have to drop fifty feet and cross a couple precarious ledges to just begin the climb.

Our new friends atop the false summit.

We welcomed Jim to the false summit, as well as a married couple from Cortez. Soon, we would be joined by another man who had left his hiking partner at the Class 3 ledges, unable to go any further.

It was now time to make a decision.

Jordan stood and looked at the ledges on the right-hand side of the slope, searching for another possible route to the top. He found nothing but a sheer drop-off.

We watched the four climbers shimmy down a narrow chute, then carefully step down a craggy wall like spider-man.

“It's hard, but not as hard as it looks,” Jim chimed in.

“Are you going to climb it,” I asked.

He gave a smug nod of the head.

Class 3 descent on Wilson Peak.

Soon, the first climber was climbing up the rocks onto the false summit where we all waited.

“How was it?” I asked. “Is it really scary?”

“It's not that bad,” he responded. “It's not as sheer as it looks. Just be sure that your hand-holds are secure and you'll be just fine.”

A few minutes later, the other climbers emerged from the cliff like refugees emerging from a sewer and we interrogated them and the response seemed unanimous: the climb was doable.

But what is doable for some, doesn't mean it is doable for all. I still doubted my ability and knew my phobias. I could tell from watching Jordan that he was having a quick change of heart, and I knew that if Jordan went, then I would go also.

“We can do it, John,” he said anxiously.

I knew now that I would go. We decided to let Jim go ahead of us, and we would watch his path. I strapped the helmet onto my head and privately hoped that I wasn't about to fall to my death.

When it came our turn, I followed Jordan down the first ledge. I grabbed a solid section of rock with each hand and slowly lowered myself down. Once secure, I let go with my left hand and found another hand-hold to grasp. Using this method, I climbed up another rock, and then back down again and was now face-to-face with the steepest and most difficult ledge.

“Think of it as steps,” Jordan told me. “Just move your foot to the next step. If this was only ten feet high, you wouldn't think anything of it.”

In some places I kept my chest and stomach flush with the face of the rock, while in other places I turned sideways, only slightly angled, and climbed in a more natural fashion.

“Don't trap your feet. Always step in a place where your other foot can get by.”

At this time, I appreciated all the advice I could get. It was kind of nice to have an on-site tutor.

Some of the ledges I had to climb were high, and I had to swing my knee to the upper ledge and then pull my body up. Although I tried not to think about it, I knew very well that we would have to return the way we came.

After losing track of time, I finally climbed to a point where walking in a normal manner was now possible. In my mind, nothing short of a miracle got me up that ledge.

Within a minute, I found myself at the top of Wilson Peak with Jordan and our new friend, Jim, from Fort Collins. The view from the top was amazing! We could now see completely around, including the hills above Telluride.

I could see the Lone Cone that I had hiked with my son only two years earlier. Of all the craggy peaks above Telluride, we surmised which one we thought to be Mount Sneffels. The east, there were so many mountain peaks, that I could hardly even begin to guess which was which.

Jim pointed out to us some metal fragments from an airplane crash many years ago. The aircraft slammed into the side of Wilson Peak in 2006, killing all four passengers on board. If Jim hadn't pointed it out, I wouldn't have seen anything. I'm sure there is much more strewn about on the mountain-side that will never be found. From what I hear, the body of the pilot has never been recovered.

The rising bulk of Wilson Peak is something to respect.

Jim snapped a picture of Jordan and I before we gathered our packs and strapped the helmet back on. Just then, the couple from Cortez came walking up the summit. I guess they had a change of heart also.

I slipped on my gripping gloves and followed Jordan down the slope to the ledge.

At the top!

Looking north-east toward Telluride and Mount Sneffels (14,157 feet).

Chilling on Wilson Peak.

Looking south-east into Bilk Basin.  Lizard Head Peak (13,114 feet) in middle.

Looking back toward the false summit.

Gladstone Peak: 13,919 feet (left), Mount Wilson: 14,252 feet (middle),  El Diente: 14,160 feet (right).

The view from Wilson Peak!