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

Chicago Basin

I feel like I could fall asleep right now, but it's only 8:30 pm. The skies are dark and the air is frigid. My fingers are so numb that I can barely move this pen, but at last I am in a warm tent and in a warm sleeping bag.

We are camped over 11,000 feet in elevation, under the brisk September sky. Our journey started far from here, several hours ago.

This was the fifth time I took the Narrow Gauge Railroad from Durango. The first was when I was a young boy. My brother and I went with my grandpa Lacy during winter when the train turned around at Cascade Station. I remember heavy snow on the ground and a large herd of elk that Grandpa spotted through the window.

I also came twice to search for a silver mine, and once with my wife. That was the only time I took it all the way to Silverton.

Taking the train to the trailhead.

This time I came with a friend and his three adult sons. We got off at the Needleton Stop and waited for the man to unload all the packs. I have been wanting to do this hike for more than twenty years now.

As soon as I strapped on my pack, I remembered how heavy these packs were! I had enough food to keep me alive for three days, two nights, and then some.

Crossing the Animas River. 

The grade up Needleton Creek wasn't steep, but still took a toll on my legs. The waist strap alleviated the weight of the pack from my shoulders, but instead transferred it to my hips.

The trail we followed ran parallel to the creek, usually staying quite a bit higher. I read that in times past, during the mining days, the path was closer to the stream, but after a flash flood they moved it up higher to where it is now.

Most of the trail was redundant, but beautiful. Here and there waterfalls cascaded down the canyon.

One of many waterfalls on Needle Creek.

After 5½ miles the mountain began to open up, and after 6 we were no doubt in Chicago Basin. We saw on a slope one pile of gold-colored tailings, reminding us that at one time this basin was mined.

We hoped to get as far as possible up the trail to alleviate our burden for tomorrow, so we didn't find a camp until around mile 7.

Entering Chicago Basin.

Looking north in Chicago Basin toward Windom and Jupiter Peaks. 

We found a nice location overlooking the basin, and beneath peaks that towered to over 14,000 feet. As we set up camp we noticed the temperature becoming dramatically colder. Before long I donned a long-sleeved shirt, coat and beenie.

We were able to explore some of the surrounding area and found another pile of tailings. Next to it an opening, just large enough to crawl through, led to a tunnel inside the mountain.

Tailings pile in Chicago Basin. 

Old Mine. 

Nearby and in the trees were a couple wooden cabins. Neither were very large and one was small enough we surmised it could be a tack shed. The larger one was big enough possibly for a couple beds. My guess is that these cabins were not connected with the mines, but built at a later date for recreation.

The first known white men in the basin came before 1877. They originally accessed it from Vallecito Creek, which is on the east side of Chicago Basin. When the railroad was completed in 1877, the easiest access came from the west side via the predecessor to the Needle Creek Trail. I don't know if that trail was wide enough for vehicles to come up, or only a pack mule. We have not see any abandoned machinery while up here, so that offer a clue.

Modern cabin hidden in the trees. 

Old wooden shed. 

It is such a peaceful setting up here. We have no connection to the internet and even though there are a few other campers, they are scattered throughout the basin and it feels as if they're not here.

Dave and his boys pulled out their portable camp stove and began cooking a bag of stuffing they brought from their pantry. For me, dinner was not hot. I chose not to bring a stove. We'll see later if that was a wise move or not. I scooped pulled pork from a vacuum-sealed bag onto the top of a cold pita bread.

They say there are mountain goats around here that are likely to scavenge around campsites. We haven't seen any yet. There is a friendly doe that likes to hang around.

Looking back across Chicago Basin. 

Tame doe coming into camp. 

I hope I am able to sleep. My body is exhausted. I thought about going outside and looking at the stars, but I'm comfortable inside my little tent.

After writing this I will lull myself to sleep with an Edgar Allen Poe story. I haven't decided which one yet, but they all go well with the dark night, far away from anywhere.

Chicago Basin

Distance from train: 6.7 miles

Elevation gain: 2,979 feet

Final (campsite) elevation: 11,147 feet

Two Peaks And A Brush With Death (#'s 6 & 7)

The night was cold and dark as I laid in my tent reading a ghost story by Bram Stoker. We were far away from anyone. The closest person was at least six miles and we slept high in the mountains next to Baker Lake on the eastern side of lonely Nevada. The lake sat in a cirque with steep talus-filled cliffs on the far side. 

Suddenly I heard a loud clanking on the rocks and splashing as if a heavy animal was running across the lake, his hooves striking on the stones. I rose from my bag, assured myself of what I was hearing, then flung off my cap and desperately searched for the zipper of my tent. By the time I opened the door and craned my head from the orifice, the noise was gone. I waited for it to come back, but nothing. All I could hear was the snoring of my son in the other tent. 

I contemplated what the sound might be. An elk prancing along the shore? Unlikely. I concluded it must have been a small rock avalanche coming off the cliff-face, then tumbling and crashing into the water. The noises of the night can be puzzling and even spooky when alone in such remote terrain as this.

Baker Lake at sunset.

 

After a good night's sleep we awoke to a calm September morning on the small lake. This would be a huge day for us. Our plan was simple, but daunting. Using Baker Lake as our base, we would hike up a saddle to the main ridge that connects the highest peaks of the southern Snake Range. Then we would stay on that high ridgeline and hike several miles south to Mount Washington. After that we would return the way we came, back to our camp. Then, if time permitted, we would climb Baker Peak which stood a mile to the north, but out of sight. It was a big serving, and possibly too much. Now it was time to find out. 

We loaded a few items inside a day-pack, which included a couple water bottles, coat, gloves and snacks. Jordan brought a disposable poncho. We left the campsite and hiked toward the slanting talus slope that led to the saddle. 

Camping at Baker Lake.

If one looks at the Snake Range from above it appears as a slithering creature, with Bald Mountain to the north and winding down to Wheeler Peak, Baker Peak, Mount Washington and beyond. Perhaps this serpentine appearance is where the name came from. Others suggest it derived from the Snake Indians, a collective name given to the Northern Paiute, Bannock and Shoshone tribes by a French explorer, Pierre Gaultier de Varennes, in 1739. Whatever the reason, the name emits a mystical vibe. 

After following several switchbacks on a faint trail, we arrived at the top of the saddle, and hence on the main ridgeline. From here we would follow generally in a southern direction, averaging approximately 11,400 feet the entire time. 

On our left, or to the east, we passed a basin with another lake pressed up against the base of the slope. I explained to Jordan that this was Johnson Lake, and that down there hidden in the trees were old cabins and other remnants of the Johnson Mine, an operation from the early 1900's that mined tungsten ore. I had been down there once before, but this time neither one of us felt like descending a thousand feet, just to have to climb back up again. 

Johnson Lake and Pyramid Peak.

The crest of the ridge at this point is filled with large boulders and even some rare high-elevation trees that make hiking cumbersome. The east side of the ridge is steep, but not necessarily sheer. There are many good views of Johnson Lake with Pyramid Peak in the background. 

The ridgeline increases in elevation gradually until it arrives at a summit, unnamed on most maps, but known to many as Johnson Peak. My altimeter gave it a height of 11,765 feet. We were happy to make it to the top, but quickly learned the inevitable that we had yet another peak ahead of us. 

Johnson Peak.

The distance between Johnson Peak and Quartzite Peak, which is the next one down the line, is only half a mile. Like its neighbor to the north, it has a very similar altitude at 11,765 feet. Quartzite Peak is not named on most maps. As Jordan and I trudged to this new summit, I anxiously anticipated the view beyond it. 

And as we arrived, it didn't disappoint. In the distance sat Mount Washington, our goal. We still had another mile and a half to go, but at least now there were no other obstacles that stood in our way. And best of all, the path from here smoothed out. Yes, there were still rocks, but not the large and randomly strewn stones that we had been walking over up until now. The ridgeline now took on a colorful look. It appeared as if there were a golden strand along the mountain's crest. 

First full glimpse of Mount Washington.

Mount Washington is unique in appearance compared to other peaks on the south Snake Range. It is primarily made of gray limestone with a gradual slope on the southern side. Unfortunately for us, we were approaching from the north which is much steeper, but doable if in the right place. To the east and west of Mount Washington are spectacular sheer cliffs, striated in geological layers. 

But with that initial sighting of Mount Washington, we also had a foreshadowing of what was to come. Storm clouds were now gathering over the limestone peak, dark and foreboding. We knew that time was of the essence, so we made haste in that direction. 

Mount Washington.  Curious rock artwork in foreground.

At the base of the peak, on one of the flanking saddles, I was excited to find a grove of bristlecone pine trees. This species of trees can only be found in Utah, Nevada and eastern California. There were several living bristlecones on this particular slope, but several of the trees were dead, their twisted and gnarled trunks appearing as ghosts. Indeed the sight was beautiful and surreal, as well as a bit eerie. Bristlecone pine trees are among the longest living forms of life on earth. 

Gnarled bristlecone pine tree.

 

Now we didn't have time to explore the grove.  A tempest was brewing. We would have to catch it on the way back. It was about this time that we heard our first rumbling of thunder. A chill went down my spine as I knew we were entering a danger zone. 

I have been in this situation a handful of times, a situation where we have traveled a long ways to summit a peak and at the same time a lighting storm is gathering on the mountain. Conventional wisdom is to immediately turn around and find lower ground. But when you've come this far, that is easier said than done. 

The view beyond Mount Washington.  Lincoln Peak on right.

Thunder continued to rumble as we now started to ascend the peak. This was no walk in the park, even without a storm. The slope was quite steep with loose rocks. We worried about rain making it even more dangerous on the way down. We found a seam that ran upward with no loose rock and we took this route. We were now close to the summit with just one more level to ascend. 

And then we saw the lightning strike. It came from the far side of the peak. At this point we were far above any trees and we took note of any safe place to hide from a strike. The wind picked up and we felt drops of rain. When a second bolt flashed nearby, we made the quick decision to hunker down with our backs facing the edge of a cliff. We were still very close to the top, but at least we didn't stick out.

This is the first place we hunkered down.

We waited several minutes. This was nuts! We were foolish and we knew it! We sat there next to each other, our knees to our chest, waiting for a lull in the storm. 

At this point we were about five minutes from the summit. Our plan was to make it to the top, quickly get all the mandatory photos, then race down the mountain as quickly as possible. 

And then we saw our window. 

We scurried to the top, arriving there as quickly as expected. But the view we found brought exhilaration and terror all at once. On the south side of Mount Washington loomed a sky as dark as the Witches' Sabbath. Nothing good could come of this, I thought. 

Spooky sight as we crested the summit.

As I had rehearsed in my mind, I whipped out my camera and took pictures on every side, beginning with the menacing storm. I included a panorama as well as a view of the path on which we had come. Then, last of all, it was time for that final photo, the obligatory selfie of the two of us to prove to the world that we actually made it to the peak. 

I flipped the screen on my camera so we could see ourselves. Once we were framed, I pressed the shutter, which in this position always has a three-second timer. Simultaneously, our ears heard the same thing: the small sizzle of static electricity coming from the camera! We looked at each other with eyes wide open. I had never heard that noise coming from my camera. There was definitely electricity in the air! We took one more picture with the same result. Then another boom somewhere behind us and we knew it was time to run. 

Obligatory photo on the summit, with static electricity coming from the camera!

We took off running down the the northeast side when another clap was heard. This one was accompanied with a crackling that sounded exactly as if a whip was being cracked behind us. We picked up the speed. 

There was nowhere to hide, but we had to do something. To our north was the sheer face of Mount Washington. A fall from here would surely be fatal. But along the rim was a small indention that was the perfect size for two men to sit. 

We hunkered down. We both had coats, but Jordan was the only one smart enough to bring a poncho, even if it was just a cheap disposable one. We pressed our curled legs together and he draped the plastic over my knees. We were just in time because now it started to hail. Before us sat a rugged mountain canyon thick in pine trees. 

Just then a long bolt of lightning flashed before us and struck the trees just 300 yards from where we sat. Everything happened in an instant. Where the bolt struck I saw a red glow and was sure that at any second there would be flames rising in the air. But also in that same instant I felt a strong buzzing shock in my left thigh. That scared me. I quickly turned to Jordan to see if he was alive. Luckily for me, he was still ticking. He had also received the same shock, but in his legs, butt and tailbone. My left thigh was touching his right leg. Both of us appeared to be alright, but were amazed that somehow that electric shock had traveled underground or invisible through the air and into our bodies. It was an experience like none other that I've had in my life. 

For the next several minutes we huddled together knowing that any breath could be our last. It would only take one strike, aimed a little closer, to sizzle us alive. The thought crossed my mind that if we were to die here, they might not find our bodies until spring or later if it knocked us off the cliff. 

This is where we hunkered down and felt the lightning.

The bulls-eye of the storm finally drifted to the east. Although the wind still blew and somewhere in the distance echoed a rumble of thunder, we felt that now we were out of imminent danger. We made it down the precariously steep slope with loose rock. We spent time at the bristlecone pine grove, but not too much because we were anxious to get back. 

Our walk back to camp was no walk in the park. The wind often blew at ferocious speeds. One time I fell and hit my knee, elbow and jaw hard on the rocks. The distance seemed to last forever. All I wanted now was to lay down on a soft sleeping bag inside my tent. 

At last we made it. 

Another bristlecone pine tree.

Beautifully colored rock with Mount Washington in background.

Up until now I knew I wanted to climb Baker Peak, but didn't know if we had the time. We hadn't done it yesterday and I knew it would be foolish if we were to do it tomorrow before hiking out. Today was our only viable choice. 

After a one hour break inside our tents, it was now time to summon our energy once again. We now had two hours before sunset. Baker Peak was one mile away as the crow flies. The only problem was that we weren't crows and we would have to gain 1,678 feet in elevation! 

Finally back at camp.

From our campsite we found a backdoor route that took us up the steep rocky slope. A mountainside strewn with talus, most of it stable, led us to leap and climb over boulders of all sizes. My legs were exhausted. We stopped every few minutes so this old man could catch his breath and rest his thighs. Quite often I would set my sights on an unusual rock up ahead, then make the goal that there would be no stopping until we reached that rock. Usually this tactic worked. 

The higher we climbed the more I realized that we weren't going to make our one-hour goal to reach the summit. Still we kept moving. There would be a lot of regret if we didn't make it. At least now there was no threat of a thunderstorm. 

We were well above the treeline and the crest of the peak was still ahead. We could see what looked like a summit, but we weren't sure if it was the true high point. 

At last we made it to the ridge of the crest, but realized that we were off on where we gauged the summit to be. We had veered to the left, while the summit was far to the right. By now our one-hour goal had failed, but we still moved on. Once on top, the steep slope had been replaced with a gentle uphill. Scrubby tufts of alpine grass gave our feet occasional rest from the pounding of rocks. 

At last we arrived at Baker Peak, elevation 12,298 feet. The view was spectacular and we had no thunderstorm to chase us off! To the north Wheeler Peak dominated the scene, rising nearly 800 feet higher. To the right of it, Doso Doyabi, the second highest peak in the range, made its presence known as well. 

At the summit of Baker Peak.

Wheeler Peak (left) and Doso Doyabi.

As it was nigh before sunset, the entire view in the basin below glistened in golden hue. In the westerns sky the sun, although hidden by a cloud, shot beams across the farms and fields below. To the extreme east we could see Notch Peak, as well as the rugged hills of the Confusion Range. 

Baker Peak is the fourth highest summit in Nevada, yet is rarely climbed due to the favoring of nearby Wheeler Peak. The peak, as well as the lake and town, are named after George W. Baker, an early settler who arrived in the area in 1876. 

Jordan and I knew we couldn't stay and relish the moment too long. This time we were racing against sunlight. Negotiating the steep talus slope wouldn't be much fun in the dark. 

Beautiful beams of sunlight.

From Baker Peak looking east.

With thirty minutes left until sunset, we made our way down the mountain. Going downhill was much easier, but still a challenge. Rest stops were nearly eliminated. Even though the sun had set, our eyes adjusted to the new low light and we made it all the way back to camp without a flashlight until we got down to the level of the lake and had to walk through the trees. 

What a day! It was certainly one we would never forget. I think that both of us had certainly gained a new appreciation for life, not only because our lives were spared, but also because of the new beauty we had discovered. Life is good. ♠

Looking  back across the Snake Range, with Mount Washington in the distance.

Mount Washington


Miles from car (one way): 9.5 miles 

Elevation gain: 3,658 feet 

Final elevation: 11,658 feet



Baker Peak


Miles from car (one way): 7.4 miles 

Miles from camp: 2 miles 

Elevation gain from car: 4,298 feet  

Elevation gain from camp: 1,678 feet  

Final elevation: 12,298 feet