Hunting Pine Nuts

The sun beat high in the autumn sky and the deer were no longer moving around. The dirt road we traveled on was miles from anywhere, the mesa stretching far on either side with its pungent sage brush and sappy pinyon pines. We decided it was a good time to take a break and start hunting pine nuts.

Dad stopped the truck right in the middle of the two-rut path and we all jumped out, garbed in full camouflaged clothing, hunting knives, and possible bags on our belts. I pulled a wide blue tarpaulin from the back of the truck and we went to work.

None of us were experts at collecting pinyon nuts. Usually there isn't much of a harvest, but every few years the trees become full of seed-bearing nuts. This was one of those years.

We found a large pinyon tree, heavy with woody brown cones. Its branches spread wide enough over the ground for me to spread the tarp directly beneath it.

Once the tarp was flattened end to end, thirteen year old Josh climbed halfway up the tree, just to the point where he could reach out and grab the branch that over-hung directly above the tarp. With both hands he shook the branch as vigorously as he could. For five seconds, pine nuts, pine cones, pines needles, and twigs fell from the tree, most landing on the tarp, but some landing just outside. Others hit the tarp and bounced off.

We gathered the tarp up at the corners and carefully funneled our booty into a plastic bag. We would sort through it later.

Now that I look back on it, it is ironic that Josh was the one to shake the branch. He is half-Navajo. Although Navajo culture is big on gathering pine nuts, it is taboo to shake the branch and force the nuts to fall. They believe this will create an early winter, thus shortening the opportunity to harvest the nuts.

Many people don't bother shaking the tree and just collect the nuts that have naturally fallen to the ground. The darker brown the shell is, the more likely there will be a nut inside.

Sometimes, the better nuts will not come loose from the cones, so a person must pick up an entire cone and knock the nuts out, or use a twig to pry them free. This usually proves to be a sticky proposition, resulting in sap all over the hands—but nothing that a good washing with peanut butter won't cure.

We spent about an hour collecting pine nuts during that warm September afternoon of the deer hunt. I took my plastic bag home where I separated the nuts from the debris.

After washing, I sprinkled them with salt and other seasonings, then roasted them in the oven on a cookie sheet.

Now, a bowl of tasty pine nuts sits on my kitchen bar for the kids to pick at. They love it when they crack open a shell and find a perfect white nut inside.

Next time, I hope to bring them with me.

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!

Navajo Basin

We descend a steep path that quickly connects with another trail. We proceed east and are slightly gaining elevation again. Off to our right, just out of sight, we can hear the West Dolores River tumbling over rocks. Within three-quarters of a mile, the forest opens up and we are at the shores of Navajo Lake.

At 11,160 feet high, and flanked on both sides by monster mountains, this blueish-green body of water is a sight to behold. Gladstone Peak and its prominent rocky summit dominate the backdrop. I reach down and wiggle my fingers in the frigid tarn.

As far as we know, there is no-one else up here. Just the sound of gently lapping water and a breeze with a hint of high-mountain chill.

We continue on the trail around the lake and across a field of talus where we see a yellow-bellied marmot prowling about the rocks. It waddles to a bed of plucked forbes and lays down, without much concern that we are watching him.

A high-pitched squeal comes from another direction and we squint to discern where it came from. Then, the squeal comes again, but from a slightly different angle. I catch a glimpse of a small tawny animal scampering through the rocks. Then he stops. He has the twig of a leaf in his mouth. When he stands, I detect the large mouse-ears on his head and quickly learn that there is a colony of pikas here. He quickly disappears into the debris of talus.

Near one of the bends in the trail, there are the remains of what appears to be a mountain goat. Most of the flesh has deteriorated to the skeleton, but some of the white fur remains, being short and stubby like the wool of a sheep. This discovery surprises me, as I had read nothing of mountain goats in the area. But it could be nothing else. The habitat is perfect for them.

We walk toward the east side of the lake to a stand of pine trees and find a perfect spot to pitch a tent next to the river.

At the west end of the basin, fresh water oozes from the lake and begins anew the West Dolores River. Jordan jumps from one stone to the next and makes it safely across.  Being less sure on my feet, I use a large and bulky tree branch that I find in the river to help me across.

At the south end of the lake, the steep talus slope runs directly into the water and the only way to walk on that end of the lake is along a narrow trail in the rock. We make it to the south-east corner and begin looking for a narrow “beach” that Jordan spotted earlier. We learn that the only access is by bushwhacking through a mess of growth that is taller than my head. I use my feet to step on the supple branches, and bend them down to forge a temporary path to the “beach.” 

From this narrow strip of dirt, we can see Dolores Peak in the distance, and the wind rushes up the basin, striking my face. 

We continue exploring, now with intentions of circumambulating the entire lower basin. The river rushes quickly at our left, tumbling over large rocks, with lush vegetation on both sides. The Colorado Columbine seems to grow well here.

Scattered near the base of the slope are several old scraps of wood and a rusty fifty-gallon barrel. These are probably remains from an old mine. Judging from the slight indention in the contour of the rocky slope, we postulate that a mining adit was here at one time.

Not too far ahead, as we are following the river upstream, the entire river disappears. Jordan walks a little closer to discover that it is gushing from large boulder-strewn step in the basin. We walk beyond it and find that the river is flowing again.

Finding myself thirsty from the hike, I kneel down at the water's edges, remove my glasses and hat, and lower my mouth to the stream and drink from the cold water as it rushes quickly by. Then I dip my entire face below the surface, leave it there for just a moment, then pull it from the water and wipe off the excess wetness with my hands.

We walk upward to the edge of a hill where we have an excellent view of the entire lower basin. Above us is a large shelf of rock that separates the lower from the upper basin. I don't know what it looks like up there yet. We will find out tomorrow.

To our right, down the hill and then back up a slope of talus, there is a large path in the rock that angles downward, almost perpendicular to the hiking trail that is above it. It almost looks like one of those scrapes in the ground that some people attribute to aliens.

We hike toward it and find it is very large and heads toward the bottom of the basin. On the path, we find a rusty tin can and other old scraps of metal. I'm still not sure what the path is, but it probably had something to do with the mines. It seems to lead in a direction toward the rusty fifty-gallon drum and reclaimed adit that we found earlier.

At last we make it back to camp, and take a much needed rest. Before dusk I take another walk to the lake and watch the sunset while sitting on the rocks near the shore. The bright hues of a perfect sunset never materialize, but I watch as the sky grows darker and the clouds move in from the north. The breeze picks up and the lapping of the water becomes stronger against the rocks.

It is now the next day and we have just finished climbing to the summit of Wilson Peak. We have descended the saddle from Rock of Ages and are now standing in the upper Navajo Basin. Although we are beat and our feet are sore, we decide to leave the trail and explore the upper basin.

We walk down to the river, which is just a modicum of water flowing from the rocks. As near as we can tell, this is the very beginning. From here, the West Dolores River runs though the basin and then drops several thousand feet in elevation as other streams from the San Juan Mountains feed into it, eventually wending its way south-west toward the town of Dolores, where it feeds into the main branch of the Dolores River. From there it feeds McPhee Reservoir before making a journey through the rugged chasm of Dolores Canyon, now running due north, crossing Highway 90 at Bedrock, then taking in the clear waters of the San Miguel River. Then it takes a north-eastern direction and enters the isolated landscape of the Dolores Triangle, finally emptying into the mighty Colorado River near the Dewey Bridge. Put simply, this small, cold stream where we now stand is at the beginning of a very long journey.

The area around the stream is fertile with forbes and small grass, but no trees or shrubs like in the lower basin. Nearby, the water runs into tarn, or a small lake. The water is clear and blue, but what is interesting is that there is no outlet. Instead the water must go through a huge mound of of dirt and boulders.

I surmount the heap of rocks and as I get near the other side, I can hear the water flowing from deep within the ground. It sounds like noises coming from a pipe. The noise sounds hollow and it echoes.

Once on the other side, the river flows again and a carpet of green extends on either side.

Jordan tells me that if you soak your feet in the water for ten minutes and then lay down on the grass, it will help with aches and blisters. Supposedly he already tried it and lasted only two minutes.

I remove my socks and shoes and sit on the edge of a deeper portion of the fledgling stream. When I immerse my feet into the water, an instant shock seizes my entire body. It is freeeeeeezing! After only ten seconds, I pull them out, feeling a sensation between stinging and numbness. After going through this process about four more times, I decide that it is time to limp over (because I can't feel my feet) to the grass and lay down. I place a ball cap over my face and take a miniature snooze.