For decades, I’ve wanted to spend some quality time on a few high peaks of the Colorado Rockies. As a Pacific Northwest mountaineer of modest ability, I climbed a lot of peaks in the Cascades and Olympic Mountains, and poked around the Sierras here and there, finally getting up California’s highest, Mount Whitney (14,505 feet), with my little brother several years ago. We also climbed 13,528-foot Kings Peak, the highest point in Utah. And, of course, I’ve been up Mount Rainier at 14,411 feet.
Somehow, the Rockies have remained just out of reach, lost in the everlasting tension between too little time or too little money. I did manage a brief trip to Estes Park one summer and managed to hike to 12,000 feet as part of a 20-mile loop. But with all the 14,000 peaks within the bounds of America’s 38th state, I really wanted to be up there, to experience those stony heights that friends had been telling me about.
Thus it was just common sense to finally include a foray to Colorado as part of my 70 Summits quest. But here it is September and I didn’t even have a plan until a couple of weeks ago. As noted in my Hualapai Mountain Park story this week, I decided to fly to Vegas and drive to the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado, bagging peaks along the way, then seeking out that elusive 14,000-footer.
I wasn’t out for any superhuman adventure, or anything technical, but rather an opportunity to test my 70-year-old lungs and legs at 14,000 feet. I’m pretty fit these days but still wanted to see how I might feel at that higher plateau. I had several possibilities in mind.
On the way from Vegas to Durango, I hustled up a few 7,000 to 9,000-foot peaks, feeling great and enjoying the chance to acclimate to some altitude (I live at 400 feet above sea level). But rather than head immediately for the higher ground, I thought the smarter thing might be to try a 12,000 or 13,000-foot peak first to see if the altitude messes me up or not. In Chile, I hiked to 16,000 feet and never had any issues with altitude. But that was thirty years ago.
So I settled on Snowdon Peak at just over 13,000 feet, a short drive north of Durango. The climb involved some exposed third class rock scrambling, but the route sounded solid with fairly easy access and just 2,300 feet of elevation gain. I camped nearby and was on the trail just after sunrise. The path rounded the lake into the woods, then across a broad meadow, with Snowdon rising above.
As promised, the trail steepened considerably in more forest and meadow before finally reaching a saddle on the northeast ridge at nearly 12,500 feet. Happily, I felt great. I had yet to see anyone else on the mountain, and looking up began to have second thoughts about what might lie ahead. The upper portion of the ridge looked pretty cliffy. I like to maintain a fairly comfortable safety margin, and part of that means not being so isolated that no one will ever find me if something goes wrong.
However, the going looked good for the next stretch and involved only light scrambling and frequent breaks to catch my breath. There was definitely a lot less air up here. Then the really steep stuff appeared and the route became a little confused with some upward and downward traverses across the broken cliffs. Cairns (short stacks of rocks) marked the way through, although they weren’t always easy to find. Rounding one last corner, a final steep scramble led to the broad, rubble summit.
That familiar feeling of accomplishment washed over me, as did the awareness that even if the hard part was over, I still had to get down. I lounged for a bit and snacked before hearing voices below. Two guys and, surprisingly, an energetic dog appeared below and soon reached the top. They told me the dog was so excited, he’d just leap and bound up the ledges that rest of us more carefully scaled with frail fingers and toes.
After a rest, we all headed down together, the fearless mountain dog often leading the way. They scurried on ahead and I enjoyed a lazy descent with time to soak in the views. I’d definitely felt the elevation, but was no worse for wear. Without a second thought, I was eager to shoot for 14,000 feet the next day.
Ken, gotta say, looks dangerous as all getout. Glad you made it up and down safely.