From: ajs@hpfcla.HP.COM (Alan Silverstein)
Date: Tue, 23 Sep 86 23:23:31 MDT
Subject: Re: Trip reports: the last six Fourteeners
Newsgroups: hpnc.general

Sunday, September 7: El Diente Peak (14159')

This was my last Colorado Fourteener! After nine years, during which I climbed Fourteeners in six summers. After 20 other first-time climbs this summer. After too many long drives, too many long days hauling my tired body up rocky slopes. After so many magnificent vistas that I was numb and jaded. And, it was a tough finish...

The Jeep had a fuel pump problem. We towed it home Thursday night and left Friday morning (me and my wife and daughter) in my tightly packed Datsun. We spent time in Aspen and Glenwood Springs, breaking up the long, long drive to the SW side of the state and the westernmost of the Colorado high peaks.

On Saturday we met Dr. Vanna Powell, the doctor who got clobbered by the rock I rolled on Mount Wilson. We waited at the hospital while she finished delivering a baby -- about her 4000th -- and then chatted in the corridor for almost an hour. Except for some scars, a little hearing loss (hopefully temporary), and the time she was out of commission, she's about back to normal. She even climbed Mount Elbert, the highest peak in the state, since the accident.

Unfortunately, we reached the Silver Pick Mill, 11000', well after dark that night. It's 8.6 miles and 40 minutes up a marginal 2WD road, on the north side of the Wilsons - El Diente massif. I vacillated between doing the climb from the north side (familiar, no shorter, but probably easier) and the south side (possibly tough climbing). Considering the hour, the north way was the obvious choice. I figured to backpack up to the Rock of Ages mine at 13000' to save time, but pooped out and instead slept by the car and tent, next to my family. There was no one else camped anywhere around.

At 0440 Sunday morning I started up in pitch dark with a headlamp, helmet, ice axe, and a 40' rope (just in case). It was windy and partly cloudy; the stars were of course lovely. It's always eerie hiking in the dark. But, as I knew the route, I was comfortable and made good progress, even found some shortcuts. Without the Jeep I had to climb an extra hour, to the old stone cabin with the collapsed roof at 12140'.

It was very quiet and lonely. Taking a break at the cabin I heard muffled noises. Ghosts? No, just some people camped inside, their 4WD vehicle out of sight nearby. I must have woke them up -- probably scared them worse than me -- but we didn't communicate.

Even this late in the year there was a lot of old snow on the switchbacks below and west of the pass, necessiting some steep scrambling on crummy, crumbly scree and mud. I thought the old road went all the way to the pass, but apparently not; it's just a trace of a trail now, above the snow. (In fact, I doubt you could drive much beyond the cabin any more, due to rocks on the road.)

At the pass at 0622, 13000', I watched the effects of sunrise for a time. There's an old mine cabin below the pass, on the far side, at the mine site, which is labelled "Hilton". Probably the original owner's joke, as it's about the size of a storage shed. Past here a good trail helped me drop quickly (but reluctantly) into Navajo Basin. There's really no better choice than to descend to about 12200', heading direct for El Diente at the west (right) end of the long and treacherous ridge from Mount Wilson.

I decided that the snowfields were "poison" (hard packed and steep), and picked out a route which looked both rocky and direct. Somehow I got a little high on the left side of a major snowfield in the gully coming down from the Organ Pipes (pinnacles on the ridge). Rather than cross the snow, I stayed on the rock rib and climbed progressively steeper cracks, ledges, and boulders -- with occasional cairns to reassure me. (The thought goes something like: "Wow, I'm not the first idiot to get themself into this predicament.") At one point I found myself uncomfortably searching for a better way to go, with less exposure...

I've gotten used to this stuff to the point where the 70-80 degree slope didn't bother me much. In fact I had to look down and remind myself that a fall could be fatal, and not to take chances. Anyway, I don't recommend this route -- the north sub-ridge from the Organ Pipes. There's just too much exposure on crumbling rock. Eventually it shallows out about 200' below the ridge, with one more steep stretch and then a traverse onto the ridge proper, at 13880', 0905.

I managed to climb all the Fourteeners without doing any of the classic ridges -- Evans to Bierstadt, Maroons, Blanca to Little Bear, Crestones, or this one. But I did get a good taste of 1/3 of the ridge. Ugh. Up and down on boulders, following a cairned route. The ridge itself is jagged and nasty; no way to stay on top much. Slow going.

By 0925 I knew I was mere minutes away from claiming yet another Fourteener -- but not just another one, my last one in Colorado. It was hard to figure out where the summit was; it's the highest of a set of boulder-like knobs along more of the same jaggy ridge. I started to feel a real rush; had to focus on the climbing. Meanwhile the weather had actually improved. It was peaceful, cold, clear, and lonely.

I came upon the top and the summit register. My tradition is to find the very highest spot and let out a hearty "HI-YO!" as soon as I can muster it. This time I went for three, as loud and as long as I was able. By the third one I was so choked with emotion it was barely audible. And then I collapsed and cried with joy and sorrow, and yes, simple relief, for at least five minutes...

After that I was numb emotionally and drained of adrenalin. I spent 90 minutes on top, soaking in the experience. Trying to reconcile the simple fact of being there with the enormous completion it represented. Studying the scenery -- including 11 of the other 12 San Juan Fourteeners. Doing the usual things: eating, taking pictures, signing the log, gathering some rocks for my Top of Colorado collection, and of course, watching the weather!

At 1100, just as HPite Dave Morse was supposed to be getting married at the Tomboy Mine above Telluride 13 miles away, I started back down. Soon off the summit I found a terrible but acceptable downclimb on the north side of the ridge, and very, very carefully picked a way down the first 200' or so. The rock on this mountain is surprisingly miserable. After that, I had a much easier time on scree, talus, and boulders. Nothing trivial, but a straightforward descent -- with only one slip, just hard enough to bruise a thumb badly. That's the cost of doing business...

By 1230 I was at 12080' in a bowl at the top end of Navajo Basin again. From there the 920' gain north to the pass is, as you might guess, a tedious drag, the last of 4920' total vertical for the day. I came over the top at 1315, watching storm clouds form to the north, and proceeded directly as possible back to camp at 1410.

My wife wouldn't let me open the champagne because I had to drive down that awful road. Sigh. We packed and departed as rain started. We made long sidetrips to the ranch where Dave was honeymooning -- a very beautiful place indeed if you can spend $70/person/day -- and into Telluride for dinner -- in time to catch in a bar the exciting last two minutes of the first Broncos game of the season. By 8pm in Montrose we were so beat we crashed for the night in a motel, leaving a 340 mile drive home the next day.

... Through this summer's adventures I sort of hoped the experiences would leave me in a permanently "altered state". I was so relieved at being done, so ready to take it easy for awhile, that it wasn't even anticlimactic. Just a little disappointing that I didn't feel so different afterwards. Now, I don't know. Two weeks later my mind is still in the mountains. I'm still digesting the summer, reliving the grandeur and pain, trying to put it all in perspective; in a hundred different perspectives.

The weirdest part, I think, are the contrasts. I have strong memories of years of anticipation and dread, of wondering what all the tough and distant mountains would be like. Now, I think of or hear of any of the Colorado Fourteeners, and I have vivid memories associated with it. Name any of them, and I've been to its summit. The infamous and dangerous ones? I guess I must have been there too. All of them, means every one of them, and it boggles my mind. Each of them was a real place, not magic (except, oh, that sunset on Conundrum!), each reached one mere step after another.

There's more wonder in a single mountain than any human can capture. More detail in five minutes of splendid panorama than anyone can remember with the intensity of reality. I feel rather like a small box somehow turned inside out to contain the Universe. Awed by it, yet frustrated, for I can truly hold nothing, not the merest bit of it.