From: ajs@hpfcla.HP.COM (Alan Silverstein)
Date: Thu, 21 Aug 86 19:18:27 MDT
Subject: Re: Trip reports on the San Juans
Newsgroups: hpnc.general

Saturday, July 26: Mount Wilson (14246')

This was the day I accidentally nearly killed someone. I'll tell you about the climb, and also share some advice about what I learned.

First, the advice: When doing risky things, keep in mind that a (typical) history of successes tends to calibrate you to a lower assumed level of risk. (This is part of what destroyed Challenger.) Don't let it take an avoidable accident to remind you of the risk factor. In particular, when climbing where there is a rockfall hazard, wear a helmet, and don't move on loose rock if you know there are people below you. Stay on solid rock, yell, curse, threaten, cajole, whatever, but DON'T MOVE until they're clear. Tell them this story, if you must.

We entered the San Miguels the "usual way", from the north, west of Telluride. Despite what B&L says, you can drive all the way to the Silver Pick Mill at about 11000' with an ordinary car, 8.3 miles, no backpacking required. There's plenty of camping available in the mill area, near running water and the marked trailhead. With my 4WD we could drive an additional 0.7 miles up towards the mine area, stopped by a snowdrift at 11200' (?).

After camping out under clear skies, I drove the group (Dave, his brother John, friend Joe, and myself) to the snowdrift. We started up at 0605 Saturday, well before sunrise. There are a number of trails (old, impassable roads) and good road sections in the area. In fact, it appears the main road was graded recently all the way to 13000' -- where it was not under old snow! There was a surprising amount.

We crossed and climbed old, hard snow south on frozen steps, with axes, up to the 13000' saddle west of Wilson Peak, arriving at 0745 (1:40 for 1800'). Here you get a tremendous first look across Navajo Basin to Gladstone Peak, Mount Wilson, and El Diente, which form the east (left) and south side of the west-sloping basin. The infamous Wilson - El Diente ridge is clearly visible a couple of miles away, above you.

A large school group of about ten people camped at the Rock of Ages mine cabins just below the far side of the saddle, and started traversing around the left side of the basin as we arrived at the saddle. We elected to traverse less and drop more. It was disheartening, but we caught up to and passed by them, by dropping about 600' into the basin, heading more directly for Mount Wilson.

By 0945 we reached 13000' again on the north slopes of Mount Wilson. We all had helmets and axes, and I carried Dave's 150' rope, which we hoped not to need on the traverse. We met many of the 20 or so people who were climbing, including the school group, and passed them all except one solo climber who was ahead of us.

The ingredients of the accident began here. The solo climber went west across and up a hard snowfield towards the summit, breaking steps on the steepening slopes. We checked a copy of B&L's description and decided to follow the guy, using his steps. After a while we reached the low end of an exposed rock rib which split two snow fields going up. The guy ahead went up the rib, and it looked right, so the four of us followed him. We were sensitive to the fact he was above us, but he rolled no rocks.

We climbed the rib to within about 300' of the summit, at about 1030. I was usually leading, but tried to stay away from being above anyone in our party. The rock was mixed between jutting, solid boulders and smaller, loose debris on a perhaps 45 degree slope. We knocked some small rocks loose on occasion that didn't travel far. We noticed that many people were coming below us -- a couple got onto the rib, and more were following the snow tracks, which crossed below it. Several times we reminded each other to be careful.

John dislodged a large rock that picked up speed. We yelled "rock!", and watched it divert sideways down a snow couloir, then stop. I hollered "clear!", then joked about him getting the "big rock" award for the day, and said "let's all be careful".

Here's a hindsight observation. All our combined climbing experience put us on the rock rib rather than the hard snow next to it. None of us thought there was any real hazard, ESPECIALLY because the rocks didn't travel that far. No one called a "freeze" due to people being below. And the people below, including the woman that got hit, didn't pause to let us clear, or tell us to hold still while they crossed, though they saw us above. We were all "calibrated" by safe outcomes to think there was LITTLE RISK, when in fact, well, here's what happened.

I looked down to see Dave and Joe had crossed to be below me. I said, "What are you guys doing down there? -- I better move to the side." So I traversed maybe ten feet left, off the solid rock I was on, into a debris pile. And then, loosed a rock.

Once it's moving it's too late to do anything. Gravity takes over. I watched it go, hoping it would stop immediately. No luck. I yelled "ROCK!". It appeared the small boulder would curve left down the couloir. We were all startled and amazed to see it cross the snow straight down, then impact a sloping rock ridge below it, then start an avalanche of five or so large rocks, flying out into the air. I yelled again, and saw there were two people, about 300' below us, directly below the "explosion", well down the snow.

When rocks hit the snow they bounce a little and start to slide, fast. They fanned out into a funnel shape. Simultaneously the people in the way were moving rapidly to get clear. At that moment I thought all would be well, because they were dodging, and glanced to the side.

Then someone yelled, "someone's been hit!". NO! How could that be? I looked back down to see a person rolling down the snowfield. She was far away; I could see her slowly gathering speed, ice axe attached to one wrist, but doing no good. Someone yelled "arrest!". She didn't. In a split second the truth became clear, and the shock struck: This person was unconscious or dead, and sliding down toward rocks, and there wasn't a damn thing I or anyone else could do.

We watched. I trembled with fear and helpless anger. She rolled a long time, or so it seemed. Stopped at the bottom with snow showing between her and the rocks. It seemed like a miracle, that she apparently hadn't hit hard. "Now what do we do?", I asked Dave. "Freeze. Don't move!" Someone below bounded down the snow. "Is she OK?", I yelled. Someone halfway down relayed the question. "No!" came the answer. Oh shit. "Now what?" "Freeze! Don't move."

Quickly a group formed around her, perhaps 800' below. "What can we do?", I asked Dave, in shock. "Nothing, stay where you are." A person who was just below us, to one side, came up. He told us there were two doctors down below -- but he was wrong, we discovered later.

We watched. I got out binoculars. She was that far below, and the wind was blowing such that we couldn't even yell down. Some people stared up at us, watching to see if we moved, I suppose. I heard a noise beneath me, and looked a short way right over a 20' drop. Oh God, the whole pile was about to go. I very, very carefully gathered up and moved back to the solid rock, then sat down again.

After a time (20 minutes?), she regained consciousness, and sat up with help. I saw pink pants -- but found out later she had on shorts, had lost some skin sliding on the ice. I saw blood on the snow. A while later, supported by two others, she started hiking down into Navajo Basin. It was clear that she had lots of help, but they were taking her out the long way -- not requiring a 600' climb back to the saddle.

Once everyone was clear, about an hour after the incident, we debated what to do next. We were close to the summit, so we numbly and carefully went on up -- on the snow, which had softened.

The summit is set back a hundred feet or so, and up about 50', from the main east-west ridge. The worst bit is the ridge scramble to the summit. It requires firm hands, careful moves over and around huge boulders, and no fear of the exposure on both sides, which is intense. Still, it's short, and I was comfortable (or in shock, I'm not sure which; part of me wanted to jump off right there). We spent from 1230 to 1310 on the top, with cold winds, building clouds, and a marvelous (but somehow irrelevant) view of the San Juans.

Due to the accident, the time, and the weather, we didn't do the traverse. Instead we carefully descended to a snowfield, now mushy, and glissaded down. We stopped several times to use binoculars to watch the group, which was gaining speed and making progress. The injured lady was walking better. We debated going down to help out, but decided there was no point. In fact, it's a good thing we didn't, or we'd have been stuck at the Dunton trailhead facing a seven mile or so hike back -- only one pickup truck came around, and it was apparently crowded.

I found the place where she'd ended up at the bottom of the snowfield. Blood in the snow, blood on the rocks, everywhere. I cried a while.

We crossed the basin again (1530) and plodded up to the saddle (1610), then down the north side, back to the Jeep at 1740. Back at camp I met friends of the injured lady, who didn't know what had happened, only that their friend's orange truck was gone. I found out that she was Dr. Vanna Powell, a 40-year-old obstetrician from Grand Junction, and had left her helmet at camp.

Later that night her climbing companions returned in the truck. They'd taken her to Telluride, where an ambulance carried her on to Montrose. She had lost a lot of blood, but was in good condition before the accident, which helped her march out in only six hours, despite a depressed skull fracture.

I found out later that she wound up in Grand Junction, had a craniotomy done early Sunday morning, was in ICU for a day, and out of the hospital three days later. I've talked to her at length on the phone twice, sent flowers, and she's recovering well. There's more to tell, but I'll save that for the next report, my last for this San Juans trip.