Mt. Harvard

Mt. Harvard (14,420')

miles hiked: 14.0
elevation gained: 5,341 feet

Pizza, beer, and showers are a nice luxury, but nothing beats the calm sigh of the wilderness: the gasp of wind in the pines, the rustle of snowmelt trickling through boulders, the conversations of birds. This is what we are up here for. This is the wild.

The Horn Fork Basin, nestled in the heart of the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, is one of Colorado's special places. Though prone to crowds, the Horn Fork is still a beautiful, rugged cirque festooned with crystalline streams, high-alpine lakes, and, of course, dramatic peaks. Mt. Yale, Mt. Columbia, and Mt. Harvard protect this amazing place like tall, gray sentinels. They watch over everything with dignity and power.

Mt. Harvard is the third tallest point in Colorado behind only Mt. Massive and Mt. Elbert. But it is also a bashful mountain not visible from roads or towns. Mt. Harvard's prize is reserved only for us that bother to hike into one of the dramatic basins that line its base.
We began our planned three-day backpack on Tuesday. The goal was to hike into the Horn Fork Basin and set-up a base camp the first day, climb Harvard and move basecamp to Kroenke Lake on Wednesday, and climb Mt. Yale on Thursday. Although we struggled with heavy packs on the difficult approach, we executed the first portion of our plan and established a gorgeous basecamp at 11,300'. It was easily one of the most beautiful camps we've seen yet.

The next morning we began our hike toward Harvard. The incessant trail wound its way past treeline, through the scree around Bear Lake, and onto the south slopes of massive Mt. Harvard. It was a clear, flawless morning, and the breathtaking views of the surrounding cirque was sufficent distraction from the exhausting climb.

Moonset over an unnamed thirteener in the Horn Fork Basin:

Rock formations on Harvard and Columbia's connecting ridge:

As the slopes of Harvard steepened, beautiful views of the Horn Fork Basin opened below us. The familiar shapes of other Sawatch fourteeners rose in their usual posts: nearby Yale and its sister Princeton, sharp Antero, and the distant blue outlines of Shavano and Tabeguache. It is difficult sometimes while struggling to climb in the thin air to take a moment to appreciate the drama of a Colorado skyline, but this is why we live here. And this is why we climb here.

Ella reflecting on Bear Lake with Mt. Yale in the background:


unnamed lake at the base of Mt. Harvard (Mt. Columbia in background):

Capping Mt. Harvard was a surprising summit block of angular granite slabs. The guidebook rates this mountain as class II, the same as Belford, Huron, La Plata, Elbert, etc. There might be a class II line through the boulders here, but we didn't find it. The last fifty feet were hand-and-foot scrambling that required care and technique. I could see this surprising crux catching many-a-casual climber unaware. Quite a distinction from the soft, easy trail leading to Belford's summit.

Ella picking her way through the crux:

the same photo with arrow to show Ella's position:


Me on the summit block:
the obligatory summit photos:


the view from the summit back towards the Horn Fork Basin:

Back at the tent we napped as a light rainstorm rolled by. We intended to relocate our basecamp from the Horn Fork Basin to Kroenke Lake, a move that would require over a thousand feet of elevation loss to where the two trails intersected and a thousand feet of gain back to Kroenke Lake. We realized now, with protesting weather and protesting quadriceps, that this may have been over-ambitious. We made the prudent decision instead to retreat and treat ourselves to a night in a cheap hotel (with wi-fi, hence the blogpost): the first night in a bed for over a week. Though because of this decision we may have to forfeit another summit, we agreed we could use the respite to prepare for the second half of our Sawatch adventure.

Many mountains still to come...

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Mt. Bierstadt and Mt. Evans: A Tale of Two Mountains

Mt. Bierstadt (14,060') and Mt. Evans (14,264')

distance hiked: 11.06 miles
elevation gained: 3,864 feet

I'm not a fan of the overused "A Tale of Two..." allusions to Dickens famous novel, but the title seemed appropriate for this day in more ways than one. First of all, Mt. Bierstadt is a true fourteener, with a beautiful trailhead and a quiet summit, while Mt. Evans (which boasts the "highest paved road in America") has the over-exploited feel of a raucous amusement park ride. The "Tale of Two Mountains" cliche is also applicable to our experience on Bierstadt and Evans because of the two very different experiences we had: an exciting, wonderful ascent and a grueling, despairing descent. Regardless of these negatives, our experience on these two mountains was one of the most memorable climbs of the summer, and a day I wont soon forget.

The day after a relatively easy stroll up Grays and Torreys Peaks, we made it to the trailhead for Mt. Bierstadt high on Guanella Pass feeling tired but invigorated by excitement. Guanella Pass is a beautiful area, and the trailhead is at a lofty 11,669'. The lush landscape around us was socked-in by glorious tumbles of fog, and the air was crisp. The famous shape of the Sawtooth (the augural moniker for the connecting ridge between Bierstadt and Evans) loomed through the haze, looking as menacing and terrible as its namesake.

Sunrise over Mt .Bierstadt (right) and the Sawtooth:

The hike up Bierstadt was easy and relatively short. A few climbers were spread out above us, and a long line of cars/people were amassing behind. In less than three hours we achieved our first summit for the day. I quietly celebrated my twentieth fourteener.

View to the southeast from near the summit of Bierstadt (the white in the background is a thick coating of fog):

Ella finishing her ascent of Bierstadt:

View to the west toward Guanella Pass (Grays and Torreys Peaks visible in the center in the distance):

Group photo of the three of us atop Bierstadt:

After a few moments' rest, we strapped on our helmets and turned to face the most challenging portion of our day: Bierstadt's famous Sawtooth Ridge.

The view of the Sawtooth Ridge from Bierstadt:

The same photo with the route drawn in:

The Sawtooth is a renowned traverse between two popular Front Range peaks. It was also the first official Class III route of our summer. Most of what we'd heard about the route focused the difficulties and exposure of the ascent on the Sawtooth's far end (relative to Bierstadt) and said little about the descent on the near side. As a result, we were surprised to find challenging class III terrain almost immediately upon departing the summit.

The first obstacle was a steep, loose gully descending north from Bierstadt. We had to be cautious with each step not to slip or stumble or loosen rocks onto each other. Near the ridge's low point we had to traverse across an exposed face, pressing ourselves against a cliff and tiptoeing across a tiny ledge above a tall drop. At the bottom of the Tooth, we approached the crux section (the part we'd read so much about) of our day: a tall series of broken cliffs and ledges with extended class III climbing and class IV variations.

Approaching the most difficult section of the Sawtooth:

The next half-hour was exemplary of the great joys of semi-technical climbing. We had to tediously investigate our route, searching for breaks in the mountain's defenses. We had to plan ahead to avoid stranding ourselves on dead-end ledges. We had to focus on hands, feet, and rock to assure that all were working together in harmony. Each and every movement was an exercise in skill and focus. This type of climbing was a far cry from the numb ascents of solid trails that had dominated much of our fourteener experience to this point. For the first time in the summer, in many ways, we felt like true mountaineers.

The crux section of the climb:

Too quickly, we reached easier terrain, and the difficult scrambling was over. We took a short respite and scouted the next (still interesting but less technical) portion of the climb. Here the route maneuvered left onto the vertical west face of the Tooth's most jagged promontory via a narrow, gravel ledge sandwiched between tall cliffs both above and below. We watched with some trepidation as several climbers ahead of us carefully negotiated this tremendously exposed section.

Ella and Michelle resting before the last portion of the Tooth:

Our fears about this portion, it turned out, were mostly in vain as the ledge was wider and more stable than it initially appeared. The climbing did not exceed class II, and as long as we did not focus too intently on the airy drop to our left, the exposure was not problematic. This would not be a comfortable place, however, for someone afflicted with acrophobia.

Ella and Michelle negotiating The Sawtooth's narrow ledge:

Another climber overlooking a drop into oblivion:


Once past the exposed ledge we were on the west ridge of Mt. Evans, and we convinced ourselves that we had little more than a simple stroll to the summit. This stroll, however, turned out to be hotter, longer, and more tedious than anticipated. It took the better portion of an hour to accomplish.
At long last we crested the final ridge, and the view of Mt. Evans' summit opened before us. To our surprise we were greeted by the chaos of a bustling endpoint of a busy bike race. Standing abreast of the finish line was one of the race's officials, encouraging the riders with proclamations such as: "You can do it! Only a few more feet" or "You're almost there!" Her encouragement, we took the liberty of assuming, was actually meant for us.

Mt. Evan's summit and the bike race finish line:

The summit of Mt. Evans is like a different world compared to the rest of the mountain. It is, in fact, an anomaly in a sea of quiet, amazing Colorado mountaintops. A paved road achieves it. It is festooned with an observatory and summit house. It is so well equipped, in fact, that I was able to un-encumber my bladder in the relative luxury of a summit bathroom.

A mountain goat who stood by uninterested as I waited in line for the summit privy:

After lounging amongst the rocks for nearly an hour looking down on streams of bikes careening both up and down the mountain, we turned our backs on the scene of Mt. Evans' summit and began the long descent.

While undertaking this long downclimb, however, what had been one our best, most-enjoyable days of the summer took a sour turn.

The descent route (we didn't have to return over the Sawtooth) took us down an unpleasant gully that was a loose, tedious, and treacherous bowling alley of rubble and scree. We had to descend to a point lower than the trailhead and engage in the infamous Bierstadt willows (a muddy slog through bug-infested marshes and clawing, scratching brush). To complicate matters, the afternoon thunderstorms arrived on schedule, and we spent the last mile being pelted by harsh rain and stinging hail while searching for an often non-existent trail. Lightning crashed like the snarl of some great minion of Hell, and when we finally reached the car the air was statically charged with enough sufficiency to lift our hair straight from the tops of our heads.

Back at camp, foolishly thinking the worst was behind us, we were dismayed to discover four inches of hail piled against our tent and our sleeping bags resting in a pool of water several inches deep. These tribulations, however, were only a small price to pay for a great day spent teetering on the blade of a saw.

This waterfall was the only high point of an unpleasant descent:

High-alpine flowers on the slopes of Mt. Evans:



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Pikes Peak

Pikes Peak (14,110')

length hiked: 24 miles
elevation gained: 8,400 feet

Lounging in a cafeteria, sipping coffee and gobbling greasy donuts is a different type of summit experience. Surreal and disappointing in many ways. Luxurious and pleasurable in others. Nothing in our previous twenty-one fourteeners had prepared us for it, not even the paved road and biker-swarmed bathrooms atop Mt. Evans. The Pikes Peak experience was strange enough that we all felt somehow as if we hadn't reached a summit at all, as if we'd climbed and climbed never to find the top. But we had worked hard enough, it seemed, to have earned two mountains, for we ascended over eight thousand feet and hiked twenty-four miles in two days. But something about being joined by cars, motorcycles, and a train destroyed the serene sense of accomplishment that usually accompanies a high-mountain summit.

Our long peregrination up Pikes Peak began the day before at a lowly 6,500' in the crowded streets of Manitou Springs. We trudged with fifty pound packs along the first three busy miles of the famous Barr Trail, dodging casual day hikers, runners training for the Pikes Peak marathon, and the tired ghosts (for that's all they seemed) of climbers returning from the distant summit. I admit some alarm at the sheer volume of two-legged humanoids on this part of the trail, especially for a Monday morning. But once we passed the top of the Incline Loop (an off-shoot of the Barr Trail) the crowds ceased and the slow, steady climb towards "world-famous" Pikes Peak was mercifully quiet.
Typical Barr Trail terrain:

After about six miles and almost 4,000 feet of climbing (including some up and down), we arrived at the amicable property of Barr Camp. Contrary to my prior image of Barr Camp as a mountainous tourist trap and a jarring intrusion of society on the wild, it instead presented a wonderful example of natural/human harmony in an ambrosial setting. It was a welcome scene and a place of regenerative respite, especially on a route as long and tedious as the Barr Trail. The nature-conscious owners offered open doors even to non-guests and promoted without proselytizing No Trace ethics to the many Pikes Peak visitors. They were always willing to share good conversation and entertaining mountain wisdom with any who bothered listen.

We reposed for the afternoon, observing the complex social interactions of ground squirrels quarreling over ears of corn discarded by previous, careless campers. Theresa, one of Barr Camp's benevolent owners, showed us a trick of cupping our hands around the base of her bird feeder to feel the gentle feet of hummingbirds and the subtle wind from their wings as they swooped in to feed.

Becoming a landing pad for gentle hummingbirds:

Hummingbirds jockeying for a sugar-water drink (a short video clip):

The next morning we arose at the incommodious hour of 4:00 am and engaged in a somnambulistic trek through the last hours of darkness. The silver moon was falling in front of us and the first rays of morning rose behind, giving us the sense that, depending on which way we faced, we could experience both day and night. Far below us the lights of Colorado Springs twinkled like a reflection of the nighttime sky. The pollution (usually a choking distraction to all things beautiful) exacerbated the colors of the morning, setting the sky alight with blood-orange and pink hues.

Soon after the moon vanished and morning had risen, we passed the ghosts of trees burned from a hundred-year old fire. Though Gerry Roach referred to this section as "grotesque" in his guidebook, I found it instead to be a beautiful example of the cyclical nature of death and re-birth in the wild.

The area above treeline on Barr Trail was a wonderful playground of rotund granite boulders and scraggy alpine shrubs. The trail was as quiet and peaceful as any we'd climbed on a fourteener. Still high above us we could see the summit house emerge and draw steadily nearer.

Ella and Miriam (lower left) in the area above treeline on Barr Trail:

Looking over The Cirque at around 13,300':

We convinced the only other hiker we saw in the morning to take this picture of us at The Cirque:

Finally, we reached the so-called "Golden Stairs", a 32-switchback finale to our twelve-mile climb. We used the last of our muscles to persevere through the "Golden Stairs" to reach Pikes peculiar summit.

The Golden Stairs:

The summit house of Pikes was a surreal place and an idea that I hope is never duplicated on any mountain. The true summit was a forgotten piles of boulders a hundred yards past the train station in the center of the parking lot, so, with true mountaineer spirit, we climbed a few more feet to imagine a Pikes Peak before commercialization. The detritus of numerous construction jobs dotted the landscape and the pollution that had illuminated our sunrise so vigorously now rendered any distant vista nigh impossible. It was hard not to view Pikes' summit as an extinguished, castrated place. There can be no doubt that before the chimneys of industry, and before its exploitation and commercialization, Pikes' summit was one of the most powerful and majestic mountaintops in all the American West. Much of that majesty has now been lost.

The popular picture spot atop Pikes Peak (we felt we'd earned this picture as much as anyone):

The view down Pikes' much steeper north face:

Entering the Pikes Peak summit house:

The hike down Pikes was a long and grueling ordeal. After six miles we returned to camp, broke down our tents and grudgingly re-packed our accoutrements. For the second six miles of the descent we carried the burden of fifty pounds on our backs, the price of splitting Pikes into a two-day trip. By the end we had hiked a brutal 18 miles, ascended over 4,000 feet, and descended almost eight-thousand feet (more counting the ups and downs). It was without question the most difficult single day of hiking for the summer.

So Pikes Peak is behind us, and in some ways I am split on the idea of ever returning to Barr Trail. It was a beautiful hike and a special place. But the disappointing summit is anti-climatic after so vigorous an effort. I had a wonderful experience on Pikes and wouldn't have changed anything about it. But I think should I ever feel the need to return I might just seek another, shorter route.

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