The Long Way to Mt. Evans

I returned to the Mount Evans Wilderness area this morning via Guanella Pass. I had been to the area three times last year (once in calendar winter) with intentions of hiking Mt. Bierstadt, the Sawtooth and Mt. Evans in tandem. However, all three of these trips ended with singular summits of Mt. Bierstadt.

While planning for this hike during a cribbage marathon with Gigi last night, I made plans to hike the trio in reverse - I would brave the infamous willows first thing in the morning on the way to Mt. Evans, and then traverse the Sawtooth on my way to Mt. Bierstadt and head back to the car along the well-maintained Bierstadt trail. I had reservations about the itinerary for two reasons: this would be my first solo ascent of a 14er, and I did not want to wade knee-deep in wetland for the two-mile approach to the Evans-Spaulding Gully. Especially the latter of the two.

I consider myself a scientist, but sometimes my powers of observation are totally unaccounted for. This morning marks the second time in the last few months that I've walked within twenty feet of a moose and had no idea. (Curiously enough, both encounters happened within twenty feet of each other on the Bierstadt Trail...)

This big guy sent his casual salutations at the top of the morning. He was just as adorable as he was massive. 

Jim Davies, on 14ers.com, provided an excellent verbal map for me to circumnavigate the willows and the class 3 gully.


"Take the Bierstadt trail to just past the big lake (before the creek crossing), turn left and climb over the little hill, continue north through a potentially soggy low section, go over another hill, turn left (back toward the pass) to circle 100 feet or so back around the end of another soggy section, and you'll find the beginning of a dry trail that will lead you up to the Grey Wolf/Spaulding drainage (not the gully)."

After snapping photos of the moose, I made it my business to put as much public land between us posthaste. Over the hill and around the bend brought me to what appeared to be a game trail that had been visited by few hominid footsteps. This was the only opening in the neighborhood, so I went with what I had. If I got wet, then I really wouldn't have lost anything in trying because the other way is much like a 1970's era San Francisco mud bath filled with alpine water-born parasites. 

The trail. The dip on the horizon is the aforementioned drainage. Although taken from different locations, the mountain ridge on the right side of this photo is directly next to the ridge on the left side of the following photo. 

 Unbeknownst to me at the time, but knownst to me now, this seemingly ideal route up to the alpine ridge ends abruptly in a dramatic collection of huge (read: 300ish feet) cliffs at approximately the end of our field of vision in the previous photo. What's more is that Mt. Spaulding (13, 842' - the peak directly to the right of the drainage) backs up its massive toosh right to the edge of said cliffs. The only way to get from drainage to the other side of Spaulding is, as I learned, to summit Mt. Spaulding on the way! I acknowledge that I would have saved a whole heck of a lot of drama if I had looked at a map before I tried to take a new route in unknown territory, but I'm young and I enjoy surprises most of the time.

I will now direct the reader's attention to the fact that Mount Evans lives approximately two miles south and east of The Sawtooth. My attempted shortcut to go around the Evans gully and Mt. Spaulding turned into a three hour, three mile detour wherein I had to summit Mt. Spaulding in the process.

The Sawtooth (13,600') and Mt. Bierstadt (14,060'). Can you guess which one is which?

This is a picture of a mountain (on the left) that I don't know its name but want to snowboard down the left ridge into the center bowl. Every time I come to this wilderness area I spend some amount of time picking out the beastliest line.

A pond in the middle of the willows visible from my first breakfast break. There is water literally everywhere down there.

More water and looking up the main slope of Mt. Bierstadt.

Dry boots! On this point, my guide spoke truth.

 Leaving the spot of breakfast, all cairn specimen ceased to appear. I was led to believe that I should just continue along my merry way between Grey Wolf Peak and Mt. Spaulding. The drainage had some tasteful waterfalls all along the way up. I did not photograph them. You should visit and check it out.

I would now like to add another piece to this pie of torment - the wind. The weather report called for maximum gusts of 25mph, but this was a false statement. It was as though mother nature had had a rough night of binge drinking and poor fraternization choices and was pissed off at whatever weather person claimed to "understand her". At any point above 13,000', the wind held at (my not exaggerating estimate) a cozy 60mph with gusts of I-don't-even-know-how-high. What I do know is that I was rapidly approaching a bank of where-the-sidewalk-ends-type cliffs with unreasonable and unpredictable winds.

These are the little ones. Photo taken from half a mile away.

I later learned that these are called the Chicago Lakes.

 Here's where I had second breakfast and reevaluated my life choices.

Note the slope and presence of ice and snow.

 My only option was to throw caution to the wind and go straight up the side of Mt. Spaulding. It was so blustery that, even while hunkered down in a shelter, I couldn't get my phone to take a picture of the top. There were lots of big-sized rocks surrounded by grassy soil.

I felt that maybe I should just call it a day, since this one wasn't panning out the way I had hoped. On my way down the front side of the mountain, mother nature threw me a curve ball and there was a relative calm over the area. I thought, "surely this nonsense has passed and I can enjoy the rest of my day in the high country sans physical harassment from the air." I was mistaken, but did not find out just how poorly I had chosen until I was halfway along the ridge towards Mt. Evans.

Until today, I had never had a fall on a mountain. Today, I had three. Until today, I had never thought "I'm going to summit and get the eff off this mountain" and then grumpily go about it. Today, I did this. Until today, I had never felt physically sick with emotion and exhaustion while climbing a mountain. Today, I wanted to throw up all over Mt. Evans' face. I was not a happy hiker.

I gained the summit, avoided eye contact with the tourists who drove to the top, ate a cracker and was gone. The wind was so bad that I felt disoriented at times, as though I was being hit in the head repeatedly. The two mile slog back down the spine of the ridge was like walking an inebriated straight line down a talus-filled sidewalk. The Sawtooth and Mt. Bierstadt would have to wait, because I was not going to deal with this wind any more.

Summit view. Note the size of the cliffs over the Chicago Lakes!

The destroyed DU observatory seen from my hiding place in the rocks.

Summit view looking south. The southern Sawatch peaks can just be glimpsed on the right. I was just pointing my camera as I walked at this point.

Summit marker (14,264')

A really bad photo that is included to give a better perspective of the observatory's roof. (ripped open/off)

I left as quietly and sickly as I came and marched the six miles back to my car along the front side of Mt. Spaulding as fast as my legs and pounding head would take me.*

* I would like to note that, while my verbiage is somewhat bitter this evening, it was a beautiful day to be alive and in the mountains. It totally beats sitting at a desk job all day.

Escalante Excursion: Part 2

Day 2:

Imagine a music dear reader: a lone, serene bassoon perambulating down the sidewalk of a sweet melody. Nathaniel and Hunter slowly rise to greet the soft morning light - the palpitation of Mark's snoring rises and falls in a well-practiced staccato. The mystical desert beckons us to leave the abode of our synthetic shelter with seductive promises of adventure. She's a cruel mistress, she is - so alluring and yet so elusive. Our protagonists must rise and heed her call, lest her promises fall on deaf ears.

Thus, the day began. A weather system was supposed to move through the area during the afternoon, so our efforts must be coordinated accordingly. We enjoyed a delicious breakfast of sauteed onions, mushrooms and scrambled eggs before weighing down the tent with all our worldly possessions to keep it from flying unencumbered into the abyssal canyon below. We expected a small bit of wind and wanted to play it safe; little did we know of the gale that was to come. More on this later.

Packing into the car, we made the quick drive down to the Calf Creek trailhead:

Its hard to see, but the road you drive on to get into the area is along this ridge, and comes from  the Hell's Backbone junction. A 200m elevation change and a little bit of water makes all the difference between paradise and purgatory out here.

The trail wanders up the western side of the canyon, skirting an ancient livestock grazing area that was paramount to the survival of the various native and invasive settlers to the region through the years. One thing that I unfortunately didn't make a visual record of was the brochure that we picked up at the trail register. There were approximately 14 stops along the 2 mile trail that recounted the history, flora and fauna of the area while amicably reminding visitors to drink loads of water. Granaries and cattle fences still stand that were erected long ago, and in the case of the granaries, we were often left with the question of "how did they get to their granary that was 150m off the ground on the side of a sheer sandstone cliff?" Let alone how they did it when they were hungry with low blood sugar. Folks must have been seriously hardcore to make an existence out here, even in the creek drainage.

What's more is, if you forgot where you put your granary, you would never be able to find it again because it is so well hidden! You'd have to build a whole new one way up on the cliff face. It is at this point that I would like to offer my highly uneducated opinion about the origins of the Fremont hieroglyphs from Capitol Reef: those are pictures of the aliens that helped the natives build their ridiculously-well hidden structures. I am prepared to defend my hypothesis by directing any dissenters' attention to the figures' antennae. It seems to me the most logical explanation.

Mark and I pondering questions of life and existence in the desolate, historical badlands of North America.

This is not a granary for two reasons: a) it is not impossibly high up on a cliff, and b) it does not look enough like a rock.

 As we approached the crossing that would lead us to the falls, a cloak of green dominated the landscape. Much like our youthful spirits, life abounded all around us.

We came around the final curve and heard the rushing of a falls. We had our first glimpse through the trees at what appeared a thin falls coming off the side of a cliff.

I grew up in Colorado Springs - the very heart and soul of evangelical capitalism of the universe. It is home to the for-profit mega-churches that will save your soul and condemn everyone you disagree with for a very reasonable price - comparable to buying a swanky toaster oven on a late-night infomercial. Needless to say, it is not the most "reasonable" or "rational" place in the world, but I digress.  On the city's west side, they have something called Seven Falls - it is marketed as something comparable to Niagra west of the Mississippi. They are very proud of their "seven" falls, and in 2005 (last and only time I will ever visit) it cost me over fifty United States dollars to gain admission. I expected a life-changing, spiritual experience - complete with music and dancing bears and fondue.

Here are some fun plugs for what you get in the Springs (credit to their website for photos):

They extort the local native culture for the
benefit of petty profits!

They posit that the falls spontaneously combust
into a raging tapestry of liquid-hot magma!

There were no dancing bears. There was no life-changing experience. There was no cascade of Tom Cruise's witch-magical fire to engulf the land in a spectre of awe. Instead, I no longer had lunch money for the rest of the week and here's what we saw:

If it was free, I might enjoy it. I payed $50-plus, got attacked by mosquitoes and the girl I went with turned out to be institutionally and incurably nuts - so this sucked.

I digress again, because this is a story of the Calf Creek and not of the controversial marketing techniques employed by local Springsians. 

This story has a happy ending, and it is going to end good!

The Calf Creek Recreation area is apparently world-renown. We heard at least three differently recognized foreign languages spoken by camera-wielding tourists, all of whom were just as wowed by the culmination of the hike as we were. It was as though we had stepped into the very metonymy of paradise. Nathaniel did a tremendous job photographing the scenery, but our cameras simply can't justify how awesome this place really is. 

The dark line you see extending from the falls is actually a  natural, hanging garden shaded from the morning sun. The sandy beach gave way into a shallow lagoon; the green Plantae danced a sweet three-way tango with the crisp, blue water and the deep red of the sandstone cliffs.

Mark and I considering how we could ever follow up this hike with something even remotely as cool. (Note: observe how the pristine shade along the beach provides for excellent meditative potential)

Artistic shot of the spray from the falls.

Yours truly. Definitely one of the high points of the trip.

 A group of tourists (spoke German and no English... possibly from Germany?) were resting nearby. One of them was kind enough to snap a group photo of us with the falls. We bid them a fond "Danke schoen," and turned to head back to the car.

Mark, myself and Nathaniel, dwarfed by the falls behind.

Here are some parting shots of the falls for use as your computer desktop background. They speak for themselves.

 

Upon our return to the car, we found that the weather had indeed rolled in, and that we probably wouldn't want to be out and exposed to the elements all afternoon. We drove a mile west of our campsite along Utah's Highway 12 and backed up the Jeep to the side of a ~10m rock face. I learned a valuable lesson about how awesome it is to own a Jeep here, and I will share it with you now: in the event that there are no rocks or trees to set an anchor to, you can four-wheel your Jeep to the top of the cliff and anchor directly to your vehicle instead. The manifold has a convenient row of carabiner-sized holes, etched into battleship-grade steel, located right behind the bumper! So, with the addition of two quickdraws and a rope, we were in business.

It is my life's great regret that I did not document the level of badness that ensued during the ensuing climb, both from my Jeep as well as from the three of us climbing. We quickly learned that the reason for all of the surrounding sand dunes in the area is because the rock is literally falling apart. Any lateral pressure on any given handhold while climbing meant a 70% chance of the hold disintegrating in your hand. It was a real challenge, and made doubly-so by the fact that everything was covered in a fine layer of dust that mostly eliminated any friction that the climber may normally rely on to, say, stay on the wall. After about four or five routes each (around 3PM), the weather was coming in fully, and the wind was not messing around. During certain memorable gusts on the side of the slab it was difficult to stand and put away gear at the same time. It got cold fast, and we collectively made the executive decision to just throw everything in the car and deal with organization later. The rest of the afternoon was spent beer-drinking (Colorado Native, appropriately enough) in the tent and playing cribbage.

By the time the tsunami of sand and wind had passed through camp, it was nearing dinner time. All of our worldly possessions had been in the tent in order to keep it from blowing away, and yet before we returned to the tent it had migrated five feet over the sand towards the canyon (the bad direction) from the winds. Also, there was the fun fact that, since everything we brought was in the tent to hold it down, everything we brought now had about five pounds of sand in it, regardless of size. In spite of my  sardonic feelings at the time, a quick glance north towards Boulder Peak reported snow in the highlands. We had driven through that area just yesterday and had considered camping in the aspen forests when Calf Creek campground was full. The juxtaposition of 85-90 degree weather in the morning with snowfall and heavy winds in the afternoon would have been unpleasant in a manner reminiscent of the unpleasantries endured by the Duke of Wellington and the Prince of Orange at the hands of Napoleon's armies during the battle of Waterloo. It was clear that providence had cast us a desirable lot in our decision making on this trip, and by golly day two ended good!

We enjoyed more of Josie's campsite fodder, climbed on a sand tower near the campsite that was in a worse state of decay than our climb from earlier that afternoon, and slept the sleep of the avid adventurer encapsulated in the imagination of young children.