| 3rd Time's NOT the Charm Trip Report |
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| 3rd Time's NOT the Charm   | 
| Page Type: Trip Report Location: Colorado, United States, North America Lat/Lon: 37.98970°N / 107.7489°W Date Climbed/Hiked: Aug 20, 1981 | Page By: Aaron Johnson Created/Edited: Jun 17, 2004 / Jul 26, 2007 Object ID: 169417 Hits: 1938 Loading... Page Score: 87.69% - 7 Votes Loading... Vote: Log in to vote |
The 3rd Time’s Not The Charm
NOTE: This is an involved read. Please sit down, and take time to enjoy this report when you have the time to do so. I think you will not be disappointed. Thanks for taking the time to stop by and catch this glimpse into my early climbing experiences.
THE SPELL OF POTOSI PEAK
Potosi Peak and I go back a long way. I first encountered the awesome looking talus heap in 1978 during my first visit to the stunning Yankee Boy Basin. My eyes beheld the mountain’s many frightening features and I was immediately under its spell. I would go on to attempt the mountain not once, but three times, and even though they were good beta gathering climbs, all attempts would end in defeat.
I’ve had a pretty good success record with climbing Colorado’s challenging mountains over the years. A few mountains have reared up against me through various means, usually in conspiring with the weather. Three attempts on Peak C in the Gore Range have been dashed by unruly weather. Two attempts on Half Peak were thwarted by circumstances. Two attempts on Capitol Peak, regarded by many as Colorado’s hardest fourteener, were blocked by unfortunate timing and conditions. The mountains themselves were not to blame for my failure to summit them. In my long history of many mountains, only Potosi can make the claim that I was stopped by the mountain itself.
But I cannot lay blame entirely on Potosi Peak. My ignorance was the primary factor. If there ever was an example of the clueless being denied a summit, it’s me. I’ve been denied Potosi’s top perch three times, and all for good reasons. Reading this report should prove entertaining to seasoned climbers, but hopefully it will adequately prepare those growing in their skills who might be considering an attempt on this beautiful but dangerous mountain.
FIRST ATTEMPT
On the first fateful day I set eyes on Potosi Peak, and many visits to follow, I would gaze longingly at the mountain’s many features and try to imagine a sensible route up the thing. I’d stare at pictures of the mountain when it appeared in coffee table books and calendars for hours. I’d have a topo handy and brood over the many gullies, spires, ridges, alcoves and slopes that formed a maze of obstacles apparent in every striking photo.
Three years after my 1978 introduction, I was living in the San Juans, just outside the little town of Ridgway. The wife’s sister had come out from Kansas for a winter visit in January of 1980, and she brought along her adventurous boyfriend called Bob. Bob was a good sport and up for anything. He was actually the one that said, ”hey, let’s go climb one of these mountains ya got pokin’ up around here.” Normally I would have said no way, since the San Juans would be buried under unthinkable amounts of snow waiting to rush down in a thundering avalanche. But 1980 was a lean winter, part of a drought year, and there was very little snow on the mountains, particularly the south facing slopes. The girls seemed eager for us to get out of our cramped quarters. I think our hanging around, listening to lots of Yes music was driving them crazy.
So I responsibly told the wife we would be gone most of the following day to attempt Potosi Peak, and if we weren’t back by around eight o’clock that evening, to call Ouray Search and Rescue. She knew I would never try anything stupid, but this was always the system we used in the unlikely event I got into trouble and did not return as anticipated. The problem was I didn’t even know enough to know how ill prepared I was for the mountain, let alone Bob! Looking back on that period in my life, I knew a lot about the San Juans, but I knew nothing about climbing them safely. Little did I know Potosi Peak would be placed in the position by my actions to be my first teacher, and a hard lesson would be taught.
So Bob and I set out very early the next morning. We arrived near the ghost town of Sneffels and gazed up the steep south slopes of Potosi Peak. Bare of snow and glistening with the renowned San Juan colors, the south slopes were the most featureless facet of the mountain, therefore presenting the least amount of obstacles. The slopes were easily accessed directly from the road. I had considered a direct line from this point up the south slopes for two years, to a shoulder just right of the summit block, and on this warm winter day, it looked real good.
Bob and I hardly got above timberline. The slopes were surprisingly loose. We’d take a step and literally go sliding down the mountain. We struggled with this loose stuff and realized we weren’t going to get anywhere. We retreated and spent an hour or two looking at other possibilities. A line veering off to the right appeared to lead to more stable territory up patches of tundra. But it was winter and our eyes could be deceiving us. What if it wasn’t brown tundra we were looking at? What if it was more loose crap?
We decided to return home and look at some slides to determine if it was indeed tundra we were looking at, and try the mountain later in the week, weather permitting. Indeed the line looked good upon closer inspection. In some slides taken during spring and summer, there were definitely some tundra patches we hoped would offer us a dot-to-dot route up Potosi’s unbelievably loose slopes.
SECOND ATTEMPT
Two days later, during an uncanny warm spell in the heart of the San Juan winter, Bob and I were once again on the south slopes of Potosi Peak. A painfully bright sun glared down upon us from a cloudless sky. The heat bouncing off of the rocks surprised us. It was positively boiling on the side of that mountain.
We had made considerable success and were far above our car, now a toy sized marvel in the depths of Sneffels Creek. The tundra dot-to-dot scheme was working rather well. We had managed to scamper from one tundra spot to another, having to flail recklessly over incredibly loose terrain from patch to patch, but we were getting there. Or so we thought.
We were impressed, and then struck with a degree of shock at the increasing angle of the climb. The higher we climbed, the steeper the slope became. We soon found ourselves climbing up a tundra covered wall utilizing hands and feet. In wet weather, this would have been a real nightmare, but at the time, I was too ignorant to realize this. Bob, totally clueless and along for an adventure, was of course too awestruck by the overwhelming beauty of the San Juans to realize the mess I was getting him in to. Throughout my entire climbing experience, I have never been on steeper tundra anywhere since this day.
And then abruptly…we ran out of tundra. A vertical sea of Potosi’s loose talus was poised precariously before us. Undaunted, we forged on to give it a good ol’ college try. The steep angle did not relent. We were amazed that the loose rock would stay perched at such a steep incline. We surmised that we were likely the first people to ever be on this part of the mountain (though it never occurred to us as to why). The rocks never had cause to move. But now they did, because we were there disturbing them.
Then one of the most impressive and frightening things happened to me and Bob that I have never forgotten to this day. We were far above the last patch of tundra, climbing on all fours up this incredibly steep but loose talus slope, oblivious to the mess we were getting ourselves in to. We were side by side, about ten feet apart, rationalizing that having one above the other could send a rock down and possibly harm the one below. (As I write this, I can’t believe how incredibly naïve I was back then…it’s embarrassing, but it’s a story that needs to be told).
As we each took a step, the rocks moved, which is typical of the San Juans. But there was something terribly different going on. Yeah, the rocks moved alright. I looked over to Bob and watched the ENTIRE SLOPE AROUND US SHIFT DOWNWARD. I watched Bob stand there, not move, and his position shifted back down the mountain almost two feet. I was instantly unnerved and looked around, and up the slope as well. I tried not to move, but I could feel the unstable heap beneath me wanting to roll out from under me. I moved my right foot to steady myself, and Bob was floundering to gain a better stance.
Once again the entire slope, including a sizeable area above us, shifted with a clacking clatter that sounded like shards of glass grating against one another. We were on the verge of setting off a landslide on this precarious slope, obviously an event we would not likely survive. “Bob-I think we need to carefully turn around and get out of here.” Bob was in total agreement.
For the next hour, we performed a delicate dance getting off of what has got to be the most unstable talus slope I have ever been on. At times, our terror had us scooting down on our butts, the sharp, angular points digging into the soft, fresh skin of asses belonging to two hopelessly clueless climbers. All the while, the entire slope continued to shift ominously around us. Magnificent relief was ours when we reached the last patch of tundra. Even so, this stuff was so steep a fall would result in serious injury, so great care was used during the entire descent.
Bob was a good sport. Wearing his welding cap for warmth, he looked like the Red Baron escaping his wrecked plane as we scooted down the slope to safety. Despite our brush with danger and a second defeat, Bob took it all in stride and enjoyed the day nonetheless, and the experience hardly dimmed his impression of the mighty San Juans. For a flatlander, he did exceedingly well physically and had no issues otherwise.
I had learned a bunch in the past few days, and had also gained a healthy respect for these mountains. They were quite different from the other Colorado ranges, and Potosi Peak not only commanded my attention, but a newfound respect. To this day, it is my opinion that a summit attempt anywhere on Potosi’s south slopes is a horribly hazardous undertaking, and I do not recommend any approach anywhere on the mountain’s south or east slopes.
I would forget about Potosi for a while. Little did I know that teacher and student would soon be reunited.
THIRD ATTEMPT
I met MA in Ouray while we were living there in 1981. We immediately became great climbing partners and proceeded to climb our asses off in the San Juans, despite the torrential weather. The drought had ended with the arrival of spring and the San Juans were covered in their typical deep blanket of snow. Late spring brought substantial rain, and summer brought an unprecedented barrage of monsoon storms. Floods descended upon the region in alarming regularity. A fateful day brought disaster to Ouray and highway 550 with a downpour, followed by flooding and a rain of San Juan debris that literally battered the little mountain hamlet.
MA and I somehow managed to climb anything that was climbable during this stormy summer. I was in the best shape I would ever achieve in my life, literally bounding from one peak to the next. We were in top physical shape, we were gaining experience and learning more about the San Juans on a daily basis.
Late summer had arrived and we eagerly anticipated the arrival of my longtime climbing partner Vern, who was vacationing for a week to climb with us. I had a free day scheduled for Vern’s arrival that evening, so MA and I decided to try climbing Potosi Peak via Weehawken Creek. I was playing in a nightly musical review and was a pivotal member of the musical presentation. The show’s producer and his wife expressed concern, not only about the possibility of my being late for the show, but of the possibility of me not showing up at all. They knew about Potosi’s reputation and implored me to consider climbing something else. I assured them it would be fine, that Vern was arriving in time to see our show and not to worry.
MA and I were off bright and early to be sure I did indeed arrive back in town on time for Vern’s arrival, for the music show, and to beat the angry San Juan monsoon daily temper tantrum. We arrived at the Weehawken trailhead, halfway up Canyon Creek and parked the jeep. Getting out, I realized I had not worn my hiking boots, but my cowboy boots. Not to be deterred by wasting time going back to town, we raced up the trail, which was immediately steep.
Our intent was to climb Potosi first from the east, then rounding the summit block’s east side to the south couloir (all considered long before any guide books on the mountain had been referenced by us). It seemed a reasonable route on the map over terrain not nearly as steep as the south slopes, thus having a better chance at avoiding loose talus. The only questionable part was access from a plateau east of the summit to the south facing couloir.
The Weehawken Trail proved to be a challenge in itself, which was not expected. The trail had not been maintained by the Forest Service. Tremendous amounts of deadfall soon obscured the trail and climbing around and through it seriously hampered our progress. Luckily, we were blessed with a rare and warm San Juan day, and the sun shone in a cloudless sky that reminded me of my two previous attempts with Bob.
The deadfall seemed to go on forever, but we soon broke out of it, arriving in the lower part of the Weehawken Basin. What we saw there was unforgettable, and to this day, I have never seen anything like it anywhere else. Whole sections of forest had been ripped out of the ground. Huge, heaping piles of fallen trees were piled up against house sized boulders and hillsides. It was as if the fingers of God had scraped the land, cutting gouges through the trees as one’s fingers would cut rivets through the fine sand of a beach. The scale of devastation was beyond belief and almost defies description to this day.
As we journeyed deeper into this monument of utter destruction, awestruck and speechless, we of course wondered what in blazes had happened here in this isolated, forgotten basin that obviously no one had set foot into for years. Huge car sized boulders had rolled through the forest, plowing trees down in their path. Through these great swaths, water in obviously torrential volume had once ran, but they were now innocently dry.
We then recalled the storm event just weeks back. Car sized boulders had toppled down Cascade Falls from the ramparts of the Ampitheater above Ouray during a series of violent storms. Waterfalls were seen pouring down the Amphitheater amongst its maze of spires and pinnacles. Untold volumes of water all funneled down the Amphitheater directly into the two drainage flumes that ran through town. These flumes channeled run-off through town to the Uncompahgre River. But on that fateful day, the volume of water and debris carried from the mighty Amphitheater proved to be too much for the flumes, which were ten feet deep. The flumes became clogged with debris, the water left the flumes, despite their steep angle, which contributed to a force of hydropower no one ever imagined.
Despite sitting on a sloping valley floor, the ensuing explosion of water battered Ouray. Mainstreet was overcome in a spray of water and rock, bashing in the front doors of the St. Elmo Hotel. Landslides blocked the highway, shutting down Red Mountain Pass. The clatter of boulders could be heard all over town as they tumbled down Cascade Falls, crashing and exploding on impact. One large boulder bashed into a ledge, forever changing the appearance and character of Cascade Falls as the ledge shattered into a hail of stones. Finally, a loose area north of town called the Blowout blew out, and thousands of tons of debris tumbled down from thousands of feet above and blocked the highway to the north. Ouray was isolated from the world at that point, due to the San Juans falling apart around it.
The devastation MA and I now witnessed was obviously more of the same, but on a larger, much more violent scale. But it went unnoticed in this isolated and forgotten basin high above town. It happened in silence since no one was here to witness it, but it undoubtedly made a horrendous noise when it happened. I’m sure it was a noise no one would want to hear.
Navigating through the destruction was a chore, but angling to the south and climbing out of the basin, we soon found ourselves in a higher basin directly below the north face of the summit block. As rickety as Potosi is, it’s amazing that the smooth summit cliffs seem to stand in defiance of Mother Nature’s erosive ire. We still had a lot of climbing to do, but the challenges of making our way through endless fallen timber and the destruction of the monsoons had us realizing the sun’s position in the sky. Granted, summer days were longer, but it would take considerable time negotiating the challenging terrain back to the jeep, and I dared not be late for the show and Vern’s arrival.
We found a spring gushing out of the north slopes of Potosi from which we could refill our water containers. From a six inch hole, water literally gushed out over a sparkling pool in an arc of four feet. It was so loud, we had to scurry downstream to carry on a conversation. Neither of us had a watch. Given the terrain we had to face on our descent and the unknown time, we decided to turn around. The sun was still fairly high in the sky, but we decided “better safe than sorry.” We refilled our water from this spot, which we later determined to be the Weehawken Spring, Ouray’s cherished and pristine water source. We then prepared to descend, once again conceding defeat to Potosi’s challenge.
A last sip of water from the clearest pool I have ever seen meant stooping down on my knees and sucking the water up through puckered lips. My! Was that ever good and headachy cold! As I wiped my face, I caught a glimpse of something in the fine sands to my right between some rocks. It was a footprint undoubtedly made by a mountain lion. But this lion had to be a big ol’ cat. The print, clear and undeniable, was twice as big as my own hand spread out. We were certainly in its territory and the track was as fresh as could be. We glanced around this truly finite wilderness and decided our stay may have been too long as it was. We hastily made our way back down through the destroyed lower basin and did battle with deadfall for an undetermined amount of time.
Imagine my surprise as we descended a clearing and saw Vern coming up the trail! We greeted him enthusiastically, but Vern’s expression was one of deep concern and worry. He informed us that everyone in town was worried about us. We failed to understand the situation since we had assured folks that we would not take any chances and be back on time.
The long summer day, the difficult terrain and the glaring sun had fooled us. It was already five o’clock! I was going to be late for the first show. Vern then informed me that the first show had been cancelled due to my floundering, and if he did not return to town by 6:00 with me and MA in tow, that the wife was going to send Ouray Search and Rescue up after us. Vern had volunteered to see if he could fetch us out of the wilds before all hell broke loose.
We hurried into town, got the residents calmed down and the search called off, then rushed over to the show. The cast was ecstatic upon our arrival, then the producer’s lovely wife proceeded to break down in tears and hug me and proclaim, ”please don’t ever do that again!”
Other than sore feet from wearing cowboy boots, MA and I didn’t receive a scratch from my third attempt on Potosi, despite the unexpected terrain and potential for injury. I publicly apologized for causing such a ruckus at the second show, which was sold out due to first show patrons being understanding enough to show up for the second show. The night went off without a hitch and some visitors even congratulated me afterwards for coming back from the mountain alive and unharmed. The Potosi legend had been announced to them at the first show by our producer, who said something like:
“Uh, we can’t do the show because one of our members went to climb Potosi Peak, a potentially dangerous mountain. He has not returned and we fear he may have come to harm. If he arrives in time for the second show, we’ll honor your tickets, or you can get a refund…”
Apparently the crowd was quite empathetic, as I was showered with congratulations after the performance. In the coming days MA and I would be the talk of the town, but it would quickly die off, I would continue to climb mountains, much to our producer’s wife’s dismay, and Potosi would be quietly shelved to the back of my mind.
Teakettle Mountain and Potosi Peak shrouded in mystery during a San Juan monsoon morning, Summer, 1995. Photo by Aaron Johnson
FOURTH ATTEMPT
Much time, experience and countless climbs later, I’m finally getting around to revisiting my old friend in the Sneffels range...but it's not to be.
Twenty two years later, during September of 2004, our intent to climb Potosi was once again thwarted by bad weather. Early winter weather was ushered in with a remnants of a hurricane. Potosi once again eludes me with angry weather, pouring rain and snow. We do other climbs after the storm on southern aspects where the snow melts the fastest.
Perhaps I will never climb this mountain. Time will tell.
FIFTH ATTEMPT...2007...My 26 year saga with this mountain comes to an end.
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Sneffels Range, Colorado > Potosi Peak > 3rd Time's NOT the Charm
