FOREWORD

HALF PEAK

Circumventing the massive willow bog due northwest toward Half Peak

We finally decided to circumvent the willows and managed to avoid any soggy passages. This decision added two miles to our day, but that was a price gladly paid to avoid mucking through the marsh. We made good time, too, only falling behind by about an hour. We soon were on my revised route and approached the mountain’s Northeast Ridge with much anticipation. There was very little snow on the east face of the mountain, but on the ridge itself, there was some snow, and we were concerned with snow and ice in places on the ridge that would not see any sun on that day or for the rest of the year.

Approaching Half Peak from the East

As we got closer, we decided to go left, just slightly south of the ridge proper, and stay in warm and sunny spots on the east face. Approching the final climbing we ascended steep and loose Class 2 talus and tundra slopes. We reached the bottom of a rib, rounded that, then crossed a shallow gully into another gully. The climbing began, and it was the typical loose San Juan climbing I have come to know and love over my thirty years of climbing here. There were no surprises in that regard. Loose material was littered everywhere on otherwise sound rock. Much like Glacier National Park, we checked our holds before committing, but no matter how careful we were, dislodging rocks was inevitable. We were glad we were the only ones on the mountain. With that, the climbing was excellent, as loose San Juan climbing goes. I got some great climbing pictures of Ellen and some route photos for SP. As I would put my camera away, I remembered thinking earlier in the season that I should replace the camera bag, as the Velcro on the strap was wearing out, and it would be a tough pill to swallow if I lost my camera.

Class 3 climbing on Half Peak's East Face

After about twenty minutes of Class 3 scrambling, we were on the summit plateau. We strolled along the precipitous edge of the north face and enjoyed that vast, scree covered perch for about twenty minutes. The San Juans were dusted white from the storm and looked incredible, but it was mid day and the light was terrible for photos. Because of our long detour around the willows, we knew we were short on time. We had told our host at the lodge that we would be back between 7 and 8PM, and it was 1:30, and we still needed to find and formulate a shorter route down and avoid the willows as much as possible.

Our descent of the mountain went very quickly, and once on the high tundra, we blazed back to the Cataract Creek drainage and surveyed the situation. We had spotted three patches of tundra between strands of willows on the steep slopes, and we figured we could link those up for a route that would get us down to the trail. But the willow patches were more formidable from our current view, so we decided to stay high and traverse above the willows, thus making better time and avoiding potential injury and soggy boots.

We descended off a rib between cliffs on steep tundra to a field of talus and proceeded to glide across the rocky terrain. The trail was in clear view about 500 feet in elevation below us, but we had to go north about a quarter mile, mostly on large talus, to avoid the otherwise extensive confrontations with willows that would result. Ellen was trailing behind me about thirty feet when I heard her cry out my name. It’s not like Ellen to cry out over anything, and by the tone of her voice, something serious had happened and I whirled around and darted back to her. She was just getting up and struggling to sit down as I approached her, and she had her handkerchief up to her face.

She had obviously fallen…stumbled…on the rocks. Ellen is simply way too experienced to have…stumbled on talus. She glides over the stuff, but apparently not today. She had been tripped up somehow, and unable to catch her fall, fell face first into the merciless rocks. There was blood everywhere—on the rocks, her clothes, her hands were coated with blood. She uttered, “I think I might have broken my nose.” My first concern was to stop the bleeding, which Ellen had well in hand. I dug out the first aid kit and started cutting up pieces of gauze in case the bleeding would not stop on its own. I asked Ellen if she could breathe through the impacted nostril and she said yes. I asked if the bleeding was going down her throat. She said yes but was able to spit it out.

When she felt comfortable doing so, she had me assess the damage. There was a curved cut on her face, starting on the left side of her nose and curving downward into her cheek. Bright red blood still oozed from the wound and her face was already bruising. I was worried that the impact had caved in her sinus cavity, which had all sorts of horrific implications. She stated that it did not hurt very much and that the clotting had begun. I was relieved to hear that and that her sinus cavity was not clogging up. Even so, she needed to be looked over by a doctor, and I was ready to cash in the entire vacation to see to her safety if necessary.

I put the gauze pieces in my pocket, ready to be inserted into her nose if the clotting did not hold. We got her assembled and cleaned up as best we could, and she assured me that she could carry on and get herself down the mountain. Her confidence had been shaken by this event, even though it’s something that could happen to anyone.

Getting down to the trail had become tedious, and I knew I’d feel much better once we had her walking on even ground. We finally reached the trail and our progress increased. At one of the stream crossings, Ellen washed off her bloody hands. The clotting continued to hold, so once we were on the trail, I encouraged Ellen to stay focused and we’d head straight for the emergency care center in Lake City once we reached the car. Ellen was embarrassed and upset with herself, and apologetic for putting me through this. I simply told her these things happen, not to worry, and we’ll do what needs to be done to make sure she’s alright, and if it meant going home, that’s what we would do. Of course, she wouldn’t hear of that, but faced with the unpleasant possibilities, she knew it was the right thing to do to see a doctor.

We had hoped to eat an Italian dinner in the valley at the nearby A&A Ranch, just minutes from the Old Carson Inn Bed and Breakfast, where we were staying. We now knew our dinner hour would be spent at the emergency ward, so we left a note for our Innkeeper filling her in on the situation and high tailed it to Lake City.

In the waiting room, Ellen held an ice pack to her face and briefed the PAC on the situation. After the PAC (who bears a striking resemblance to our hiking partner, Sharon) looked her over, she agreed they should do some x-rays on Ellen. The attending physician came in and consulted us as well. He was a proponent of trekking poles, and suggested Ellen might try using them to avoid such a calamity in the future. Ellen and I are not trekking pole fans, at least not currently, and we explained our reasoning to the doctor. He understood, but assured us as we got older we would likely change our minds.

The x-rays happily revealed no broken bones anywhere, and the PAC cleaned up Ellen’s wound and informed her that the visual evidence of this injury would be with her for quite some time. The doctor encouraged her to take Motrin to keep the swelling down, which I had plenty of for my arthritic neck.

Then came the big question, and I had to have the answer straight from the horse’s mouth: Should I take Ellen home or is it safe for her to continue hiking? He was encouraging and very supportive. There was no reason we couldn’t continue with the vacation plans as long as it didn’t cause Ellen any pain or serious bleeding. He recommended Ellen try to sleep upright this first night to help keep the swelling down and avoid clogging the air passage. He then sent us on our way, with the two x-rays on a CD in hand in case a complication might flare up later.

With that, a quick dinner was in order. We grabbed some Italian food in Lake City and went back to the B&B. Our day started at 6AM, and we arrived at the B&B at 8PM. Our Innkeeper was very supportive and provided us plenty of pillows to prop Ellen up. Before we went on the climb, our hostess told us she thought we were crazy. After this day had drawn to a close, there was no way I could argue with her.

WOOD MOUNTAIN

Approaching Wood Mountain's Summit
Photo by SP member nader

Given Ellen’s injury and the previous 12 mile day, a short and sweet climb was in order, thus once again I was compelled to put off my proposed climb of an obscure point in the Uncompahgre. We decided that Wood Mountain, along our 4WD route to Silverton, fit the bill nicely. I remembered SP member Nader submitting the peak to SP and we looked it up on TOPO with Ellen’s laptop. We knew that weather would likely be a factor, so we brought TOPO along for contingency planning and research, and this turned out to be a huge boon for us throughout the entire trip.

Looking northwest to Engineer Pass from Wood Mountain
Note the rugged ridge in the foreground!
Photo by SP member nader

From the summit of Cinnamon Pass, the climb to the summit was only 1 mile. We took it slow, but it was merely a nice walk and we still made the summit in just over an hour. The surprise was the north face of the mountain. It was a sheer drop-off for about 500 feet to the rocky wastes of Horseshoe Basin below, a vast rock glacier that no doubt is never visited by anyone. A narrow and rickety looking ridge extends from the summit due west, and a striking spur ridge that defies sensible climbing also tracks north to the steep slopes of Dusty Mountain, another San Juan summit that may see few if any climbers. Engineer Pass is clearly visible from Wood’s summit, which I was unaware of, so I learned something. The next time I’m on Engineer, I’ll need to look over toward Woods and the rugged ridge I just mentioned, as these features have gone unnoticed by me until now.

Uncompahgre and Wetterhorn (left) from Wood Mountain
Photo by SP member nader

The descent was a joyous scree ski, and we were back at the car within 40 minutes. Again, we had the mountain to ourselves, and traffic on the Cinnamon Pass road was very light. Woods is a surprisingly tall mountain and the view of the San Juans is amazingly good from the top. We were surprised to even see part of Half Peak behind Handies, which dominates the southeast view. All of the major San Juan sub ranges can be seen from this very respectable mountain, and it’s worth your time to climb it!

LITTLE GIANT

Spotting the trail could be tricky!

The mountain was just fifteen minutes from Silverton, and with the gorgeous fall weather, we enjoyed a leisurely start after a big breakfast at the Brown Bear Café (highly recommended) that morning of September 20. Using TOPO and a GPS device, we nailed down our starting point and a few other points along the proposed route. Steven mentioned a trail in his original text on the Little Giant SP page, but the trail was not readily evident. Ellen saw what looked like a trail (and indeed it was), and it seemed to jibe with the map, but we decided to assault the slope directly toward the basin.

Steep climbing: 1,000 feet in a half mile

Not since Potosi Peak back in 1980 had I been on a mountain as steep as Little Giant. We gained two or three feet with every step, and some fun Class 3 scrambling by a waterfall added to the fun. We climbed 1,000 feet in a half mile, and 1,700 feet in the first mile, by which time we had intercepted the old miner’s trail depicted on the map. The trail zigzagged up into the narrow basin where we paused for some food and water. I looked around at the scattered remnants left behind from the San Juan’s aggressive mining era and the otherwise desolate basin of rock and grass, and studied route possibilities up the mountain. Without looking at the map, I assumed the summit was on the left, which meant scrambling up to a gully filled with tailings from the mining operation, crossing it on likely loose terrain, and scrambling to the top over undoubtedly steep and loose rock.

Ominous sinkholes dot the talus and tundra below Little Giant

We followed the trail up steep tundra slopes, but since it was veering off to the east, we broke off and contoured directly to the mountain. As we ascended, I looked down into the basin, and much to my surprise, I saw something I had not seen when I had looked around during our break. There was a huge, house-sized sinkhole, perfectly round, in the tundra grass of the basin! We assumed this was the result of the past mining activity. The hole was probably positioned directly above a vertical or horizontal shaft. The wet San Juan winters and monsoons had probably caused the ominous hole to form. It was at least 30 feet deep.

Another sinkhole beneath Little Giant's summit

We reached the top of a large tailings dump at the base of a gray cliff. Above us were steep tundra slopes and a narrow scree filled couloir leading to what we assumed was a secondary summit. Looking down the tailings slope, we saw yet ANOTHER large sinkhole amidst the mining rubble, directly below us. This caused Ellen some concern, as we were considering walking across the tailings slope directly in line with this gaping hole in the mountain. Her concern was valid, for Little Giant and the other mountains around the Silver Lake Mine were riddled with tunnels. The San Juans were loose to begin with, and Little Giant is well known as a mountain that was literally falling apart daily. Not far from the mountain back in the 1980s, an entire lake was drained through a mine tunnel by accident. Luckily it happened on a Sunday when no one was working. I assured her we would minimize our time on the tailings.

We choose the wrong route to Little Giant...

From the gray cliff, we could either slog our way up the tailings on the right side of the gully, or cross the tailings and assault the summit directly. We took the second option. Climbing the deep scree just to get to solid terrain was a chore. The solid terrain was covered in loose scree and rock, so “solid” was a relative term. It was very steep and required all fours to climb, so this might be considered “loose Class 4,” with tiny ledges and holds, all of which had to be tested before committing. Dislodging loose rocks could not be avoided, but thankfully most of them were small. This stretch of the climb was also the sketchiest, but for seasoned San Juan climbers, it’s just part of the experience.

Looking west and down to Silver Lake from Little Giant

The ridge was reached after twenty minutes of this airy climb, and a wonderful view of Silver Lake lay below to the west. Much to our surprise, to the northeast was the true summit of the mountain. From below, the ridge looked higher and LOOKED like the summit. I had been fooled by the mountain! Such a thing has not happened to me in a very long time. It seems I’m losing my touch! We followed the ridge toward the summit, but it dropped off into yet another HUGE sinkhole! This was a treacherous looking place. The hole was directly beneath the summit, and extended north behind the ridge, giving the impression that the entire ridge was ready to fall away from the mountain.

Ellen and I quickly traversed the ridge to the north end of the sink hole and wasted no time getting to ground that seemed more solid. The ridge top and hole were yellow colored, part of a yellow band of strata that the summit sits on, and presumably could slide off of if enough water was present. This band of rock, held together by fine, loose scree was easily penetrated for mining purposes and very vulnerable to water. We were struck with a sense of eeriness I had not yet experienced on any mountain. Little Giant was a truly rickety mountain, and I was nervous on this easily walked ridge. I felt much better once we were scrambling up the darker colored scree to the summit, which we now approached from the northwest.

On the summit ridge was a surprising cornice and a gaping cliff cove that dropped in spectacular style to Little Giant basin far below. This massive cliff face is hardly hinted at on the map, but its appearance further supported our notion that the mountain was being held together by nothing more than LUCK.

A stiff breeze had suddenly arrived as we stood on the dramatic summit perch, so we dropped to the east side to take a break and get out of the wind. We never got that break, though, for what happened next came at us from out of the blue—yet we should have known better.

As I took off my pack, my camera fell away from me, landed on the slope and started rolling down Little Giant’s amazingly steep south slope. The Velcro on the bag had failed, and all that had kept it secured against me was my backpack’s shoulder strap! I ran downhill after it, with Ellen yelling, “Aaron! Don’t run!” But I had caught up with the camera as it bounced its way toward a narrow couloir. I threw my leg out in front of it, sliding down the scree slope like a runner sliding in to first base. But the camera bounced OVER my leg, picking up speed as it was funneled down the couloir and out of sight. My $400 Nikon camera was gone in an instant. All of my photos of Half Peak’s Northeast Ridge route were simply gone thanks to a failed Velcro patch! We both knew that bag needed replacing. I was negligent, and now I paid the price for that negligence.

A water bottle had fallen from my daypack as well, and was now rolling down the slope. We watched helplessly as it rolled and slid toward the maw at the top of the couloir, then slowed, then miraculously…stopped! I strolled down to an outcrop of rock about ten feet above the bottle. Ellen joined me there. The terrain was far from treacherous. It was just another steep San Juan scree slope at the top of a narrow, scree filled couloir. Yet it was apparent that the camera had tumbled down the couloir, out the other end, down steep tundra, over the gray cliff we had traversed under earlier, then out onto the extensive tailings dumps. Finding the camera was a hopeless proposition.

The incident had scared Ellen, watching me run down that gully’s mouth. Once in the gully, there was no way I could have caught the camera anyway. The scree was deep and fine and I could have stopped easily by just planting my ass in the stuff, and I assured her I had run down such slopes many times. She wisely retorted, “ Yeah-but you’re 50 now!” Hmmm. She had a point.

Gazing down the narrow couloir-where we last saw my camera tumble

We gathered our wits and assessed the terrain. We realized the couloir was the same one we had seen above our ascent route, so we decided to grab my water bottle, descend the couloir to the steep tundra beneath it, contour east, then back west to get around the cliff band and rejoin our route at the tailings beneath the gray cliff. This point was in a direct position to the fall line of the camera. With any luck, we would find the camera on top of the tailings, and with a wild stretch of luck, we might find the camera on the tailings slope. Following the potential fall line all the way down the slope, our gaze was led to the ominous sinkhole in the tailings below. Could the camera have fallen that far and gone into the sinkhole? Yikes!

Well, I had written the camera off. The impacts of the fall would have probably rendered it useless junk anyway. Ellen disagreed, thinking the bag’s padding would have protected it. Even if it was broken beyond repair, the photos and the card could be salvaged. We descended the couloir, our feet sinking deep into the scree. At the bottom, the couloir narrows to a foot wide and there was a patch of snow amidst the rocks. The camera’s impact trail in the snow informed us that it was moving right along when it flew out the end of the couloir onto the steep tundra slopes, where there was nothing that could conceivably stop its high speed descent.

The fall line begins just below the summit (right) and goes straight down to steep talus in the lower left corner...it's hopelessly gone!

We exited the couloir and scrambled down to the slopes, executing our search plan. Arriving at the tailings dump beneath the gray cliff, I looked up at the couloir and imagined the camera’s trajectory. Without a doubt, it simply flew off the twenty foot high cliff and bypassed my position altogether, careening down the tailings toward the sinkhole. I scanned the massive tailings slopes for a sign of the camera bag. The bag was black, so it would be camouflaged amongst all the talus, much of it black and similar in size.

The fall line of the camera started at the notch on the horizon...lost forever!

Ellen was now descending the tailings toward the sinkhole. I scurried down after her, reminding her of the eerie instability of the mountain, and that we had no idea where the mine shafts coursed beneath us. She just wanted to look in the sinkhole, to see if the camera had stopped there. I was convinced it was hopelessly lost on the slopes above us. Little Giant’s summit was now at least 700 feet above, and in a fan pattern below the outlet of the couloir, that camera was lost on a vast square mile of tailings and tundra.

There was snow in the sinkhole, and a pattern in the snow! Our eyes caught that pattern and followed it down the ominous funnel to…a rock. It probably arrived there just a day or two ago, for the impact points still appeared fresh. With that, I assured Ellen that the camera was gone and that we had to get out of there. We had hoped to follow the miner’s trail all the way down to see where it came out for route purposes. Since it might take some extra time to do that, we hurried on our way and left my camera to its cold, lonely and forever lost fate.

We intercepted the trail and followed it down to where we first found it during our ascent, then continued to follow it as it descended the steep slope in a northward contour, roughly following a band of timber that breached a band of cliffs. Below the cliff band, the trail contoured back to the south and toward our car. En route we passed a mine tunnel. Most of these tunnels had since been boarded up, but this one had gone unattended, and it seemed inviting in a hungry and mysterious way. I took a picture of the entrance. Twenty feet in, two tunnels were clearly visible. The explorer had a choice…left or right? We did not enter. We’d had our share of ominous encounters, and we certainly had our share of strange bad luck on this trip. We desired no more.

As we drove back toward Silverton, I thought back on our trip so far: Ellen’s injury, and now, losing my Nikon camera. And then there was Little Giant. I thought this would be a friendly mountain, and it certainly wasn’t difficult as San Juan peaks go, but it was far from friendly. Ominous seemed more appropriate, and I tried to express my feelings to Ellen, but I think my attempt was not adequate. Men had undoubtedly died on the mountain as they bored beneath it in the search for wealth. It was not an unreasonable assumption, since I knew men had died at Silver Lake, on the mountain’s west side. Those huge sinkholes, a feature I have never seen before, made me wonder if some of those men were still buried in the mountain. Perhaps for treading upon them, fate saw fit to relieve me of my camera.

Lessons were learned, and perceptions perhaps were needlessly distorted by my suspicions, but in the end, it was a great day and not all was lost. We had climbed yet another surprisingly challenging San Juan summit, and we still had record of it, although perhaps not as extensive as desired, but it was better than nothing: We still had Ellen’s camera.

OHIO PEAK

Beautiful Ohio Peak
Photo by SP member Nader

As we drove down into Silverton, I stopped to get a picture of Arrastra Gulch, the drainage where Silver Lake is located. To the east towered the steep, loose cliffs of Little Giant’s northern buttress. This basin was the scene of countless rockfall and avalanche incidents, a place of violence and tragedy. Yet on this glorious fall day, warm breeze blowing steadily, aspens quaking in the abundant sunshine, Little Giant’s grim past was far removed from our charmed visit to its dramatic summit.

Little Giant (left) and Arrastra Gulch

Yet our trip had been punctuated with incidents of strange, bad luck. Undaunted, we pressed forward, even as the next blow arrived in the form of a phone message from my long time climbing partner MA, who was to meet us for the next day’s climb of Potosi Peak, a mountain that has literally been on my to-do list for almost thirty years.

Mark had doubts that the climb would be successful if attempted, due to an oncoming storm scheduled to arrive the next day. That explained the sudden wind change on Little Giant’s summit. I took my picture of Arrastra Gulch and called him. It was decided we would go into Silverton, drop in to one of the new internet café’s and look at the situation. We would then call him back and make a decision.

The image on Ellen’s laptop was grim, to say the least. The jet stream was carrying yet another storm, similar to the previous one, right in to Colorado, and it was scheduled to hit the western half of the state in the morning. I called MA and told him the climb was not going to happen and not to bother driving three hours from his home in Salida, unless he wanted to gamble that the storm would not do much and we might be able to climb Potosi on Friday. We decided to stay in touch in case that possibility presented itself, but otherwise Ellen and I would climb something else—something short and sweet so we could beat the oncoming storm.

Mark’s call got us out of bed at 8:00 AM. He was wondering what the weather was doing. I looked outside. It was nice. At 8:30 we went to get breakfast. Clouds were rolling in. As I ate breakfast, I discussed Ohio Peak with Ellen, having remembered SP member Nader’s excellent page about the little known mountain. Not only would it be easily done, it would give us an idea of how fast the weather was moving in and perhaps give us an idea on how serious this storm might be.

We returned to our room and quickly packed up our gear and departed for the mountain following Nader’s excellent directions. We left Highway 550 on a steep but easily driven jeep road which climbed to our starting point at 12,000 feet. The mountain was only 673 feet higher than us, so it was going to be a stroll, not a climb. Just as well, for dark, ominous clouds had gathered over the San Juans within three short hours. The storm was moving in fast, and it appeared to mean business.

The miner's cabin on Ohio Peak
Photo by SP member Nader

Our pace was brisk as we contoured the tundra slopes and assumed the mountain’s north ridge. From an old and squat miner’s cabin, we ascended steep tundra and loose rock to the higher ridge line, which was the colorful red and white talus that made up the bulk of the Red Mountains sub range. We reached the summit in a hasty 39 minutes, and the snow flurries were already coming down. To add insult to injury, Potosi Peak presently bathed in sunshine and was dry as a bone! The conditions made for some gorgeous photos, but our stay was brief because the storm had certainly arrived, and we were visiting this stunning summit on borrowed time.

Our descent back to the vehicle was done in 21 minutes. Our hour long stroll on Ohio Peak hardly did the mountain justice, for it is truly a beautiful mountain. A register at the top indicated it was a favorite with locals, but even so, it was rarely climbed. Even Nader’s 2002 visit was still present on the little tablet encased in a glass jar which had survived the harsh conditions of the summit for at least five years. Climbing the mountain from a lower point on the road would add more respectability to this gracious peak, which sports a surprisingly unobstructed view of the western San Juans.

But it would not be so with us. The storm had arrived and we were safely back at our vehicle. We decided to enjoy the rest of the day from its comfortable interior, viewing the aspens on our way to Ridgway, passing through Telluride en route for lunch. We drove the easy 4WD road over Ophir Pass so Ellen could enjoy the aspen splendor of that valley. By the time we finished lunch in Telluride, it was pouring rain, and obviously the San Juan high country was receiving another dose of snow. We called MA and told him to stay home. Potosi would again have to wait another year.

Ohio Peak's summit (right) from the North Ridge on September 20, 2006. Winter arrives early in the San Juan.

EPILOGUE

INFORMATIVE LINKS RELATED TO THIS REPORT

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