Edge
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- Dec 23, 2024
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3:45 am.
It never fails; I’ve woken up 15 minutes ahead of my alarm going off. As a 63 year old carpenter who still works 5 days a week, you would think that I could really use my sleep, but I had rested over the weekend and planned an adventure for the Indigenous Peoples Day holiday on Monday. I had somehow managed 6 hours of shut-eye, and that would have to be enough to get me through the day. I dressed quickly and silently, grabbed my loaded day pack, a premade bagel with cream cheese, a travel mug of iced coffee from the fridge, then slipped out into the night.
It’s a blessing to live close enough to the mountains that I can wake up early in my own bed.
“You know it's hard out here for a wimp.
When he tryin' to wake up early in his tent.”
I really appreciate the creature comforts in my old age.
It had been a spectacular, dry autumn in the Front Range of Colorado, and I was taking advantage of the warm temps and lack of snow up high to attempt my second trek in the Indian Peaks in the last month. Previously I had hiked the infamously fun Arapaho Traverse, a moderate 10 mile, 3500 vertical foot climb up South Arapaho to a mile long ridge of mixed class 3-4 leading to the highest point in the range, North Arapaho. This popular route can often be crowded on the weekends, but by going mid-week I had both summits and the ridge entirely to myself. It had been thrilling with gorgeous 360 degree views, but my eye (and imagination!) had been drawn to another long ridge-line leading up to one of the smaller peaks just south on the Continental Divide.
A climber on the Arapaho Traverse.
Later investigation showed this to be the North Ridge of Mt Neva, a line that the Roach guide called “classic” and “not a hiking route”, while Dziezynski’s guide referenced it as “reserved for experienced climbers with strong route-finding skills that can handle prolonged sections of high exposure.” I had read about this ridge previously without actually locating it on a map, having placed it in a mental ‘to-do’ list that I realistically thought I would never do. I enjoy a good challenge, but at my age had assessed it as possibly too stout for an unaccompanied venture, and solo trips are the ones I enjoy the most.
Introversion is a curious trait, one I had been managing my entire life. As a young man, I had gone on 5 separate trips from my home in New Hampshire to Yosemite, finding different partners each time. Similar experiences happened in Chamonix, the Tetons, the Black Hills, and on my home cliffs of New England; I had never suffered from not getting on the climbs that pushed my limits and spoke to my personal spirit of adventure. I could not let anyone get too close, and when they did I would disappear to some new location with new partners. In this way I chased grades in the early 80’s all the way up to 5.12 before some asshats upped the ante by establishing 5.13, a grade too far for my limited genetic talents. Almost instantly climbing became more about having fun and pushing only myself.
Early climbing days.
A summer in Colorado in between my first and second year of college, during which I climbed daily in Eldo and RMNP, made me fall in love with the Front Range. I swore that I would move back soon, but life can be funny; “Man makes plans and the Creator just laughs.” I got married in NH, had two kids, and my wife refused to relocate until our children were out of school. (But honey, they have schools in Colorado…). I thought my dream would never happen, but in 2013, as I turned age 53, we packed up an RV full of gear, essentials, and two Welsh Corgis for a 4 month cross country road trip ending in Boulder. Following a year of renting, we eventually found a modest home at 8100’ in between Boulder and Nederland, just a short drive from the Indian Peaks.
In New Hampshire I had spent the prior 19 years self-employed as a furniture maker/designer. This sounds a lot more interesting than I made it and although I did have a fair amount of critical acclaim, working all day every day in my home shop with a two year backlog proved too much for me. Eventually my climbing took a back seat and resentments from work pressure and being stuck in NH led me to drink to excess, an inherited family trait. I created my best furniture work as a high functioning closet drunk, drinking a half gallon of gin or vodka a day for half a decade. I ballooned to 240 pounds and was in and out of rehab three times before a chance encounter with a Native American energy worker. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion about energy work, but during a Reiki session at rehab I felt a switch flip amid a stream of colorful visions while lying on the table, and the desire to drink left me immediately and permanently. I was 49 years old, had burned any and all bridges that I had ever built, and had to reclaim what I wanted for my life. I returned to climbing with a vengeance, first at the gym and then outdoors, primarily at a local crag that I and a few new friends were developing. In a year and a half I was back at my old fighting weight of 165 lbs and finally planning how I would make it to Colorado.
In the studio, New Hampshire.
We arrived in Boulder just two weeks ahead of the 2013 floods. I had not planned for a job upon arrival, but was able to find ample employment helping to rebuild flood damaged homes. I worked with a general contractor where I could just show up every day and avoid the worst parts of the job for me, dealing with clients and Boulder’s soul sucking paperwork and permitting. 11 years later I still work with the same contractor, but because living here is so expensive I have to work at the expense of my outdoor time. 5 days work requires two days of rest- rinse and repeat- with time for very little climbing. This makes it even more special when I can get out.
My contractor friend and I do both residential and commercial jobs, including rebuilding the climber-famous Sibley home outside of Eldorado that was lost in the Marshall fire. Last year I was feeling at the peak of strength while framing and doing all the finish and cabinet work on his house and shop when my age slapped me aside the head. As the only carpenter in a crew of three who was not afraid of heights, I had to pull some 150 sheets of plywood up onto the two roofs, walk them in place onto ’H’ clips, and nail them off. Soon after I saw a doctor about a persistent pain in the base of my thumbs, which was diagnosed as osteoarthritis with crepitus caused from a lifetime of abuse. Cautious experiments have shown that while I can still climb most 5.10s ‘off-the-couch’, any move with a wide pinch approaches impossible. Unlike my youth, I now rely more on technique and experience rather than brute strength, a lesson that came very late to me.
About this same time I began to experience numbness and lack of control in my lower legs, and after a slew of specialists and testing was told that my brain was misfiring from an abundance of dopamine and pleasure sensing chemicals that would build up to critical levels and then release in a catastrophic melee. The everyday things that cause other people pleasure do not work for me any longer, and the neurologist recommended a returned commitment to the more extreme pursuits of my past. My brain needs to push what my body is capable of.
Which brings back us to Mt Neva. Comments online run the gamut from ‘not too bad’ to ‘we turned back, YGD!’ (Climber speak for Yer Gonna Die…). I began to wonder if this particular scramble was too much for my failing bodily equipment, and if it would be wise to find a companion for safety’s sake, but insecurity is exciting, and exciting is just what my doctor ordered.
The North Ridge of Mt Neva begins on the far right, following the skyline left.
I discarded that idea as soon as it entered my head. In the last several years I’ve taken pride in my solo ventures in the deserts of Utah and Arizona, as well as the mountains of Colorado. Beginning with Grand Gulch in Bears Ears, Death Hollow and numerous slot canyons in Escalante, Grand Canyon rim to rim, the Blue Lake Traverse in the Indian Peaks, and this spring two additional backpacks in Cedar Mesa. Over three days I hiked the trail-less canyon just east of Slickhorn to the San Juan River (Ranger: “No one ever goes there! We want a full report when you get back.”) and then along the river and out Slickhorn Canyon. Day 1 was like a desert escape room with massive boulders, pour-offs, log jambs, quicksand, and water wading which covered 17 miles, but to be fair I was only aged 62 at the time. Two weeks later I hiked the Fish & Owl loop, one of the most beautiful circuits I’ve ever done. If I could navigate these, I should be able to still manage a Class 4 ridge at elevation, or worst case scenario, realize when I’m over my head and turn around after a pleasant few hours.
I don’t carry a Spot or other GPS device as a rule, partly because I enjoy being fully aware and responsible for my own safety, but also because they’re just too expensive; I already expect to work until I turn 70. My job is physical and demanding, and I’m at a point where I realize that I could leave for a job one morning and not return; the same thing can be said for my outdoor travels. I’m okay with this, I could use the rest.
I leave the Fourth of July trailhead by headlamp, ascending slowly through stunted trees under a flood of stars. A ptarmigan drums to my right, her feathers half brown and half in her winter coat of white. As the sun starts to crest the eastern horizon in brilliant orange and red, I turn off the headlamp and get my first up close view of the ridge running from Arapaho Pass south to Neva’s summit. It indeed looks imposing, but I trust a comment from the route description in Mt Project which says it’s no big deal. These are climber comments and I still think of myself as a climber, and so I trust them; my kind of people.
Sunrise.
Walking around Lake Dorothy, the highest lake in the Indian Peaks, leads me to a low angle talus field leading up to the ridge proper atop the Continental Divide. The route ahead is obvious, bordered on the East by rocky slabs and cliffs dropping off to Lake Dorothy, and to the west down steep slopes of tundra with spectacular views of Winter Park, Grand Lake, and endless peaks fading off into the distance. The line of least resistance follows the apex between these two sides via steep hiking and boulder-hopping until I scramble up a crest and find myself looking down at a 30’ drop of technical fifth class that would require a rappel to negotiate.
Sunrise over Lake Dorothy from the start of the route.
I backtrack 20 yards or so and spy a series of ledges circumventing this gendarme to the left, perched precariously above the steep east facing slabs. Walking carefully along these ledges so as not to slip on patches of lichen or loose soil soon puts me back on the knife edge under the backside of the rock tower. Several other gendarmes and high points along the ridge ahead require similar trickery, but whenever possible I follow the crest, as this is why I’m here.
Beginning the route.
The exposure increases as I approach the crux, a well documented 40’ of steep fourth class slab hanging out over a 600’ drop on the east face. As I pause to examine the cliff band and choose my preferred line, I hear my Dad’s voice from 50 years ago in my head. “You can never do that.”
I had just finished 8th grade, and returned home with a stellar report card and a brochure that detailed summer break activities abroad; I thought the former would support the latter. One program in particular had grabbed my attention, a guided climb of a mountain in the Alps. Dad had previously pointed out Mt Washington and promised to hike it with me, but never did and never would, so I made my play to climb a summit without him. “Don’t be stupid. You can never do that. You’re afraid of heights and we don’t have the money.” Tact was not in Dad’s playbook, but he spoke the truth. I was notoriously afraid of heights, paralyzed by recurring dreams of falling through space, and my parents never gave me money for anything without giving a similar amount to each of my three siblings. He worked at a lumber yard and there was just no way, but it would have been nice if he could have told me without crushing my spirit.
Out of spite I took his rebuke as a personal challenge, and in the following years I read everything that I could related to climbing and scrambled around on local boulders and small cliff bands that I could ride my bike to. I acquired a fair amount of skill by practicing techniques from the books, but still could not dispense with the fear. I almost gave up when I received a National Geographic magazine in the mail that detailed the first clean ascent of the Regular Route on the NW Face of Half Dome, and I got physically ill looking at a picture taken from above the Zig Zags.
I was in community college at the time, and in an act of desperation sent away for a self-hypnosis cassette that I listened to every night as I fell asleep. Two years later I would lead those Zig Zag pitches and set up a semi-hanging belay above them at the start of Thank God Ledge, and looking down I knew that I was no longer a prisoner of my fear. Dad passed away just last year, leaving me a raging case of arthritis in both thumbs, the now dormant alcoholic tendencies, and a mile wide stubborn streak as my inheritance. I’m perfectly imperfect, and grateful for everything that he was able to give to me, things that make me who I am.
“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift." - Mary Oliver
So here I was, alone and exposed, and I pushed the word ‘never’ out of my mind. These things are rarely as bad as they are made out to be, and that was the case here. I found the moves to be easy fourth class and the exposure exhilarating, so much so that I paused halfway to take a selfie. It felt good to flow over the surprisingly solid stone, focused and in control.
High over Lake Dorothy.
The crux was over far too soon, and led me to a rounded knife edge ridge of rotten, loose rock where the angle lessened. I paused here to eat some electrolyte tablets as a precaution; I had suffered severe leg cramping the month prior halfway through the Arapaho Traverse, likely from limiting salt intake to help reduce chronic high blood pressure. The setting of the ridge here is magnificent, and I pass the tops of numerous gullies entering from the east that make fine snow climbs in earlier months. Finally, after almost a mile of travel since I had first gained the ridge line, the route turns to steep slopes of tundra and rock angling up to the summit and a brief rest.
Part the crux.
Both of my guide books had suggested a descent to the east just south of Neva’s summit, but now that I see the ridge in its entirety I know that won’t happen. A beautiful, sweeping curve of class 2-3 ridge extends out for just over a mile to the ramparts of Mt Jasper, and it’s calling my name. It’s 8:25 am, I’m feeling strong, and I have read absolutely nothing about the route ahead or the descent off of Jasper.
The traverse ridge leading to Mt Jasper, in shadow on the left skyline
“Discovery consists of seeing what everyone else has seen, but thinking what no one else has thought.”
I think I’ll discover a new way home.
I must sacrifice elevation by dropping west, skirting cliff tops along the way, to access the mile and a quarter long undulating spine of rock and tundra leading south. The way forward is not difficult, but it’s engaging with unparalleled views both left and right. Two lakes appear in the eastern cirque, hidden from most vantage points in the Fourth of July valley, and unnamed on the topo map that I’m carrying. Jasper is higher than Neva, and the wind, which had been gentle all day, picks up, blowing loose strands of hair into my mouth. When the ridge line ends and morphs into the summit cone, I notice my breathing is becoming more labored. I’ve been playing at just under 13k feet for a while this morning, and find myself stopping more frequently before reaching the confusing summit.
The two unnamed lakes and Mt Neva, looking back from the summit of Jasper.
There are several rocky promontories that could be the actual peak, so I pick one and pull out a hair tie and the topo map. The easiest walking continues south to Devils Thumb Pass, but puts me one valley over from where I’m parked. There are three prominent ridge lines extending into the Fourth of July valley; the one trending southeast looks long, hard to access, and with a great deal of elevation change up and down. The two ridges running northeast and east both share a common start before splitting, heading into two separate cirques. I choose the east trending ridge because I can see it passing Upper Diamond Lake about half way down and know I can pick up a trail there.
Getting established on the ridge proper is difficult. The only solid rock are steep cliff bands, separated by a dark grey combination of loose gravel and small boulders. I am soon above a gully where the snow route “Snow Lion” tops out. With snow it’s a Grade 3 classic, but without it’s an unsecured mess of loose gravel and hidden drop offs. I consider trying to down climb it, but that looks like a death wish. I will have to cross the headwall of the gully to access the talus slopes on its far side, but there are no anchor points to aim for and each step is like skiing on marbles. Could this be the actual crux of the day that I hadn’t foreseen?
Looking out over the East Ridge, Upper Diamond Lake below
I’m reminded of an Aberts squirrel that I once encountered who became a teacher of mine. I had just finished the rim to rim hike through the Grand Canyon, north to south, and had caught a shuttle back to my truck on the North Rim. The hike had been perfect, everything that I had been looking for, and I was feeling great. Driving out to Jacob’s Lake, en route to a hotel in Marble Canyon, I found myself the middle vehicle in a group of three when a tiny shape shot out of the grass on the side of the road and bolted in front of me. I braked as hard and quickly as I could without causing an accident behind me, but it was to no avail. My rear view mirror confirmed the worst.
Previously I had confided in a friend that a large number of deaths in the local mountains seemed to be 60 something solo hikers who just go missing. She had replied, “But you’re not like everyone else”, which I took as the intended compliment, but deep down I knew better. I’m exactly like those unfortunate souls, just luckier to date. I seriously doubt that any of them woke up that morning, grabbed their packs, drove to the trailhead, and thought, “this will be my last day.” Had the squirrel any idea when he left his nest that his family would never see him again? What had possessed him to make a mad dash across a foreign material cutting through the forest floor that shuttled four wheel reapers of death? Every squirrel knows the the nuts are always meatier on the other side of the road, but when is it better to just take the nuts provided you on your side, and be happy?
I eased deliberately onto and across the rolling gravel, aiming for small boulders that I hoped were solid but were just as mobile. For every 5 feet of sideways progress I slid down 3, getting closer and closer to the point of reckoning where I would tumble into an unseen abyss. Doing the math with 20’ to go and only 6 feet available to slide, I started to run. In fact you could say, like my squirrel friend, I ran my nuts off.
When your heart is beating through your chest with adrenaline it’s easy to miss your mark, but I reached the rock on the far side and grabbed a vertical crack before barndooring onto solid footing. These are the moments that stick with you, and define you in ways both good and bad. With heightened senses I turned and identified a line diagonally across and down 800’ of talus, often loose and constantly shifting, that would deposit me at the outlet of Upper Diamond Lake and the trail home. There I met two fishermen walking in, the first people I had seen all day.
“Good morning,” I said.
And I meant it.
Upper Diamond Lake on the hike out.
It never fails; I’ve woken up 15 minutes ahead of my alarm going off. As a 63 year old carpenter who still works 5 days a week, you would think that I could really use my sleep, but I had rested over the weekend and planned an adventure for the Indigenous Peoples Day holiday on Monday. I had somehow managed 6 hours of shut-eye, and that would have to be enough to get me through the day. I dressed quickly and silently, grabbed my loaded day pack, a premade bagel with cream cheese, a travel mug of iced coffee from the fridge, then slipped out into the night.
It’s a blessing to live close enough to the mountains that I can wake up early in my own bed.
“You know it's hard out here for a wimp.
When he tryin' to wake up early in his tent.”
I really appreciate the creature comforts in my old age.
It had been a spectacular, dry autumn in the Front Range of Colorado, and I was taking advantage of the warm temps and lack of snow up high to attempt my second trek in the Indian Peaks in the last month. Previously I had hiked the infamously fun Arapaho Traverse, a moderate 10 mile, 3500 vertical foot climb up South Arapaho to a mile long ridge of mixed class 3-4 leading to the highest point in the range, North Arapaho. This popular route can often be crowded on the weekends, but by going mid-week I had both summits and the ridge entirely to myself. It had been thrilling with gorgeous 360 degree views, but my eye (and imagination!) had been drawn to another long ridge-line leading up to one of the smaller peaks just south on the Continental Divide.
A climber on the Arapaho Traverse.
Later investigation showed this to be the North Ridge of Mt Neva, a line that the Roach guide called “classic” and “not a hiking route”, while Dziezynski’s guide referenced it as “reserved for experienced climbers with strong route-finding skills that can handle prolonged sections of high exposure.” I had read about this ridge previously without actually locating it on a map, having placed it in a mental ‘to-do’ list that I realistically thought I would never do. I enjoy a good challenge, but at my age had assessed it as possibly too stout for an unaccompanied venture, and solo trips are the ones I enjoy the most.
Introversion is a curious trait, one I had been managing my entire life. As a young man, I had gone on 5 separate trips from my home in New Hampshire to Yosemite, finding different partners each time. Similar experiences happened in Chamonix, the Tetons, the Black Hills, and on my home cliffs of New England; I had never suffered from not getting on the climbs that pushed my limits and spoke to my personal spirit of adventure. I could not let anyone get too close, and when they did I would disappear to some new location with new partners. In this way I chased grades in the early 80’s all the way up to 5.12 before some asshats upped the ante by establishing 5.13, a grade too far for my limited genetic talents. Almost instantly climbing became more about having fun and pushing only myself.
Early climbing days.
A summer in Colorado in between my first and second year of college, during which I climbed daily in Eldo and RMNP, made me fall in love with the Front Range. I swore that I would move back soon, but life can be funny; “Man makes plans and the Creator just laughs.” I got married in NH, had two kids, and my wife refused to relocate until our children were out of school. (But honey, they have schools in Colorado…). I thought my dream would never happen, but in 2013, as I turned age 53, we packed up an RV full of gear, essentials, and two Welsh Corgis for a 4 month cross country road trip ending in Boulder. Following a year of renting, we eventually found a modest home at 8100’ in between Boulder and Nederland, just a short drive from the Indian Peaks.
In New Hampshire I had spent the prior 19 years self-employed as a furniture maker/designer. This sounds a lot more interesting than I made it and although I did have a fair amount of critical acclaim, working all day every day in my home shop with a two year backlog proved too much for me. Eventually my climbing took a back seat and resentments from work pressure and being stuck in NH led me to drink to excess, an inherited family trait. I created my best furniture work as a high functioning closet drunk, drinking a half gallon of gin or vodka a day for half a decade. I ballooned to 240 pounds and was in and out of rehab three times before a chance encounter with a Native American energy worker. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion about energy work, but during a Reiki session at rehab I felt a switch flip amid a stream of colorful visions while lying on the table, and the desire to drink left me immediately and permanently. I was 49 years old, had burned any and all bridges that I had ever built, and had to reclaim what I wanted for my life. I returned to climbing with a vengeance, first at the gym and then outdoors, primarily at a local crag that I and a few new friends were developing. In a year and a half I was back at my old fighting weight of 165 lbs and finally planning how I would make it to Colorado.
In the studio, New Hampshire.
We arrived in Boulder just two weeks ahead of the 2013 floods. I had not planned for a job upon arrival, but was able to find ample employment helping to rebuild flood damaged homes. I worked with a general contractor where I could just show up every day and avoid the worst parts of the job for me, dealing with clients and Boulder’s soul sucking paperwork and permitting. 11 years later I still work with the same contractor, but because living here is so expensive I have to work at the expense of my outdoor time. 5 days work requires two days of rest- rinse and repeat- with time for very little climbing. This makes it even more special when I can get out.
My contractor friend and I do both residential and commercial jobs, including rebuilding the climber-famous Sibley home outside of Eldorado that was lost in the Marshall fire. Last year I was feeling at the peak of strength while framing and doing all the finish and cabinet work on his house and shop when my age slapped me aside the head. As the only carpenter in a crew of three who was not afraid of heights, I had to pull some 150 sheets of plywood up onto the two roofs, walk them in place onto ’H’ clips, and nail them off. Soon after I saw a doctor about a persistent pain in the base of my thumbs, which was diagnosed as osteoarthritis with crepitus caused from a lifetime of abuse. Cautious experiments have shown that while I can still climb most 5.10s ‘off-the-couch’, any move with a wide pinch approaches impossible. Unlike my youth, I now rely more on technique and experience rather than brute strength, a lesson that came very late to me.
About this same time I began to experience numbness and lack of control in my lower legs, and after a slew of specialists and testing was told that my brain was misfiring from an abundance of dopamine and pleasure sensing chemicals that would build up to critical levels and then release in a catastrophic melee. The everyday things that cause other people pleasure do not work for me any longer, and the neurologist recommended a returned commitment to the more extreme pursuits of my past. My brain needs to push what my body is capable of.
Which brings back us to Mt Neva. Comments online run the gamut from ‘not too bad’ to ‘we turned back, YGD!’ (Climber speak for Yer Gonna Die…). I began to wonder if this particular scramble was too much for my failing bodily equipment, and if it would be wise to find a companion for safety’s sake, but insecurity is exciting, and exciting is just what my doctor ordered.
The North Ridge of Mt Neva begins on the far right, following the skyline left.
I discarded that idea as soon as it entered my head. In the last several years I’ve taken pride in my solo ventures in the deserts of Utah and Arizona, as well as the mountains of Colorado. Beginning with Grand Gulch in Bears Ears, Death Hollow and numerous slot canyons in Escalante, Grand Canyon rim to rim, the Blue Lake Traverse in the Indian Peaks, and this spring two additional backpacks in Cedar Mesa. Over three days I hiked the trail-less canyon just east of Slickhorn to the San Juan River (Ranger: “No one ever goes there! We want a full report when you get back.”) and then along the river and out Slickhorn Canyon. Day 1 was like a desert escape room with massive boulders, pour-offs, log jambs, quicksand, and water wading which covered 17 miles, but to be fair I was only aged 62 at the time. Two weeks later I hiked the Fish & Owl loop, one of the most beautiful circuits I’ve ever done. If I could navigate these, I should be able to still manage a Class 4 ridge at elevation, or worst case scenario, realize when I’m over my head and turn around after a pleasant few hours.
I don’t carry a Spot or other GPS device as a rule, partly because I enjoy being fully aware and responsible for my own safety, but also because they’re just too expensive; I already expect to work until I turn 70. My job is physical and demanding, and I’m at a point where I realize that I could leave for a job one morning and not return; the same thing can be said for my outdoor travels. I’m okay with this, I could use the rest.
I leave the Fourth of July trailhead by headlamp, ascending slowly through stunted trees under a flood of stars. A ptarmigan drums to my right, her feathers half brown and half in her winter coat of white. As the sun starts to crest the eastern horizon in brilliant orange and red, I turn off the headlamp and get my first up close view of the ridge running from Arapaho Pass south to Neva’s summit. It indeed looks imposing, but I trust a comment from the route description in Mt Project which says it’s no big deal. These are climber comments and I still think of myself as a climber, and so I trust them; my kind of people.
Sunrise.
Walking around Lake Dorothy, the highest lake in the Indian Peaks, leads me to a low angle talus field leading up to the ridge proper atop the Continental Divide. The route ahead is obvious, bordered on the East by rocky slabs and cliffs dropping off to Lake Dorothy, and to the west down steep slopes of tundra with spectacular views of Winter Park, Grand Lake, and endless peaks fading off into the distance. The line of least resistance follows the apex between these two sides via steep hiking and boulder-hopping until I scramble up a crest and find myself looking down at a 30’ drop of technical fifth class that would require a rappel to negotiate.
Sunrise over Lake Dorothy from the start of the route.
I backtrack 20 yards or so and spy a series of ledges circumventing this gendarme to the left, perched precariously above the steep east facing slabs. Walking carefully along these ledges so as not to slip on patches of lichen or loose soil soon puts me back on the knife edge under the backside of the rock tower. Several other gendarmes and high points along the ridge ahead require similar trickery, but whenever possible I follow the crest, as this is why I’m here.
Beginning the route.
The exposure increases as I approach the crux, a well documented 40’ of steep fourth class slab hanging out over a 600’ drop on the east face. As I pause to examine the cliff band and choose my preferred line, I hear my Dad’s voice from 50 years ago in my head. “You can never do that.”
I had just finished 8th grade, and returned home with a stellar report card and a brochure that detailed summer break activities abroad; I thought the former would support the latter. One program in particular had grabbed my attention, a guided climb of a mountain in the Alps. Dad had previously pointed out Mt Washington and promised to hike it with me, but never did and never would, so I made my play to climb a summit without him. “Don’t be stupid. You can never do that. You’re afraid of heights and we don’t have the money.” Tact was not in Dad’s playbook, but he spoke the truth. I was notoriously afraid of heights, paralyzed by recurring dreams of falling through space, and my parents never gave me money for anything without giving a similar amount to each of my three siblings. He worked at a lumber yard and there was just no way, but it would have been nice if he could have told me without crushing my spirit.
Out of spite I took his rebuke as a personal challenge, and in the following years I read everything that I could related to climbing and scrambled around on local boulders and small cliff bands that I could ride my bike to. I acquired a fair amount of skill by practicing techniques from the books, but still could not dispense with the fear. I almost gave up when I received a National Geographic magazine in the mail that detailed the first clean ascent of the Regular Route on the NW Face of Half Dome, and I got physically ill looking at a picture taken from above the Zig Zags.
I was in community college at the time, and in an act of desperation sent away for a self-hypnosis cassette that I listened to every night as I fell asleep. Two years later I would lead those Zig Zag pitches and set up a semi-hanging belay above them at the start of Thank God Ledge, and looking down I knew that I was no longer a prisoner of my fear. Dad passed away just last year, leaving me a raging case of arthritis in both thumbs, the now dormant alcoholic tendencies, and a mile wide stubborn streak as my inheritance. I’m perfectly imperfect, and grateful for everything that he was able to give to me, things that make me who I am.
“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift." - Mary Oliver
So here I was, alone and exposed, and I pushed the word ‘never’ out of my mind. These things are rarely as bad as they are made out to be, and that was the case here. I found the moves to be easy fourth class and the exposure exhilarating, so much so that I paused halfway to take a selfie. It felt good to flow over the surprisingly solid stone, focused and in control.
High over Lake Dorothy.
The crux was over far too soon, and led me to a rounded knife edge ridge of rotten, loose rock where the angle lessened. I paused here to eat some electrolyte tablets as a precaution; I had suffered severe leg cramping the month prior halfway through the Arapaho Traverse, likely from limiting salt intake to help reduce chronic high blood pressure. The setting of the ridge here is magnificent, and I pass the tops of numerous gullies entering from the east that make fine snow climbs in earlier months. Finally, after almost a mile of travel since I had first gained the ridge line, the route turns to steep slopes of tundra and rock angling up to the summit and a brief rest.
Part the crux.
Both of my guide books had suggested a descent to the east just south of Neva’s summit, but now that I see the ridge in its entirety I know that won’t happen. A beautiful, sweeping curve of class 2-3 ridge extends out for just over a mile to the ramparts of Mt Jasper, and it’s calling my name. It’s 8:25 am, I’m feeling strong, and I have read absolutely nothing about the route ahead or the descent off of Jasper.
The traverse ridge leading to Mt Jasper, in shadow on the left skyline
“Discovery consists of seeing what everyone else has seen, but thinking what no one else has thought.”
I think I’ll discover a new way home.
I must sacrifice elevation by dropping west, skirting cliff tops along the way, to access the mile and a quarter long undulating spine of rock and tundra leading south. The way forward is not difficult, but it’s engaging with unparalleled views both left and right. Two lakes appear in the eastern cirque, hidden from most vantage points in the Fourth of July valley, and unnamed on the topo map that I’m carrying. Jasper is higher than Neva, and the wind, which had been gentle all day, picks up, blowing loose strands of hair into my mouth. When the ridge line ends and morphs into the summit cone, I notice my breathing is becoming more labored. I’ve been playing at just under 13k feet for a while this morning, and find myself stopping more frequently before reaching the confusing summit.
The two unnamed lakes and Mt Neva, looking back from the summit of Jasper.
There are several rocky promontories that could be the actual peak, so I pick one and pull out a hair tie and the topo map. The easiest walking continues south to Devils Thumb Pass, but puts me one valley over from where I’m parked. There are three prominent ridge lines extending into the Fourth of July valley; the one trending southeast looks long, hard to access, and with a great deal of elevation change up and down. The two ridges running northeast and east both share a common start before splitting, heading into two separate cirques. I choose the east trending ridge because I can see it passing Upper Diamond Lake about half way down and know I can pick up a trail there.
Getting established on the ridge proper is difficult. The only solid rock are steep cliff bands, separated by a dark grey combination of loose gravel and small boulders. I am soon above a gully where the snow route “Snow Lion” tops out. With snow it’s a Grade 3 classic, but without it’s an unsecured mess of loose gravel and hidden drop offs. I consider trying to down climb it, but that looks like a death wish. I will have to cross the headwall of the gully to access the talus slopes on its far side, but there are no anchor points to aim for and each step is like skiing on marbles. Could this be the actual crux of the day that I hadn’t foreseen?
Looking out over the East Ridge, Upper Diamond Lake below
I’m reminded of an Aberts squirrel that I once encountered who became a teacher of mine. I had just finished the rim to rim hike through the Grand Canyon, north to south, and had caught a shuttle back to my truck on the North Rim. The hike had been perfect, everything that I had been looking for, and I was feeling great. Driving out to Jacob’s Lake, en route to a hotel in Marble Canyon, I found myself the middle vehicle in a group of three when a tiny shape shot out of the grass on the side of the road and bolted in front of me. I braked as hard and quickly as I could without causing an accident behind me, but it was to no avail. My rear view mirror confirmed the worst.
Previously I had confided in a friend that a large number of deaths in the local mountains seemed to be 60 something solo hikers who just go missing. She had replied, “But you’re not like everyone else”, which I took as the intended compliment, but deep down I knew better. I’m exactly like those unfortunate souls, just luckier to date. I seriously doubt that any of them woke up that morning, grabbed their packs, drove to the trailhead, and thought, “this will be my last day.” Had the squirrel any idea when he left his nest that his family would never see him again? What had possessed him to make a mad dash across a foreign material cutting through the forest floor that shuttled four wheel reapers of death? Every squirrel knows the the nuts are always meatier on the other side of the road, but when is it better to just take the nuts provided you on your side, and be happy?
I eased deliberately onto and across the rolling gravel, aiming for small boulders that I hoped were solid but were just as mobile. For every 5 feet of sideways progress I slid down 3, getting closer and closer to the point of reckoning where I would tumble into an unseen abyss. Doing the math with 20’ to go and only 6 feet available to slide, I started to run. In fact you could say, like my squirrel friend, I ran my nuts off.
When your heart is beating through your chest with adrenaline it’s easy to miss your mark, but I reached the rock on the far side and grabbed a vertical crack before barndooring onto solid footing. These are the moments that stick with you, and define you in ways both good and bad. With heightened senses I turned and identified a line diagonally across and down 800’ of talus, often loose and constantly shifting, that would deposit me at the outlet of Upper Diamond Lake and the trail home. There I met two fishermen walking in, the first people I had seen all day.
“Good morning,” I said.
And I meant it.
Upper Diamond Lake on the hike out.
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