Pike's Peak

Pike's Peak

Date Climbed: 11/21-22/14

Climbing Partner: Solo

Range: Front

Elevation: 14, 114 Feet

*This story is out of order, and I have skipped a few 14ers in order to write this one fresh from memory. I will include my first attempt at Pike's Peak at a later date.

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Daniel Weiss

The alarm went off early Friday morning. It was 1 AM and it was time to get ready for the specter that was the Barr Trail. Having already attempted this trail once before (of which I will write in a later post), I knew the long journey I was in for. The afternoon before, I had packed all of the equipment I knew would be essential to my quest. Having just received a new backpack and sleeping bag, I was prepared for the cold night that lay ahead. Unlike last time, I was prepared to bring my snowshoes all the way up. After reaching Barr Camp on my last escapade, I found that there was two feet of snow, and no discernable trail between myself and the top, forcing me to turn around as I had left my snowshoes in the car. I hit the road at 1:30, right on schedule. As there was no traffic, I made it to the trailhead just before 3 AM. This would be the earliest start I had ever gotten on a trail. Knowing this would not be the last time I would get an early start, I took a moment wipe away the knowledge that there would be days I would have to be on the trail long before 3 AM. As I hefted my backpack, full of camping gear including a 20 below sleeping bag, tent, and snowshoes, I buckled my waist belt and hit the trail. There would be no stopping for pictures and breathtaking scenery this time. I knew the trail almost to timberline, and so knew what to expect.

My journey would take me over the infamous Incline (or parallel to it), through what I called the Dead Forest (better known as the Experimental Forest), along the Long Traverse into Barr Camp, past the three miles to the timberline A-frame shelter, and the final three mile sprint (or in my case slog) to the summit. It was a challenge I both dreaded and loved. Having been defeated once already by the sheer length of the trail, only to return to “I told you so’s,” and “have you learned your lesson’s,” I was ready to put this mountain in its place. The sad thing is, I was probably less prepared this time than I had been last time, for two reasons. One: last time, I had anticipated deep snow and had come prepared, yet made the mistake of leaving my snowshoes behind based on the conditions of the trailhead, whereas this time I was prepared for deep snow, although the real danger would be the slick snow and ice. Two: Pikes Peak had been two weeks of preparation last time, whereas this was a mere two days. There was one crucial difference though: I was more determined than ever to reach this peak, even if it meant hiking all day and night.

            Unlike last time, I was also planning on camping at the A-frame, knowing that it would make a 3 mile, 2500 foot difference in my journey the following morning. I began at an incredible pace, feeling refreshed by the brisk air and excited to use my new backpack. I was also confident that I would be able to stay warm in my sleeping bag, as I had already tested it in the backcountry in a snowstorm the weekend before. Within an hour and a half, I was at the top of the incline, and was just beginning the walk into the belly of the beast. The city was becoming harder and harder to see, as it began to fade behind the first mountain. I began to feel very uneasy at this point. As a child, I had heard of the mountain lion attacks in Colorado, and had even encountered one once while on a backpacking trip in eighth grade. I knew they enjoyed hunting in the early pre-dawn hours, and a lone man walking down a trail with a backpack full of food was a fairly easy target. Even more worryingly, there were no cars in the parking lot, an unexpected sight as I knew that many who traveled the Barr Trail were often at the trailhead by 1 in the morning. This meant that I would be doing this journey alone, and could only expect to see people at Barr Camp, if that. Every few minutes I would click to sticks together and have a short conversation with myself, more to comfort me than anything else, although I had heard that loud sudden noises would scare off mountain lions.

            Thankfully, I never encountered any wildlife, and the trip to Barr Camp was uneventful. Almost too uneventful. As I saw the familiar wooden fence leading to the camp, I knew that safety and company were not far ahead. It is hard to describe the feeling of finally making it to a destination where the comfort of food, people, and shelter can elate a lonely wanderer. However, I had a real problem. The evening before, I had taken a sleeping pill knowing that I would have trouble without it in anticipation of Pikes Peak. Although I did get a good rest, it was too short, and the drowsiness brought on by the pill was still in my system as I walked the trail. Although I had made it to the camp in under 3 hours (a good pace), I was literally beginning to fall asleep on my feet. Too tired to be frustrated with myself, I sat on the iced over bench along the stream in order to decide what the next step was. Should I continue up to the A-frame and set up camp their? Or should I pitch a tent here as I did last time. I knew that if I pitched a tent at Barr Camp, my shot at the summit could be in jeopardy, as it was even longer from here to the summit than it was back to the trailhead, and it was at a higher altitude. I also knew that I would face much fiercer winds, no company, and a longer hike with a heavy backpack if I continued. I also knew that if I kept going, I could hurt myself, as I was so tired I was beginning to trip over small rocks on the trail.

All things considered, I opted to take my chances with pitching a tent at Barr Camp. My plan of attack had changed. I was not going to take a day to recover for a summit attempt. I was going to take a short nap and hit the trail when I was awake enough to concentrate. I knew that if I wasted a whole day at Barr Camp, it would be unlikely that I would want to continue up the trail as laziness would set in. I also knew that it would be very tough to have two long days on the trail with my wife waiting my return in Manitou Springs. It was all a mental game, and the only way to beat it was to go hard and fast. I quickly set up the tent, unfurled the sleeping bag, and fell asleep almost immediately.

I awoke to broad daylight and the sound of birds perched on top of the tent. I checked my watch and was surprised to discover that it was 9 AM. I had slept a full two hours, but felt as refreshed as if I had slept for eight. I quickly did a quick test on my stove (checking to see that it would work in this cold altitude, as I had just bought it and was hoping to test it again at 14,000 feet), and hit the trail. Snowshoes slung over my shoulder and fanny pack around my waist, my going was quick at first. It soon became apparent that I had made a huge mistake. My layover at Barr Camp had not only cost me time, but also energy. Because I had taken just enough time to get a quick nap, my body no longer had the energy it had had earlier that morning. Whereas before I had hardly broke a sweat over six miles, the first mile was arduous, and my breathing was labored. I had no energy, and only one energy bar with me. I decided to save it for the A-frame. It took almost two hours to reach the A-frame, a distance of only three miles. Although it was average to travel 1000 vertical feet an hour (mounaineer’s pace), I knew I could average 1500 an hour below timberline. I knew I was in for a battle to make it to the top. At the A-frame, it became glaringly apparent that I had come prepared for the wrong conditions. It was no longer deep snow in my path, but slick ice and rock hard snow. I did not bring my crampons and had frustratingly lugged snowshoes up 5000+ vertical feet for nothing. I hid my snowshoes under some rocks off to the side of the trail, along with my ski poles, and began my ascent.

In view was the great mountain, the summit of Pikes Peak. This mountain was my arch nemesis, and I intended to crawl to the top if I had to. At the pace I was going, it was very likely that I would have to. Every step above timberline was arduous work. What’s worse, I began walking straight uphill, following a false path. It was not until I had completely lost the trail and traveled several hundred feet up, that I realized my mistake, and retraced my steps back to the A-frame. I quickly found the trail again, finished off my snack, and began the walk up again. The first mile was relatively quick and easy. It was hard work, but compared with the difficulties I would face in the last two miles, it was nothing. Immediately after the first mile, and beginning the long traverse across the face of the mountain, I ran into the first patches of rock hard snow. After the snowstorm, which had dumped four feet of snow in just two days at our winter camp near Herman Lake, the winds came cold and strong. With temperatures in Denver well into the negatives, the snow stuck and did not disappear. The same was true for Pikes, except for the last two days just before my climb. Any snow exposed to direct sunlight for too long melted and quickly froze in the bitter winds that ended the week. Every step on the rock hard snow was rewarded with a slip, and occasionally a fall. At times, I would step gingerly onto a pack of snow, expecting to slip, and my foot would sink a foot into the soft snow. At other times, I would take a heavy step, expecting to break through soft snow, only to be met a surface as solid as a rock and as slick as ice.

I had absolutely no traction. Every slip would cost me precious energy, which would increase my breathing, and it would take me several long breaths before I could continue walking. My pace had slowed to what must have been only 700 feet in just over an hour. At the next sign, stating that there was a mere mile to the summit, I looked up and saw the roof of the summit house that promised food and people. I still had not met a single soul on the trail, and was very surprised. The conditions were warm and sunny, with only a light breeze and occasional gust. Tomorrow was promising winds of at least 25 mph, a day which I was glad to have escaped. I had expected at least a couple of people to be close on my heels for the last bit of the journey, but this late in the day it was obvious that would not be the case. I was on my own, and the last mile was a mix of the same rock hard snow and ice, only this time the snow was almost knee deep in some place, and the Sixteen Golden Stairs lay before me. Having read in a report on the trail, I expected the stairs to be easy, as they were something “I would never forget.” More importantly, I had also read that the last mile was little more than a “walk up.” I was severely disappointed to find that this was not the case. Having had such a long break from high-altitude, along with cold, a 12 mile hike in snow and ice, and the weight of a backpack for half of it, I was physically exhausted, and still had another agonizing mile left to go, over a very steep slope with tougher conditions than I had experienced thus far.

What’s more, the slope was much more exposed than I had expected it to be. On normal summer days, the last mile would be a trifle to walk across to the finish. But in the onset of winter, with higher winds and slippery slopes, that promised to carry you 500 feet or more if you slipped, I was nervous for the first time at the prospect of a climb. Knowing I had no traction, I cautiously began to walk across the last long switchback just before the 16 Golden Stairs. The extra effort it took to concentrate on each step was draining me, and I would feel my balance fading. Midway across I slipped on a hard patch of snow, and began sliding downhill. I quickly jammed both fists into the snow to stop my descent. Luckily, I was over some soft snow and was able to stop. I quickly climbed back to the trail, heart racing and breathing heavily. I looked up to the lip of the summit, knowing I had less that 400 feet to go. I shook my head, ready to turn around and admit defeat. Countless times on these last 3 miles, I had looked up, anticipating to see the summit closer than ever, and each time I was disappointed. Every time, it seemed as though there was no progress being made, and the summit would look even farther away than it had before. I knew much of this was due to my lack of exercise and climbing in the last month and a half. Whereas before summits seemed to be conquered in minutes, this trip felt like days, and still the summit was just out of reach.

I had no more physical strength left, and just to stand was to cause my head to swim. I was dehydrated and hungry. The sun was now behind the summit and I was in the shadow of the mountain. I had nothing left to give. I fell to my hands and knees and prayed to God for strength. I knew I could only conquer this mountain with His help. Nothing seemed to happen; I felt no stronger, and no magical voice told me to go on. But my resolve hardened, and I gritted my teeth, ready to finish this mountain on hands and knees if need be. I quickly assaulted the 16 Golden Stairs (which I will never forget, though for quite different reasons than what the article suggested). The stairs were almost gone, hidden by snow so deep, I was climbing on hands and knees. After what I imagined to be 24 stairs, I heard voices ahead. I could not yet see the summit, but I could hear the train and the people talking. Elated, I rushed through the snow, beyond exhaustion, wanting nothing more than to see people and eat food.

I must have left the trail at some point, for as the ground leveled out, I was standing on rocks, staring at the train platform with the tracks between myself and the finish. Although the ground was nearly flat (relatively speaking), I could go no more than twenty steps before I had to catch my breath. Before me were some tourists, taking pictures of the beautiful views. They soon noticed me and began taking pictures as I walked the last 50 feet to the platform. When I finally reached it, was so happy, I began to tear up. I had finally conquered this beast of a mountain, and better yet there was a train ready to take me back down. “Did you just hike up here?” Asked a middle aged woman, looking incredulous. I tried to resond, but couldn’t, placing my hands on my knees trying to catch my breath. “Take your time, honey,” another woman said gently, smiling at me. When I could finally speak again, I simply replied with a “Yes.” I turned and took a picture of my view, and a picture of the sign. And began planning for the next steps of the journey.

“Do you mind if we take a picture of you?” The first woman asked, holding up her camera.

“Sure,” I smiled. She snapped a few photos and asked if I wanted some as well. I greatfully accepted and handed her my phone to take the pictures. After handing the phone back, she asked if I was taking the train back down. I hesitated. I had not planned on doing this, and so had no tickets. What’s more, my gear was back at Barr Camp and the A-frame. I also knew that to travel back down, exhausted as I was and with sunset quickly approaching, would be very dangerous. I decided it would be better to play it safe and come back down the slope the following day. I told the nice woman that I did want to take the train down, but I had no ticket. Thankfully, the conductor was nice enough to allow me passage. Wearily, I took a seat on the nearest bench and just sat there, too excited to sleep, but too tired to do anything else. The conductor was also a very nice lady and asked about my hike. I assumed she had met a lot of people like me, who would hike the trail in the morning and take the train down in the afternoon. She smiled and gave me instructions on how to pay once I reached the bottom. I thanked her for allowing me to hop on board and relaxed knowing that the worst was behind me.

It took an hour or so to reach the bottom (fast compared to my eight hour hike, not including the two hours at Barr Camp). After paying for my ticket, I began to walk back to my truck. The plan was to check into a local hotel where my wife and I would stay and hop back on the train in the morning and descend the Barr Trail to pick up my equipment. Unfortunately, I realized I had left my keys in the tent at camp, and now had to walk a ten-minute drive to the hotel. “Would you like a ride somewhere, Daniel?” Shouted the lady who had taken my picture earlier. I gratefully accepted, and hopped in the car with the couple.

Unfortunately I do not remember their names, but they were very kind folks from Pennsylvania on vacation. I am still very thankful for their kindness, and they are among those who I will always remember from these journeys, along with the countless others who showed me kindness in my quest to conquer the Colorado 14ers. After dropping me off and wishing me blessings, I got our room and awaited my wife. When she and our sister-in-law arrived, we went out to dinner and I explained all that had happened on the mountain and what my plan was for tomorrow. “Please hurry down.” She said. She wanted to spend the day with me, and I wanted the same.

After dinner and a hot shower, I lay in bed, deciding on the next course of action. Reports were now saying that the winds were going to be a sustained 40 mph, and having been in high winds at altitude in the winter before, I did not dare face that unless I had to. After the experience on Democrat and the other 14ers I had dealt with only a month or so before, I knew that “a sustained wind at 40 mph” on the internet actually meant double that. Thankfully, I discovered the train could drop hikers off at the Mountain View trailhead, a mere 1.5 miles from Barr Camp (looking back, I wish I had known that sooner). I knew I could get my tent and other supplies easily enough. I now had a difficult choice to make: risk the windy and icy conditions of a summit decent, or leave the ski poles and snowshoes behind. I felt I had little choice in the matter. Tired and sore as I was, and knowing a descent is much more dangerous than an ascent, I opted to leave behind the snowshoes, and hope that I could get them at a later date.

The next morning, I called the train, hoping to get a later ticket so I could get more sleep. There was no availability, and so I was on the train at 9:20 AM, headed for the Mountain View trailhead. The conductor was the same one as the day before, and so we had a nice conversation as to why I was back on the train. If you have not experienced the Cog railway up Pikes, I suggest it, if for no other reason than the cheesy jokes. At the trail, I made quick work of the 1.5 mile hike, running into another hiker, Amy, on her way to the station to get a ride down. Having learned that I could also get a ride down, I ran to the camp. Once there, I found my tent (which had flipped over and rolled downhill in the night) and put everything away. I considered hiking up to the A-frame, surprised at how quickly my legs had recovered. But I knew that would add on several miles and hours to my trip, and now that I had an easy way down by the railroad, I decided not to miss the opportunity. I informed the attendants at the camp that I had left my snowshoes, and hoped someone would be kind enough to return them someday.

I quickly made it back to the station, and waited for the train to return. While waiting, I asked Amy where she had just come from. Apparently she had ran to the top. Astonished, I asked for the details. To have made it in one day from the bottom to the top and then back to just past Barr Camp before 11 was incredible. I had only just made it to the top by 1 PM the day before. I wanted to know how she had done it so fast. She quickly began to tell me of her other hikes on all the other 14ers. She had already conquered them all, and had done Pikes Peak a staggering 14 times. She had done Pikes Peak more than all of my 14ers combined to that point. I envied her. She began to tell of all the other sports she had done, including Ice and snow and rock climbing, mountain biking, and kayaking. She was a true mountaineer, and the first one I had met on the trail with a passion much like my own. I was impressed. We were greeted (the third time for me) by the conductor, who allowed me free passage back down. On the way back down, we swapped stories, and she gave advice as to what 14ers to do and when, and what days were best to backpack where. I soon told her of my experience up Pikes, and she graciously offered to look for my snowshoes on her way up Pikes the following Thursday. I was astonished, knowing it was bad enough to carry my own load up a mountain, much less someone else’s.

I accepted, and told Amy I would find a way to repay her if she was able to find them. Once at the bottom, we exchanged numbers, and I wished her luck on her hike. As I got into my truck, I gave my wife a call and we met for lunch at a local Mexican restaurant. This all occurred very recently, and I am still awaiting Thursday, hoping that Amy will find the snowshoes and return them. I will complete this story when I hear back from her (hopefully in the positive). As a side note, however, I would encourage anyone who climbs mountains to be gracious to those they meet. I have met some very kind people, all willing to sacrifice for my mistakes, and I hope to return the favor when I meet others in need. It just goes to show you that in the backcountry, things often taken for granted here in the city are never forgotten when real need is upon us. A simple gesture in a time of need is better than a thousand dollars given in the comfort of your own home.

Quandary Peak

Quandary Peak
Date Climbed: 8/13/14
Climbing Partners: Solo
Range: Mosquito
Elevation: 14, 265

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Daniel Weiss

I had learned my lesson from the last two 14ers: arrive early and be well prepared for anything. This time I had packed my full sized backpacking sack with my camelback, an extra bottle, a jacket and raincoat, as well as thermals. I was dressed light, however, since the 14ers website (14ers.com) had told me the weather was supposed to be perfect for summiting. I arrived at about 8:45 in the morning, and hit the trail the minute I got there. I had also learned that the road up was fairly well maintained, and so was able to bring my wife car (for future reference, you don't need four-wheel drive to get to this trailhead). With walking stick in hand, I began the arduous hike up the initial incline.

I had learned that Quandary was by no means a tough 14er, and it could be done rather quickly. In less than an hour I was above timberline and could see the summit in the distance. I was getting better at predicting distances and times. I could feel my body getting more used to these intense climbs, and I was quickly passing most of those who had arrived before me. I would occasionally stop along the trail to take pictures of the valley to my left: a beautiful gulch, surrounded on both sides by huge mountains. Quandary was of course on the northern side, and on the other side some mountains that eventually led to Lincoln, another 14er and one that I would encounter possibly my toughest challenge to date.

A few friends of mine had told me that there would be a lot of hikers on this trail, and they were right. This was the first time I had hit the trail roughly the same time as most others going for the top. I encountered about 50 hikers that day. Multiple times, I was passed by some trail runners, who seemed more machine than human to me as they jogged up the slope without so much as breaking a sweat. After about an hour and a half, the trail began to steepen, and I thought I was approaching the summit. Just as I came over the lip of the plateau, I realized that it was a false summit, and I still had close to a thousand feet to go. I could see the little specks that were people slowly make their way to the summit. I stood for a moment catching my breath and let out a sigh of exasperation. I had hoped for an extremely early summit time, and my hopes had been dashed by yet another false summit. I continued on the trail, passing a few mountain goats along the way. As I began what I knew to be the final slope to the summit, I realized that this 14er would not be as easy as I had first hoped.

Although the initial incline was fairly difficult, it did not last long, and most of it was below tree line. I expect it to be smooth sailing from there on out. I was dead wrong. I was in better shape than the previous two climbs, but this was still a fairly steep climb to the summit, and it was somewhat long. Multiple times I had to stop to take a breather. I would look up, grit my teeth, and continue the next hundred feet. Stop, breath, look, climb, repeat. It was tough going, but I felt like I was making good time. The sun was well above the mountains by now, and the day was sunny and warm, with just a slight breeze. I was enjoying myself. This was the most pleasant day so far on a 14er. After just over 45 minutes of steep climbing, I summited. To my surprise, there was about 20 climbers just sitting in groups, up against rocks, or standing looking over the valleys below. I had never summited at noon before, and had not realized just how crowded these 14ers could get. Slightly disgruntled, I found a spot to sit down. I pulled out my iPod, and plugged in my headphones: all the better to drown out the babbling of the teenage group behind me gossiping about this weeks crush. I took several panoramic and a selfie as proof that I had summited. Then signed the log that had been hauled to the top, as well as the paper that listed everyone. I then sat and looked over the beauty of the valley below me.

Directly in front of me was a fairly steep slope, with a small lake at the bottom. Farther North, I saw the town of Breckenridge, and began to imagine the juicy hamburger that waited for me at the Breckenridge Brewery. I later learned that the slope I was currently looking over was used during the winter months as a ski slope. Many would climb up Quandary and then ski down the North face. However, there was a huge avalanche danger, and I was glad I had conquered this 14er early rather than waiting to save an "easy one" for the winter. I looked at my clock and was stunned to find out that I had reached the summit by 11. It was the quickest climb I had yet accomplished. Proud of my speed, I decided to linger a little longer.

After 15 minutes, I decided it was time to return to the car. I quickly skipped down the trail, falling hard on my butt a few times as punishment for my hastiness. On the way down, I ran into a few older people I had passed on the way up. They asked how much farther they had to go, and how the view was. I told them they had less than 20 minutes up, and that they should keep going. The view was great and well worth the effort. Glad for the encouragement, they smiled and continued their trek up. Glad that I was finally the one encouraging the other hikers rather than the receiver, I continued the hike down. It took close to an hour to get to the bottom, but the sight of the car raised my weary spirits. It was by no means a long hike, but I was staring by the time I reached the car. I hopped in, took note of the winter trailhead, and drove back toward Breckenridge, where I enjoyed my nice juicy burger on the Breckenridge Brewery patio. I decided that this would be my tradition, a nice reward for all the hikes I would attempt in this range.

Excited at the prospect of coming back for another beer and burger someday, I generously tipped my waitress and continued my trip back to Denver, hungry for more 14ers, and ready to start working on some challenging ones. I already had a plan in mind: Oxford and Belford, and Missouri Mountain, if time permitted. Little did I know that I was heading straight into the most challenging climb I had ever experienced in my life up to that point.

Grays Peak

Grays Peak
Date Climbed: 7/23/14
Climbing Partners: Salix (dog)
Range: Front
Elevation: 14, 270 feet

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Daniel Weiss

We arrived sometime around noon in the middle of July. This time I had brought along Salix, my black lab, and had brought along my walking stick, more water, and (barely) warmer clothes. It was a cloudy, stormy day up in the mountains. As we exited I70, and began the dirt road up, I got a little nervous. All I had to help prepare for what lay ahead was a 14ers book I had bout at the local Barnes and Noble. It told me essentially where to go, what the trail looked like, how long the trail was, and a simple picture of the 14ers I would be attempting. I was slightly nervous for three reasons: first, I was in my wife car as opposed to my truck. The potholes were growing rather large and I was worried about bottoming out, and so I knew I might have to hike most of the dirt road, which would add several miles to my already late start. The second reason was the time and weather. It was forecast to thunderstorm that afternoon, and I was barely getting to the dirt road up at 11:30. The third was that I was about to attempt two 14ers on only my second outing, and didn't know what to expect, especially with a late start. But I pressed on.

It came to a point where I could no longer drive the car up, and so decided to pull over and walk. we passed a number of cars on the hike up, hinting that I should probably turn around. After a mile I began to wonder I would even make it before the sun fell, as I had yet to reach the trailhead and had no idea how long it would take to do these 14ers. These were going to be tougher than Beirstadt, and I new it. I heard the thunder and could see rain on either side of the gulch I was in, though I had little trouble since I was still well below timberline. After about 45 minutes, we reached the trailhead. We polished on through, knowing that any time wasted here would push our summit even further back. I was very nervous now that we were out in the open, and I could distinctly hear the rumble of thunder off in the distance. The problem was, I didn't know if it was coming our way, or if it had missed us. Yet, without much experience with lightening in the mountains, I decided to move ahead. As I passed a large group of hikers about half way to the Kelso Ridge, two young ladies stopped as our dogs greeted each other in the usual fashion. They asked if we were going up. I said yes. "You picked the right time." One of them said with a smile. "You just missed a pretty bad storm that we all got stuck in." Relieved, I laughed wished them well, pulled my dog away and we continued up.

It was still overcast, although it did not rain all the way up. I could tell that there was a fierce wind at the top, since there was a good breeze down at the base. I had little trouble reaching the Kelso Ridge, and I began to think I was in great shape and that we would make it up in no time. I still had yet to learn that depth perception is very skewed when one looks at the vast 14ers. What looks like an hour up could easily turn into three. We began the steep slope up Grays to the South of the Kelso Ridge (in other words, we were taking the standard route up Grays Trail). Not knowing how to pace myself, since I had gone at my wife's pace up Beirstadt, I quickly found how out of shape I really was.

By the second sub summit, I was freezing from the wind, and starving as I had not eaten breakfast or lunch yet. I took Salix and we huddled behind a large rock for some protection, and I pulled out my sandwich and Salix's water. We rested for a few minutes, and then I packed up and we began up again. I was growing even more tired as I was continually having to shout to Salix to stop chasing the varmints that were scurrying around the slopes. At one point, just below the final push to the summit, Salix spotted a mountain goat precariously standing on the edge of a steep cliff. She took off full speed, intending to catch it. I yelled at the top of my longs, commanding her to stop. It was a feeble attempt, as I was breathless and the wind was so strong I could barely hear myself shout. She did come to a dead stop though when I called, and I was thankful we had trained her well; it had saved her life. As I walked over to her, I saw just how close she had come to running full speed off a 500 or so foot drop off. We turned around and continued up the switchback, and I began to pray that I could get this dog up the mountain alive.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally staggered to the top of Grays. I quickly found shelter behind the walls that had been built and pulled out our water. Just as I sat down, I saw another, much older man, reach the summit a few feet away from us. He looked over the edge, stood there for about a minute, and turned back around and left us. At this point in my career, I had no idea there were little papers we could sign at the top of these 14ers, as proof of our accomplishments, and so the odd tube I found in the shelter was left untouched. I figured it was a flare that had been left in case of emergency.

After Salix finished the last of her water, I pulled out my own. To my horror, I had a little over a gulp left, and realized I had again brought too little water. Frustrated, I sat there, back to the wall as Salix explored the summit. It was very windy, and cold, and I was thankful for the shelters that had been built by previous climbers. It would be a few 14ers later that I would come to really appreciate it's safety when I faced the bitter winds of early winter. I realized now just how much energy I had spent getting there, and how much farther I had to go if I was to climb Torreys. I knew it was a good 500 or so feet elevation drop and regain in the saddle between the two mountains. I also knew I had no water, I would have no protection from the wind, I was exhausted, it was getting late, and Torreys was still covered in snow. I had not expected to encounter as much snow as I saw on Torreys. Worse yet, the ridge up Torreys looked treacherous for Salix, especially in the snow. I decided we had had enough for the day, and vowed to return to Torreys, although next time I would take the famous Kelso Ridge. We started back down at break neck speed. I had no idea how quickly we could make it down the mountain until I looked back and I had already covered what had taken me an hour in about 15 minutes. I decided to take a shortcut and save even more time.

We crossed the plateau of the sub summit we had eaten lunch at earlier and went along the ridge that snaked just over the trail we had taken up. Finally, at one point I opted to head down the side to get back on the trail. right as we were about to reach the path, I slipped and caught myself. I only got a minor scrape on my hand, although I realized that a rolled ankle here would push our little adventure passed dark, and we still had miles to go, and cold weather to beat. We managed to get down the slope and into the valley without a hitch (although there were a few moments I was worried for Salix since she could not climb down). Little did I know that one day I would live to regret taking my dog off trail just for a little "short cut". Once the path flattened out, our pace slowed, and we began the long trek across the valley back to the car. We were the last ones off the mountain that day, and I was somewhat glad we were. It was a satisfying experience to be at the top of the world (in my mind) alone to enjoy God's creation. Over the adventures, though, I would begin to crave some company on these long trips, especially when I first attempted Pikes Peak.

After a few hours, we made it back to the car, and we went on our way home. That day I learned two lessons: always bring more water than you'll need, and get there early. Salix and I were glad we had made it through our little adventure together, and as I drove back to Denver, Salix, the little ball of energy that never so much as sits in the car, fell sound asleep. I had two down now, and I felt the hunger for more. I decided it was time to commit; all the 14ers Colorado had to offer, and I was prepared to go through the harshest weather Colorado offered to accomplish it.

Mt. Bierstadt

Mt. Bierstadt
Date climbed: 6/28/14
Partners: Alysa Weiss
Range: Front
Elevation: 14,060 feet

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Daniel Weiss

This was my wife and I's first 14er we'd ever climbed. Although she had driven to the top of Pikes Peak a number of years ago, neither of us new what to expect from a climb up this extremely popular 14er. We arrived sometime in the late morning, and by that point, most people were on their way down. It was a fairly warm day, although it was very windy. All I had on were khaki pants, thin running shoes, nike socks, a thermal shirt, light weight fleece, and a rain jacket to act as a wind breaker. My wife wasn't prepared well either. However, coming from Texas, I had never heard of the 14ers, and they seemed unimpressive to me, and thus I had not even attempted one in the three years I had lived in Colorado up to that point. One day, though, my wife and I decided we wanted to go on a hike in the mountains, and so we agreed to try Beirstadt after consulting some of our friends.

Having little knowledge of what it was like at that altitude, and thus under preparing, we set off into the late morning. We must have passed over 100 people on the way up. We made good time over the dreaded willows and boardwalk. So far, I was unimpressed, considering all the hullabaloo I'd heard about the challenge of the 14ers. I wouldn't realize until my second 14er just how wrong I was. After a number of breaks up the first bit of the slope, I decided to go ahead of Alysa, figuring she would be alright, what with the 100's of people hiking up and down the trail. I quickly reached the first plateau and got a great view of the summit, as well as the valley below. If you have never been up to Guanella Pass, I highly recommend a trip up there. It's very easy to explore, considering how flat it is, and very open as it is just below timberline.

I found a nice rock to sit on and wait while Alysa caught up. It was at this point that I began to realize we might be underprepared, as the gusts were fairly strong, though nothing worse that what I had experienced before. After sitting, hydrating, and taking some pictures, I began to grow a little worried. It had been more than ten minutes, and there was still no sign of Alysa, despite all the people that were passing along the trail. I put my backpack back on and stood up, ready to go back down the trail when suddenly I saw my wife, slowly making her way up to me. I was relieved.

However, I could tell from her facial expression that something was wrong. I quickly walked over to her, and noticed she had tears running down her face. "I couldn't breath back there!" She gasped as she reached earshot. "What?!" I exclaimed as she finally made it up to me. She was breathing hard and could barely speak. Finally, she was able to catch her breath and told me that she had suddenly stopped breathing on the way up and couldn't figure out what was going on. She began to cry, and I comforted her as best I could. I asked if she wanted to turn around, and she said no. So we began again, though this time we took it slower, and I kept a better eye on her.

Soon we had all of our clothing on, trying to stay warm in the cold gusts that would rise up over and down from the summit. We reached the first sub-summit (after many breaks) when Alysa suddenly stopped and sat down. Worried she was having trouble again, I rushed over to her. She was crying, but still breathing. "It's too hard. I can't breath up here." She said, tears running down her cheeks. I told her that we didn't have far to go; less than half an hour and we'd be at the summit. Of course, having little experience at that altitude, I did not realize that we were over 1000 feet from the summit, and thus about an hour from it, if not more at our pace. She said she was going to turn around and go back to the car, but I refused to let her go, telling her I wanted her to make it up with me, even if we had to rest after every step, and I wanted her to experience this with me. After a while, she agreed, so we continued up. About a minute later she stopped again. It took us numerous stops to get to the final sub summit, before the final push. By this point, we were among the last on the mountain, and it must have been around 2 or 3 in the afternoon.

At this point, a man walked by and gave us some encouragement, "Don't give up! You've got less that 300 feet to go!" and then continued on his way. I turned to Alysa and told her we had to do it. When she didn't move, I walked over to her and told her to hop on my back. She did, and I made it about 100 feet up before I had to let her off so I could rest. We then continued up and began to climb. The last 100 feet or so was covered in snow, although a deep path had been treat through the three feet deep snow, so that we were still climbing up rock. After about 15 minutes, we had made it to the summit. We sat and enjoyed the view, taking a few pictures, and resting. After a few minutes had passed, I decided it was time to head down so we could beat the sun, and before the temperature could drop. I was freezing, although it was a cloudless day, so the sun warmed us up a little. In order to save time, I suggested we slide down on the giant snow patches, using our rain jackets as sleds. My wife agreed, and we began to slide. On our second snowfield, I turned around to wait for Alysa to catch up. We had kept sinking in the deep snow, although I though nothing of it.

Alysa was about 150 feet above me when suddenly she stopped. She started crying out for help, saying she was stuck. I quickly ran up the through the snow, sinking as I did so. When I reached her, I realized what had happened: she had dug her feet into the snow to stop herself, but had slid in up to her hip in the freezing snow. Neither of us had gloves, nor did she have on good pants, and even worse she had worn light socks and shoes, which were quickly freezing. I began to dig with my hands, hearing her cries of pain and saying she was losing the feeling in her feet. Since she had slipped in at an awkward angle, she could not free herself, and so could not get the leverage to get free. After a minute of digging, I had to stuff my hands under my armpits in order to warm them back up. Once the pain had stopped, I began to dig again, and finally freed her, although she lost her shoe in the process. I dug some more and freed that as well. She put it back on, tear streaks running down her face saying "I'll never do this again!" I was sad to hear it, but I understood why.

Our hike down was uneventful, and we were the last ones off the mountain that day. By the time we had reached the car, the sun was setting and my hands had just began to thaw enough that I could move them. It wasn't until the day after that I could use them fully, and even then, my hands still felt as though they were being stabbed by needles. Although the adventure had taken a lot of the spirit out of Alysa, and although we were exhausted and hungry, I felt that the trip was a success: we had reached the summit, and I had enjoyed the feeling of triumph from that. I decided that I would try again soon, although I would be better prepared this time. We stopped by Beaujos on the way back to Denver, and I began to plan my next adventure.