The Colorado Trail

Words by Doug Freed, pictures by Doug Freed and Wayne Anderson

A beautiful evening approaching Cataract Lake.

The jump from reality to Hollywood movie is easy to imagine. The cast of disparate characters get thrown together on a quest: Nemo, Notepad, Chipmunk, Origami, Bristlecone, M&M, Cheeky, Professor, Tazzie, B3PO, Poley. Young and old, from around the country and world, they face obstacles and trials. The journey is long, adventures abound, experiences are shared. A hero’s journey script unfolds, ending in the characters arriving back home forever changed and bonded together by the shared experience.

It’s a movie you might want to see, or better yet, live it out in your own way.

The journey in this case was the Colorado Trail, 486 miles from south Denver to Durango (567 miles including the Collegiate Peaks West portion). A trail with nearly 90,000 feet of elevation gain, a trail crossing eight mountain ranges while winding through five designated wilderness areas, a trail that showcases the best of Colorado and reminds even the most jaded of old-timer Colorado natives that there remain forgotten, untrammeled and empty expanses of beauty in our beloved state.

The Colorado Trail has lurked in the corners of my world since befriending Craig Gaskill in 1977. His mother, Gudy, is the Mother of the Colorado Trail and undeniably the person most responsible for the construction and completion of this national treasure. Because of my proximity to the Gaskill family, the trail was for decades a frequent topic of conversation, something on which Gudy tirelessly worked, a bona fide labor of love. As time moved along, more and more of my acquaintances started hiking the trail. Some finished in sections over several years, some became through-hikers and finished in weeks. It became increasingly obvious to me that it was my turn. I had to hike the trail in some form or fashion to honor my home state and tip my hat to Gudy Gaskill, a most remarkable woman I am grateful to have known. When I retired in May of 2022, I ran out of excuses. On July 16, 2023, I put on my backpack in the parking lot of the Waterton Canyon trailhead south of Denver and started my walk to Durango.

Nothing in the modern mind is prepared to fully grasp walking almost 500 miles from point A to point B. Modern people drive or fly. Nobody spends five weeks getting anywhere. Consequently, the start of a 500-mile hike feels like the start of any other hike. In my case I was joined by my old pal David Siple who joined me for the first six miles up Waterton Canyon. I am grateful to Dave for the send-off and the distraction while walking those first few hours. Without his company I suspect the enormity of the task ahead may well have filled me with jitters. As it was, we enjoyed a rousing conversation that propelled me along as the road became single-track and started gaining elevation on the way to my first planned camp at Bear Creek, 8.7 miles from the parking lot.

I arrived at Bear Creek about 1 p.m. – lunch time, not a time to set up camp. There I found Wayne Anderson, age 59, from Charlotte, North Carolina. We chatted, agreed it was too early to camp and decided to hike together another eight miles to the South Platte River and the end of segment one. The first friendship was forged. Wayne became the co-star of my CT movie. We would go on to hike together far more than not over the next 35 days, two recent retirees walking a trail looking for things unknown and finding a great friend with whom to share the experience.

The first few sections from Denver southbound take a heavy toll on prospective through-hikers. While not entirely sure of how many people started on July 16, we tallied those we knew of and figured the attrition rate to be roughly 30% in those first few days. Heat, hills, blisters and homesickness take a toll as hikers and bikers and horsemen leave the trail. Some return, most do not.

Those who remain divide themselves and group up according to pace. Hikers on the trail average anywhere from about 10 miles a day to more than 20 miles a day. Anderson and I were in the comparatively modest 14- to 15-mile-a-day category. To achieve those miles, we typically had to walk all day, leaving camp between 7 and 8 a.m., arriving at the next camp between 4 and 6 p.m. Like the tortoise and the tortoise, we plodded along and somehow kept making camp with the 20-something-year-old hares who hiked far faster, but took more breaks. Thus was formed our first trail family, the loose configuration of folks who hike and camp together on the trail. This particular family stayed together for about five days before the young folks found their trail legs and left the tortoise and the tortoise behind. They departed from Kenosha Pass with a bounce in their step, but not before bestowing upon me my trail name: Professor – a compliment, a reminder not to talk so much, or both. I adopted the trail name sheepishly and with apologies to all the real professors out there. I grew fond of those young folks and pleased they seemed to enjoy our company, so I also wore the moniker with a sense of pride.

Doug Freed somewhere along the CT.

The CT is divided in 28 sections with trailheads on either end to allow for section hiking. The first five sections from Waterton Canyon to Kenosha Pass are marked by Front Range summer heat and steady elevation gain from the 5,500-foot trailhead to Kenosha Pass at 9,969 feet. Section 2 in particular is hot and dry as it passes through the Hayman Fire area and is devoid of shade. Hikers finishing this section gather in the sparse shade of a volunteer fire house where hikers are able to use the outdoor water spigot. I shudder to think of what would happen to hikers without this emergency water source. Beyond is the Lost Creek Wilderness area, remarkable not only for its underground creeks, but also its pristine natural setting so close to the Denver metropolitan area. Nearing Kenosha Pass, hikers can look west to Georgia Pass, the Continental Divide and the knowledge that the trail soon will be wending its way through the high peaks for which Colorado is most famous.

The weight of a through-hike pack can be the difference between pleasant walking and abject misery. On the flip side, leaving something you need at home also can lead to discomfort. All hikers make their own calculations. I started with an ultra-light tent, a single-wall shelter that weighed a scant 1.5 pounds. By trip’s end I had traded it in for my trusty old North Face tent that tips the scales at a whopping (by through-hiker standards) four pounds. I got tired of the condensation inherent in single-wall tents and I didn’t fully trust the tent to withstand anything more than a moderate storm. I also added a sleeping bag liner – nearly one more pound – because at high altitudes I wasn’t sleeping as warm as I’d like. In a world where a pack base weight (no food or water) of 20-pounds is common, adding 3.5 pounds (more than 17 percent) is heresy to some. For me it was well worth it, especially during the last five days of my hike when we got hammered by frequent heavy rains. Even with the added weight, I don’t think my pack ever exceeded a total of 35 pounds, including a stretch of seven days between resupply that also required carrying extra water.

Additional weight for me was bear spray and a large bear vault for my food. Bear vaults are fairly common, but I was the rare bear spray packer. If hikers aren’t carrying a vault for food, they carry an Ursack, a kevlar bag that gets tied to a tree at night. Bears can’t get at the food to eat it, but I heard of two instances where bears completely smashed what was in the bag while trying to get at the food. There are plenty of bears that live in Colorado and generally do what they want. I have been chased out of camp by a bear and thus consider bear spray and vault worth the weight. Bears are rarely a problem, but if a bear becomes a problem, it can be a serious problem.

The tortoise and the tortoise split at Kenosha Pass as Anderson ventured in to the town of Fairplay to attend to some foot problems. I plodded on alone and noticed that most hikers were bunching up and planning a zero day (no hiking) in Breckenridge. I planned to meet a friend at U.S. Highway 9 who would join me for the hike to Copper Mountain. Alex Greenhalgh, from Utah, picked a good section of trail to hike. The view from the top of the Ten Mile Range between Breckenridge and Copper Mountain is worth the effort. It was here that the tortoise and tortoise were briefly reunited, before splitting up again for a few days in Copper Mountain.

At Copper Mountain, as at Kenosha Pass, I was met by my wife, Shannon, with a resupply box. Having off-trail support greatly simplifies any through-hike, and my support was exemplary. Shannon not only made sure I got resupply boxes and a place to stay, she made sure friends found me that were meeting me to hike various segments of the trail. I slept in a hotel bed in Summit County, ate some food that was not dehydrated, and the next morning met the aforementioned Craig Gaskill, who joined me at Copper Mountain for the walk to Twin Lakes. I’ve shared many a hiking trail with Gaskill, but we don’t generally hike together – I’ve never been able to keep up with him. That doesn’t interfere, however, as he hikes his hike (generally climbing some peaks along the way) and I hike my hike and we meet in camp for the good company.

At historic Camp Hale, near Leadville, I was surprised to hear sudden shouts of, “Professssorrrr.” Anderson was there with a new trail family of Chipmunk, Origami and Cozy Moses. While they all were heading to Leadville to resupply and Craig and I were headed to Twin Lakes, Chipmunk and Origami would later reunite with us and become important members of our trail family.

Our hosts in Twin Lakes were Dave and Mary Jo Wheeler who had my resupply box and welcomed us to their cabin for the night. By Twin Lakes, it was my turn to have some foot problems. Some minor blisters were causing some pain as were some issues with my toes. Almost nobody hikes 486 miles without developing some sort of foot issue along the way. I was lucky, some minor doctoring and fiddling with my boots seemed to resolve my foot pain. I was on my way again the next morning, this time alone.

A waterfall near Camp Hale. The Colorado Trail Guidebook recommends this as a good place for a shower.

The Colorado Trail is known the world over. Among hikers I met on the trail, one was from Ireland, one from Italy, one from Denmark and one from Tasmania, not to mention hikers from all across the U.S. Official statistics from the 2022 season show that 454 people reported finishing the trail. Hikers last year hailed from 10 different countries and 48 different states. I predict these numbers will continue to grow with each passing year.

The Colorado Trail splits at Twin Lakes. One trail traverses the Collegiate Range to the east, the other on the west side. I chose east as it is the original trail, the west having been added after the Colorado Trail Foundation adopted the Continental Divide Trail. Hiking alone has its advantages. Pace is never an issue as one hikes just as quickly or slowly as one wants. There is real enjoyment in this. Water and campsites are relatively plentiful in the Collegiate Peaks, so the solo hiker has flexibility in deciding the day’s mileage. I surprised myself by hiking longer days than originally planned. When alone, being in camp is less appealing than staying on the trail. After a 17-mile day and a 19-mile day, I was in position to reach my next resupply point, the Monarch Spur RV Park, with enough time to take my first real zero day. No hiking, just rest. I originally had not planned to take any zero days, only “near-o” days (low mileage days), but after 18 straight days of hiking, my nearly 64-year-old legs were in need of a rest. Super supporter Shannon was able to rent a tiny cabin at the RV resort where she met me with resupply needs and some fresh food. Anderson was able to reach me via text from the trail. When I told him we had a cabin with an extra bed, he pulled off a 21-mile day to meet us there.

The second half of the CT begins at U.S. Highway 50. Section 15 generally follows South Fooses Creek to gain roughly 3,000 feet to the Continental Divide. This pleasant trail is marked by hordes of mountain bikers riding down the trail from the Monarch Crest trail. Beware, hikers. Not all riders understand that cyclists are supposed to yield to hikers. Later, toward Marshall Pass, hikers, horses, cyclists and motorcycles are all allowed on the same trail. Inevitable conflicts arise with this sort of mixed use. Horses, cyclists and motorcycles don’t always peacefully coexist. While the motorcycle riders we encountered all were polite enough, they caused trouble for a traveler on horseback and are severely tearing up the trail. While I’m sure there is pressure to allow all groups access to the trail, the trail is being heavily degraded by motorcycles from Marshall Pass to Colo. Highway 114.

This stretch of trail is also marked by long stretches without water. Here the hiker will do well to carry extra water or have some alternate plans. We were lucky. Gaskill joined us again at Monarch Crest and arranged to be picked up by a mutual friend at Colo. Highway 114. That friend, Richard Hayward, brought water. At the Saugache Park Road, the start of Section 19, trail angels awaited with tasty grilled cheese sandwiches, trail treats and 50 gallons of water to share. We filled water bottles knowing we had only another 10 miles to Cochetopa Creek and abundant water once again. From there we were on to Eddiesville and the start of Section 20 where we returned to the spectacular high peaks of the La Garita Wilderness and the start of the sensational San Juan Mountains of southwest Colorado.

We encountered two trail angels on our trip. These folks who give of their time and resources to offer food and comfort to hikers are truly angels. The over abundance of kindness they show far exceeds what might be expected. To trail angels everywhere and particularly to those who offered food, kindness and good conversation, thank you. Your words and deeds are appreciated.

Sections 19 and 20 are dominated by Cochetopa Creek, which flows through an unspoiled valley for more than 14 miles. The steady, uphill grade in this area is tempered by the beauty of this valley full of beaver dams and unspoiled habitat. Directly above the headwaters of Chochetopa Creek is the high saddle below San Luis Peak. Three miles and three more saddles later is the summit of San Luis Pass and the Continental Divide (again!). Anderson and I slogged through a cold rain in this high section of the trail. Still, we were making enough miles to position ourselves for another needed zero day in Lake City. The trail generally stays above 12,000 as it crosses the high plateau of Snow Mesa before dropping sharply to the summit of Spring Creek Pass where Shannon once again was waiting with resupply and already-arranged accommodations in Lake City.

We set up camp in Lake City in an RV park that has positioned itself to accommodate CT hikers. Friends met us there and many of our trail family members were there as well. What started as a welcome respite from the trail was later upended by news of a family medical emergency. I was forced off the trail and saddened to miss the final nine days of hiking with the good friends we had made. Worried, Shannon and I made our way to Colorado Springs where we spent four days until the crises resolved itself to a degree I felt OK about getting on the trail again.

One of the great benefits of backpacking is the paring down of what one needs to live. The luxuries of life are eliminated, yielding to simple food and shelter. It is a realignment of values, a trek down Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs pyramid to basic survival requirements. After 27 days on the trail, four days of life with modern conveniences was difficult to leave. I arrived back at Spring Creek Pass lacking enthusiasm for the trail and missing my trail family. I knew I would meet new people and the rhythm of the trail would return in a day or two, but I was calling on some stashed determination when I said good-bye to Shannon and began the final nine days, during which I planned at least 15 miles a day. I had read before the trip that determination is the most important piece of gear in a pack. I dug mine out and then dug deep at the start of my final nine days.

The Colorado Trail climbs to its high point west of Spring Creek Pass.

The next four days and three nights of travel are arguably the most beautiful of the trail. Leaving Spring Creek Pass, the trail climbs to it’s high point of 13,271 and generally stays above 12,000 feet as it maneuvers through the heart of the breathtaking San Juan Mountains. The sheer number of peaks higher than 13,000 feet is almost mind boggling in this section. So abundant are the high peaks many don’t have names, as though explorers and mapmakers were simply overwhelmed with the task. At Stony Pass I was surprised by Brian Hicke, a friend from Boulder who made a Herculean effort to join me for the weekend. As it happens, we re-created a large portion of a trip the two of us had completed only last year. The hike from Stony Pass to Elk Creek is spectacular with the Grenadier Range peaks providing much of the dramatic scenery. If I had to pick a favorite day of hiking, this might be it.

The high-altitude hiking ends at Elk Creek where 27 switchbacks (by our count) lead the hiker down off the Continental Divide once again to the valley floor. The trail follows Elk Creek down past the turn off to Vestal Basin (home of the Grenadier Range) to the Animas River. The trail loses roughly 3,500 feet in this section before crossing the Animas River and confronting another 37 switchbacks (by our count again) back up out of the valley to the summit of Molas Pass. Here again Shannon was there with needed supplies and accommodations. With her was her cousin-in-law Randy Dent who was joining me for the final five days. Randy is an avid hiker from Sedona, Ariz., and has done several overseas treks, but it is worth noting he was embarking on his first-ever backpacking trip on his 68th birthday.

Randy and I set off from Molas Pass the next morning. My spirits were high with the end in sight, but after more than 30 days on the CT, I knew this trail would offer no gimmes. It seems like it might be all downhill from Molas Pass to Durango, but that is not the case. While the trail is no longer hovering in the 11,000- to 12,000-foot range, it generally maintains an elevation of between 10,000 and 11,000 feet right up to the last 10 miles down to Durango. In this stretch we met Mike (trail name Poley) who joined us, and as with so many trail hikers, became a valued friend. Mike, at age 72, showed zero signs of slowing down, artificial hip be damned. Now the youngest member of the group, I led my compatriots along on the 15-mile a day pace I was wanting to keep. This proved no problem except for weather. As though the CT wanted to pose one more challenge before sending us on our way back to modern life, the rains began. We hiked through four days of on and off rain, some of it severe. We got wet and wetter still. By the last morning, all were stuffing soaking wet equipment in packs.

Doug Freed hikes in his rain gear as storms threaten.

As with so many other days on the trail, the best thing to do on that wet last morning was to walk. We climbed the last 1,000-foot climb by 10 a.m. and started down for the final 10 miles. With four miles remaining, we met Shannon once again, this time at Gudy’s Rest. By mid afternoon we arrived at the Junction Creek Trailhead, the southern terminus of the Colorado Trail. There to meet us was Tazzie (named for her home in Tasmania, Australia), Chipmunk and Durango residents Jeff and Jennifer Pratt. We shared a celebratory beer in the parking lot, dropped Mike off in downtown Durango and then made our way back home to Rico, Colo.

The trail for me was not life changing as it is for so many people, but it was life validating. I am happy to have done it and equally happy to be back home, even though in the very back of my mind I sometimes miss the simple rhythm of the trail and a world where almost everyone is a friend. It is doubtful I will make another 500-mile through-hike because it felt like too long a time to be away from home. There will be other trails to hike, that’s for sure, but maybe none as spectacular as the Colorado Trail.

The Thing About Dogs

Words and pictures by Michael Sweeney

A small sampling of photos from the many adventures Tucker enjoyed as a member of our family.

For the first time in 24 hours, there wasn’t something pacing around at my feet. “Where is Tucker?” I wonder aloud, and for the next few minutes, begin to grow anxious at the thought of losing my fiance’s dog at my bachelor party.

I begin walking around the campsite, calling out Tucker’s name, and some of my friends join in the search. I wonder aloud where he could have wandered off to. Did he head down toward the road, or get stuck in the scree field below? It doesn’t take long until someone calls out, “found him.”

Tucker, the fetch obsessed blue heeler, is sprawled in the cool dirt underneath my truck, tongue hanging from his open mouth. With so many capable-armed humans in attendance, Tucker has been playing fetch non stop since we arrived the day before. When one human grew weary of picking up his mud and slobber-caked tennis ball, he simply tried a new human. When he lost his tennis ball, he resorted to sticks. Finally, against all odds, Tucker was tuckered.

At this point in my relationship with my wife-to-be, most of my friends have experienced Tucker in some form or another. On a climbing trip in Indian Creek, where tennis balls end up a particular shade of red after a few minutes, Lee, Lacie, Nick and others grew accustomed to having a slobbery mess placed on their laps at regular intervals. Camping in Manti-La Sal National Forest one cold fall, Jason helped prevent a wildfire catastrophe when Tucker tried to play fetch with a burning stick he removed from the fire pit. On a canyoneering trip in the San Rafael Swell, Allison witnessed what happens to a dog that finds a mysterious hallucinogenic substance in the desert. It’s safe to say, among our friends, Tucker has a reputation.

Dogs, being dependent, unreasonable and oftentimes disgusting creatures, can make outdoor adventures more challenging, at times frustrating and generally dirtier. Take, for example, an overnight paddling trip taken on the Colorado River in southeast Utah circa 2017.

I had planned the paddling trip with my then-girlfriend Danielle and her friend Allison. I had been down this stretch of river several times, and had mapped out a leisurely two night float the three of us would take with Tucker and his sister, black lab Kannah in tow. I had reservations about how Kannah would behave in a canoe, as she prefers to be in the water rather than on it, but I thought Tucker would be content to ride in the canoe at my feet.

Not five minutes after pushing off from the put-in, Tucker made it abundantly clear he would not be content in my canoe. He jumped out of the boat and swam toward the shore. By the time I steered the gear-laden canoe into an eddy and pulled it onshore, we were a quarter mile downriver from where Tucker made his getaway. After several minutes of hiking upriver through muddy, horse fly infested tamarisk, I found Tucker, stuck on the underside of a driftwood log by the handle of his lifejacket, wagging his tail. He was happy to see me.

Some of my most cherished memories of Tucker were made on that trip. I can still see the appalled look on his face when he realized we were swimming down to our waiting canoe. I vividly remember sheltering from a torrential rainstorm that afternoon in a four man tent with three people and two sandy dogs, one of which happily cuddled his humans’ expensive down sleeping bags. The mental image of him riding class 3 rapids on his momma’s lap in a ducky made for two is still crystal clear. And of course I cherish the hours of fetch we played at the boat launch while the girls ran shuttle.

As Tucker grew older, the adventures changed for him. Camping, once an opportunity to play fetch for two or three days on end, became a quieter affair. This was not Tucker's choice, of course, but a choice his humans made for him to prevent him from hurting himself. This had to be communicated to all who camped with us, because once Tucker realized his humans wouldn't throw a stick, he tried to convince a different human to do it. Tucker was diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy in late 2021, a disease that affects the spinal cord, and causes slow paralysis of the hind legs. We had known for a long time that something wasn't right with Tucker, but actually hearing it from a veterinarian was soul crushing. Even more depressing was the realization Tucker would slowly lose the ability to do the thing he loved most.

Whether it was eventually coming to terms with a new reality after Danielle and I married and had children, or realizing his body wouldn't keep up with his mind, Tucker contented himself to an old dog's tricks. On camping trips during his last spring, summer and fall, Tucker could be found lazing about under our camper, always appropriately positioned for the temperature in the sun or shade, and always with a stick nearby. Oftentimes at home, I would find him laying in the only slice of sun peeking through the living room window, or even hiding out in my daughter's play tent or in her teepee. If I end up with any regrets when it's my time to go, they're sure to include the times I was impatient with Tucker, and the fact that I didn't take him everywhere with me in those final months. We said goodbye to Tucker in February of 2022, and even a year later, the loss is still a gaping wound that won't heal. I know this to be true: he died knowing his humans loved him fiercely.

Tucker's huge personality and reliable presence is missed around our house on a daily basis. When Danielle and I moved in together in 2016, he and Kannah became best friends; their bond transformed us from a couple to a family. I know when the weather turns warm and the camping trips begin, I'll find more ways to miss him and his antics. I'll reminisce with my wife about the time he proudly brought us a dead mouse, its tail swinging in the breeze, while we played cards around a cooler. I'll notice that my hand isn't dirtied from a slobbery ball. I'll forget that I don't have to check on him when I start the campfire, as he always ran away from the smoke. More than likely, I'll glance in the rear view mirror looking for his nose sticking out of the camper shell window.

Dogs enrich the experience of being outdoors, and our lives, with their unrelenting and infectious happiness. That’s the thing about dogs; they know how to find joy on any adventure. Whether he was chasing sticks from sunup to sundown, jumping from a canoe, lazing about in a patch of sunny dirt on a camping trip, cuddling with my daughter's pile of dirty clothes or laying on my wife's Chacos, Tucker managed to find happiness in the epic adventures and the mundane ones. As Tucker and I sat by the river’s edge watching the last sunset of our river trip in the summer of 2017, I thought to myself, “I’ll never take this dog on the river again.” Now, I would give anything to take Tucker on one more trip down the Colorado.

Peasants

On wealth and wild lands

Words by Doug Freed, pictures by Michael Sweeney

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Opinion - yes, they still make those.

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“F**k the peasants.”

This toast has been delivered by a friend on several occasions during ski hut trips and river trips after insouciant days of friendship and outdoor bliss.

There’s a lot in that toast. Irony, for starters. We aren’t royalty by any measure, but of course we aren’t peasants, either. I’ll admit the toast was a lot more humorous to me before I spent six years teaching on a Native American reservation where most of my students were mired in multi-generational poverty. Still, I can recognize that the humor or wisdom ensconced in that three-word toast more accurately reflects the elevating nature of nature. To spend time outside, particularly in the company of good friends, elevates one’s status to that of royalty, but also brings with it some important responsibilities.

I like to ask this question at the end of day outside. “What do you suppose Bill Gates is doing right now?” I never wait for an answer to my rhetorical question before adding, “no chance he’s having more fun that I am.” I may be eating a bag of dehydrated, processed food, tired from a day of backpacking, and maybe even a little wet or cold, but I’m in a place with beauty that takes my breath away and I’m sharing it with witty and interesting people. I seriously doubt Bill Gates could improve on that.

The July 25 issue of The New Yorker included a typically well-written and masterfully researched piece of journalism on the worldwide boom in superyachts, megayachts, and, of course, gigayachts. Nobody buys one of these luxurious environmental disasters as an investment. They are terrible investments with price tags often ten times higher than the most lavish luxury home. Costing in the realm of hundreds of millions of dollars, a typical yacht carries no more than 12 passengers, based on a rule established after the sinking of the Titanic by the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea. Only 12 passengers, but a gigayacht might have a staff of 50, which is allowed. Said one broker quoted in the article, “It’s a level of service you cannot really contemplate until you’ve been fortunate to experience it.”

Later, the story includes a second-hand version of an explanation from a “famous friend who keeps one of the world’s largest yachts.”

“The boat is the last vestige of what real wealth can do…You have a chef, and I have a chef. You have a driver, and I have a driver. You can fly privately, and I can fly privately. So, the one place where I can make clear to the world that I am in a different fucking category than you is the boat.”

That quote succinctly encapsulates a form of moral decadence that is difficult for me to swallow. Defenders of the uber-wealthy might argue I’m jealous, when in fact I feel a sense of moral superiority. I know I’m not rich, but I also know what’s important in life, and concentrating a vast amount of the world’s wealth in your own hands, then squandering it on a resource-consuming monstrosity ain’t it. When I wonder aloud what one of the gigayacht owners are doing while I’m standing near one of Colorado’s high mountain lakes with friends or my wife and dog, I truly am feeling superior, which probably is it’s own form of moral decadence. Nonetheless, I feel a sense of royalty at those moments and more and more I’m coming to realize that this sense of royalty comes with real responsibilities.

Those of us who have the time and financial ability to spend lots of time in the outdoors owe a debt. While it’s obvious the numbers of this tribe are exploding, we still are the lucky few, and we have a real responsibility to save what is left of our wild lands.

First we must recognize the paradox of saving public lands. For years I was conflicted as I wrote about, and therefore exploited the outdoors for financial gain. It was Gudy Gaskill, the builder of the Colorado Trail, who explained to me that if people don’t know about it, it will be impossible to save. Once people learn about a place and begin to populate or overpopulate it, the next step is to realize it may become necessary to develop an area in order to keep it wild. Think of any national park. We’re all going to have to learn to share.

That’s the macro picture. At a personal level, it goes without saying to leave no trace. That doesn’t mean just when you are outside. It’s a lifestyle. Leave the car at home when you can. Invest in solar. Be mindful of how little things add up. If you have the time and energy to actively advocate for wild lands, get involved and do it. The oil industry, mining industry and developers of the world employ an army of folks to advocate for the destruction of wild lands, the other side can use all the help it can get. And vote. Vote for the candidates you feel will be the best stewards of our public lands.

They aren’t making any more wild lands. The time is now to use your royal status to do what can be done to save what we have.

Vestal Basin Redux

Memories still vivid after 45 years.

Words and pictures by Doug Freed

Vestal Peak 1977. From left to right, Kurt Lankford, Doug Freed, Dan Stone (seated), Glen Ruckhaus, Brian Litz and Brad Stone on the summit of Vestal Peak, 1977.

Glen Ruckhaus arrived in Vestal Basin about one week later than the rest of us back in mid-August, 1977. He announced that Elvis Presley had died. I can’t speak for the others on the trip, but I didn’t believe him.

Just one month shy of 45 years later, I stood in Vestal Basin looking up at iconic Wham Ridge remembering the news of Elvis Presley’s death and the rest of a two-week climbing trip that stands out in my memory as an important coming of age trip for a group of 17- and 18-year-olds. It was a trip during which youthful and adolescent bonds of friendship were further forged into unbreakable, lifelong ties that show little or no wear and tear after 45 years. In at least one case, a new friend joined the group, and 45 years later is practically a family member.

What makes memories from a trip endure over the decades, while memories from so many other trips have jumbled and emulsified into a cluttered collage of laughably inaccurate reminiscences?

The people? The place? The weather? The time of life? All of that, and I think a sense of life’s opportunity and the knowing we were at square one in what we all expected to be charmed and successful adult lives. Upon returning to Denver at the end of the trip, we would, within a day or two, become college men and women. For this group of privileged young people, we could feel our independence and sense our imagined bright futures. It was all there for the taking, and this trip was a celebration of the foregone conclusion that the members of this group would find their groove and make a mark, or at the very least enjoy well-furnished and sheltered lives.

I remember many distinct vignettes from this trip in a clear-eyed fashion not generally experienced when thinking about long-ago adventures. Other trip memories of the era are so badly mangled by time, I feel certain accurate trip narratives are now laughably out of reach. But this trip is different. I recently talked with two friends on the trip and like me, they mostly enjoyed clear memories of Vestal Basin, 1977.

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We were so calorie starved at the end of the two-week trip (this is a guess; none of us can remember the exact length of this trip), we saved bacon grease from breakfast so we could dip our bread in it at lunch.

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It rained for most of the first week. Dan Stone and I had elected to forego tents in favor of a large tarp. The tarp at least gave the camp-bound climbing group a place to convene while waiting out the storms, but it’s effectiveness at keeping us dry was limited. After days of dampness, I executed a terrible mean move on my best friend, Kurt Lankford, and his girlfriend, Lisa Jones. I piled my wet self in their dry tent, rendering their tent no longer dry. Lisa, allow me to offer a 45-year-late apology.

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Dan brought along a book of Edgar Allen Poe stories. We took turns under the tarp making theatrical reading of The Tell Tale Heart to kill the time.

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Tim K., a friend of mine from high school that did not know anybody else on the trip, had insufficient gear, especially his sleeping bag. We taught him to heat rocks in the fire, wrap them in clothes and put them in his sleeping bag when going to bed. It worked. He called the hot rocks his little buddies.

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After days of mud and rain and cold, Dan built a frame of willow branches for the tarp and we made a sauna by splashing water on hot rocks. It worked magnificently. It warmed us and cleaned us, and had the added bonus of making girls and boys take off their clothes. This is a coming of age trip, right? But no, there was no heat generated by anything other than hot rocks. This was a group who routinely went skinny dipping in high mountain lakes and streams to A) get more clean and less stinky and B) prove our nordic toughness. Losing clothes was never more than that, to the chagrin of some, I suppose.

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Once the weather cleared, we were able to climb Arrow, Vestal and the Trinities, but afternoon monsoon-driven storms continued to add excitement and drama to some of the climbs, especially in the form of lightening. Dan remembered one climb on which he and I and most of the girls were chased from the summit by lightening. We down-climbed quickly to a point where we figured we were low enough to be relatively safe. We hunkered in, sitting on packs and trying to keep the soles of our boots on the rocks (does that even help?). We felt like we were low enough to be out of critical danger until a lightening bolt slammed in to the mountain below us. When the A-team climbers returned to camp from their day’s adventure, the girls somehow gave credit to Dan and I for keeping them safe in the lightening. Nothing could hardly be farther from the truth, but we did not protest much.

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Craig Gaskill showed up several days later than the rest of us. I had never met this fellow who, along with Kurt Lankford, already enjoyed legendary climber status. Tall and gangly, and maybe a little shy and awkward, he ignited a grease bomb one night as we huddled around the campfire. Despite nearly blowing our faces off with flaming grease, he taught us a trick we still use to delight and annoy our fellow campers. A few weeks later, Craig and I found ourselves moving in to the same dorm at CU. The rest, as they say, is history.

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Little consideration was given to backpack weight. We made two trips in to the basin just to get all the food in to the base camp. Those packs were brutally heavy. While we made one nod to weight by bringing along textured vegetable protein, we also packed canned hams, boxes of mashed potatoes mix, cheesecake mix, Wylers lemonade mix and bacon, among hundreds of pounds of other food, much of it in cans. I can’t remember if we had a watermelon on this trip or not, but we often did on trips — and opened them with our ice axes. This is not to mention climbing equipment, which was not ultra-light in those days. Having a pack so heavy one needed help to put it on, was not unusual, and, in contrast to today’s ultra-light mania, was a badge of honor.

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We cooked all that food exclusively on an open fire. Everybody always knew what needed to be done and did it. We did not have elaborate camp chore duty schedules. We washed our blackened pots and pans in the stream and did not leave a dirty camp that I can remember. Nobody in those days worried about bears. They had been nearly eradicated in the 1970s and it would be another twenty years before they started making a comeback.

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This being an official Colorado Mountain Club Denver Junior outing, we had an adult sponsor. It was Polly, Craig’s older sister, who couldn’t have been more than 21 or 22. I do not remember her playing much of a role in our decision making, but I am sure we tested her with our puerile antics.

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We rode the Durango-Silverton train from Silverton to Elk Park to start and end our trip. I remember the cost being a token $1 or $2. Dan thinks it was more like $7. Craig guessed $6, but said he would believe it if somebody said it was under $6. Whatever the meager cost, the railroad back then seemed to give backpackers somewhat special treatment. We could sit either in the baggage car with the pack, or in one of the open air cars. Today it’s $48.50 for the short one-way ride from Elk Park to Silverton, plus $5 for your backpack. Adjusted for inflation, that’s about double what we paid. In 1977 we feared missing the train. We all remember running down the trail with packs on to make sure we made it. None of us wanted to hike up the switchbacks to the top of Molas Pass.

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If you haven’t hiked the trail from Elk Creek to Vestal Basin, you are missing out on an absurdly steep climber’s trail that was not built by the Forest Service, but rather developed socially by the boots of thousands of climbers. Today, with beetle-kill downed timber everywhere and no Forest Service maintenance, the already difficult trail is taking on another dimension.

So there I was, 45 years later, standing in the middle of Vestal Basin in the rain, which seemed appropriate. The difference was my modern rain gear was bullet proof and my light-weight tent was keeping everything mostly dry except for condensation. Being one who tends to look forward rather than back, I was surprised at the flood of memories. Several of the friends on that trip are still friends. Dan and Craig and Kurt’s wife, Karla, are practically family. Kurt died of a sudden heart attack in 2002. I still miss him and still carry some of his ashes in my backpack, daypack or dry box on every trip I make. He was there with me, as always, as the memories flooded back.

This time I was there with Brian and his 17-year-old son Clay. I had, more or less, invited myself on this father-son trip with the idea that climbing Wham Ridge again after 45 years would be tons of fun. But everything is different now. I am no longer enthusiastic about exposure. Never a great climber, I have certainly gotten progressively and notably much worse. And most importantly, I no longer enjoy putting myself in those kinds of positions. Older and perhaps even slightly more sagacious, I can say no, which I did to climbing Wham Ridge again. It seemed right for the father and son to make the climb.

Brian, Clay and I for years have shared outdoor adventures, but I felt that Vestal Basin was working its magic once again. The bonds we share are stronger today than they were before Vestal Basin.

While Brian and Clay climbed, I spent the day looking for our camp of yore and hiking up to Vestal Lake and on up towards the end of the valley. As for the camp, I convinced myself I had found it, but I could have been wrong, and probably was.

The hike up the valley was maddening. Willows now clog portions of Vestal Basin and pose a decided impediment to the hiker. Route-finding skills are needed just to make it through and around stands of willows. None of us remember the willows being an issue 45 years ago. I can only wonder what changes to the ecosystem are responsible. Fewer elk? Or perhaps faulty memory?

Most likely it’s faulty memory. But faulty or not, these memories are precious.

Wham Ridge and two of the Trinities of the Grenadier Range.

Modern equipment kept the 2022 rains at bay.

A Canyon of Varied Character

Words and pictures by Doug Freed

Lora Chiehowsky and Kim Craig at the confluence of Buckskin Canyon, coming in from the left, and Paria Canyon. The confluence is at the heart of the narrows section of Paria Canyon.

Archaeologists believe ancient civilizations used Paria Canyon as a travel route between what is now southern Utah and norther Arizona.

What a great commute.

Paria Canyon is a 38-mile walk through a stunning canyon with a varied character as the creek winds from southern Utah to Lee’s Ferry at the mouth of Marble Canyon. The headwaters of Paria Creek reach all the way north to Bryce Canyon National Park, but most hikers hikers don’t start until near the state line where the canyon narrows as it flows through an upthrust known as the Paria Plateau.

Paria Canyon is a rare treat for desert hikers as the creek flows year-round. The flow of the creek fluctuates between dangerous flash floods to ankle-deep. Flash floods are a real and present threat. The drainage of Paria Creek is so large a thunderstorm 50 miles away near Bryce Canyon can cause flooding in the canyon. Hikers are well advised to pay attention and be prepared to seek higher ground. In most places in the canyon seeking higher ground is a simple matter, but between miles three and 15 where the walls narrow to not much wider than the creek itself, avoiding high water might be difficult. Flash floods may also leave the canyon muddy, which will make the hiking more difficult.

This trip starts four months prior to putting on a backpack with sitting in front of a computer trying to get a permit. Permits are doled out on a first-come, first-serve basis four months in advance. Hikers in the canyon are limited to 20 per day and group size is limited to 10. Most complete the 38-mile trip from White House campground to Lees Ferry in four or five days.

The hiking is relatively benign. It’s all slightly downhill (for groups traveling south to Lees Ferry) with no climbs. Mostly it’s walking over sand, some packed and hard, some wet, some dry and soft. Wear some sort of water shoe or old sneaker or running shoe as all hikers will end up walking through the water many, many times each day. Modern water shoes make for good hikers in Paria, but an old-school trick is to wear an old pair of running shoes, and just throw them away in the Lees Ferry dumpster at the end of the trip. They won’t be worth keeping after 38 miles of sand and water.

Even though feet will be wet all day, it’s best to wear thick hiking socks. The sand will fill shoes (and socks) and the thick socks will assist in keeping the blisters at bay. Pay attention to the blister issue as a blister on the first day of the trip will soak in wet, bacteria-rich conditions the rest of the trip.

If making this trip a through-hike, a car shuttle is needed, and it is long enough to make arriving a day early worthwhile. What was once a one-way trip of maybe an hour from the Paria Canyon ranger state to Lees Ferry is now 114 miles one way due to a large landslide that has closed U.S. Highway 89 south out of Page, Ariz. This round trip of 228 miles will kill most of a day, particularly if you take the time to walk across the old Navajo Bridge and watch the California condor hang out beneath the bridge, or linger a bit watching boatmen rig their rafts at Lees Ferry for a run down the Grand Canyon.

An alternate route via House Rock Road west of Paria Canyon is a highly scenic road that offers the chance to make short day hikes into Buckskin or Wire Pass Canyons. This dirt road is impassable if wet and when dry will severely test the suspension of your vehicle. Four-wheel-drive isn’t necessary, but a little clearance is helpful. Each route to Lees Ferry will take about the same amount of time.

Some Paria Canyon visitors choose to skip the car shuttle and make a down and back visit. We also saw a group that was making the trip from Lees Ferry up canyon to White House Campground.

With the shuttle completed, the next step is checking in at the Paria Canyon BLM ranger station to pick up the permit and get updates on conditions and regulations. This is where you will be given a couple of “wag bags.” It is now mandatory to transport out of the canyon your own human waste, and the “wag bags” are what you need to do it. While this practice may seem unsavory at best, it has left the canyon once again with a wilderness feel. As one ranger put it, prior to the human waste rule, “the camping areas had reached the point nobody would want to camp there.”

Most hikers spend the night before their trip at White House Campground, which also serves as the trailhead. Of the groups at the camp we talked to, one group had arranged for a shuttle to the top of famed Paria side canyon Buckskin Gulch for a trip down Buckskin and up the Paria back to the campground. Another group planned a four day trip of two days down Paria and two days back up. Ours was the only group to make the through hike to Lees Ferry and from conversations it appear the long shuttle was a determining factor for the other groups.

It is difficult to imagine what is to come when the hike starts. The prevailing geologic formation is a slender bit of Page Sandstone and the walking is through wide-open desert. With each step, however, the canyon narrows. As the Navajo sandstone formation begins to show, the walls draw closer. By mile four it’s The Narrows where the walls pinch in to slightly wider than the creek. Now, rather than the walls narrowing, they grow higher and higher as the creek cuts deeper and deeper into the plateau.

On my most recent trip, the river was present for the first few miles, then disappeared, only to reappear at the confluence of Buckskin Gulch at mile seven. On a long-ago previous trip, we were forced to swim a substantial lake that had formed in the narrows when Buckskin flooded and dammed the creek.

The hiking through The Narrows is pleasant – firm, wet sand and shade make for ideal conditions. At Buckskin, the creek is barely a trickle. It will grow with each step. By mile 10, it is a full-fledged creek where it reaches the first of three reliable springs and a camp. The camps in The Narrows are small but idyllic. High enough to get out of the wet sand and away from high water danger, but very close to the creek and the spring. The high, close walls make for lots of shade.

We camped at mile ten the first night, which is the site of the first reliable spring. Paria Creek was running clear, however, so the spring really wasn’t necessary. At times, the creek is very muddy, which would quickly clog a water filter. In fact, it is Paria Creek that often turns the Colorado to its famous chocolate milk color after it runs clear for about eight miles below Lake Powell. Archaeologist believe the word Paria may be an archaic Paiute word for muddy-tasting water. At mile 12 is another reliable spring called Big Spring that has a strong flow and a nice camp nearby.

The canyon begins to widen a bit even as it grows deeper. The creek begins to build nice river bottoms full of stunning green willows that contrast nicely with the red canyon walls and the bright blue sky. The walking is through loose sand and in and out of the water to cross the creek many times a day. The miles slip by quickly. We aimed for mile 22 for a second camp because of a spring called Shower Spring that sounded very alluring. The camp was terrific, but the spring was surrounded by a thick stand of willows and while somewhat shower worthy, was somewhat inconvenient. The willow stand also made Shower Spring very easy to miss. There is only one more reliable spring in the canyon below this point at mile 25.

Below mile 22 the character of the canyon changes again. This time it’s the forces of entropy that keep it interesting. Hundreds of large rocks have fallen from the cliff faces and rolled to the creek. The hiking now is more back and forth, up and down route picking through the rocks littering the bottom of the canyon. Far from difficult, the hiking in this section is fun and interesting. Along with the rocks that have tumbled off the walls, sand dunes have formed high in the canyon.

Enjoy this section because as the canyon widens further, the hike takes on the feel of true desert hike. The trail leaves the creek for extended sections of hot slogging through loose, deep sand. The canyon remains stunning, but the cool waters of Paria Creek are sorely missed. The trail will cross the creek just enough to make it a truly welcome respite. Camping in the lower section of canyon is wide open.

Watch for rock art in this lower section where several nice panels can be found on rocks near the trail – proof that ancient civilizations used this canyon as a throughway.

By now, the high cliffs of Marble Canyon and the Vermillion Cliffs around Lees Ferry become visible, then the inevitable signs of civilizations – fences, power poles, signs. Then the cars and the parking lot, a most unwelcome sight. We did not linger on the asphalt, taking only the time to throw away the “wag bags” and my shoes. We loaded up and bee-lined back to White House Campground to retrieve our other vehicles. The trailhead was a welcome site. Time allowing, we would have done it all over again.

Hikers are dwarfed by the towering walls of Paria Canyon.

Rock art panels can be spotted in the lower sections of Paria Canyon. Archeologists believe ancient civilizations used the canyon as a throughway between southern Utah and Northern Arizona.

Lora Cheihowsky with Slide Rock Arch in Paria Canyon.

Sand dunes in the higher reaches of Paria Canyon.

Victory in Retreat

Words and pictures by Michael Sweeney

The Big Stone, Yosemite National Park

It’s quiet, and considering the company I’m in, that’s an indication that something is seriously wrong. Jason doesn’t do quiet. He’s a former army ranger, trained by the United States government to persevere through immense hardship. The methods Jason regularly deploys to see himself through suffering include singing, talking, laughing loudly, and cursing; they definitely do not include being silent.

I’m a quiet guy by comparison, and when things get hard, or the suffering starts to overwhelm my resolve, I retreat into silence. It’s very much at odds with how Jason does things, but our partnership works. He talks and I retreat into a dark cave in the back of my head. This, however, is disconcerting. I can’t handle it when he gets quiet.

He’s six feet above me on a bright red portaledge, one of the bigger deals we scored in the lead up to an attempt to climb El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. I’m on another portaledge below, and the only sound is the faint jingling of climbing gear from above as Lee, the third of our foursome, aid climbs up another rivet ladder. We’re 5 pitches up a route called Zodiac, one of the most popular routes on the southeast face of El Capitan. For those unfamiliar with the routes on the southeast face of the Big Stone, this section of El Capitan contains some of the steepest, most consistently overhung big wall routes in the Valley. Tangerine Trip, the route we intended to climb, is overhung for 15 out of its 18 pitches.

Dylan, our fourth climber, is next to me on our portaledge, possibly asleep. I’m staring at the back of Jason’s red helmet, wondering if his silence is evidence that he feels the way I do. I’m not having fun, I miss my wife and daughter, and nothing at all has gone our way since rolling into Yosemite Valley the day before. Silently, I’m wondering if I should say the “b” word.

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Two days ago we left Denver, drove through Grand Junction and all the way to the west side of Las Vegas. Good progress, we called it. We wanted to get to the Valley as soon as possible, to give ourselves every chance to climb El Cap. We slept on the ground in what we thought was public land, but when the sun came up, it appeared we had landed in some sort of mining operation. After only a few hours of fitful sleep due to the odorous nature of where our tent was located, we were back on the road. We arrived in the park ahead of schedule, but sat in construction traffic for hours, and were then greeted with smoke from a controlled burn when we reached the Valley floor. We had a choice to make.

“I think we have time to get up there and put one or two pitches up,” I said, eyes focused on the immense ocean of granite that is El Capitan. My theory being rooted in not wanting to spend a night in the backpackers’ campground. A much better plan would be to spend the afternoon shuttling our gear up the talus field to the base of our route, and bivouac there for the night. That, however, is deemed illegal by the National Park Service, and camping on the walls of Yosemite is only allowed 100 or more feet above the ground.

“The first pitch is more than 100 feet. Let’s go for it,” I said, further entrenching myself in an opinion that would contribute to our impending failure. Everyone agreed.

We found parking, picked up our climbing permit, and began packing haul bags, or “pigs.” Jason was in charge of packing the beer pig - a necessity of big wall climbing according to some members of our party. The rest of us worked on climbing gear and the food bag. Our haste to get on the wall before dark clouded our judgement, and food was haphazardly thrown into dry bags that were then placed into pigs. In our self-inflicted hastened state, we ended up packing more than double the food we needed, and certainly more beer than was required.

We mistakenly assumed that the hike to the base of our climb would pale in comparison to the death slabs, the aptly named hike to the base of Half Dome we had undertaken three years prior. Fifteen minutes later, laden with over-stuffed pigs and still hours away from the wall, our moods began to sour. I retreated into that dark, silent place in my head, and Jason talked.

We arrived at the base of El Cap around 7 p.m., but couldn’t count our losses and bivouac for the night. We had to start climbing, or run afoul of the Yosemite legal system. There was already a party on Tangerine Trip, so we called yet another audible. The only party on Zodiac was at least 3 days ahead of us, so we turned our sights on a route that none of us had studied leading up to the trip; we had assumed it would be too busy. I tied in, took the rack and cast off while the others tidied up haul bags and gear.

Night fell, and three-quarters of the way up the first pitch, I turned on my headlamp. By the time I reached the first pitch anchor, smoke began filling my nostrils and an orange glow loomed behind me. The controlled burn on the valley floor was less controlled than intended, and several giant pine trees glowed with orange flame. Setting up camp on a wall is a difficult endeavor. Doing so under the cloud of wood smoke is more so. We didn’t lay our heads down until well after midnight - exhausted, and not likely to sleep with whatever night we had left.

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“How are you doing, Jason?” I asked as I began fixing dinner on the portaledge. His silent reply added to the collection of evidence that this big wall attempt was not going to succeed. I answered for him. “Because I’m not having any fun, and I miss my family.” That statement seemed to break the damn, and bottled up thoughts from both Jason and Dylan rushed out. Still, nobody said the “b” word.

There’s a sense of duty among partners for an objective like El Capitan. This is rooted in the knowledge that in order to achieve something like summitting a route on one of the biggest walls in the world, you’re going to have to pay the toll. Large parts of climbing a big wall are not fun - hauling loads, getting dripped on by what you hope is water from unseen seams in the rock above, and constantly managing your fear all wear down resolve. The commitment of you and your partners to weather these storms can make or break a climb.

Perched on the side of El Cap, there’s plenty to remind us why we expend all this time, effort and money to put ourselves in these compromising positions. Watching peregrine falcons rocket towards the earth, listening to cave swifts converse in the chasm behind some giant piece of granite, laughing with your friends at the silliness of the endeavor and watching the way the sun affects the personality of a place over time builds a vast sense of awe for a place like Yosemite.

Great adventure partners loudly appreciate the beautiful, and quietly acknowledge the ugly. They know when to suck it up and keep pressing for the objective. They know when to acknowledge that they’re outmatched, whether physically or emotionally, and retreat for the good of the team. They know when to say, “bail.”

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There’s no doubt in my mind that we could have climbed Zodiac to the top of El Capitan. The team had all the skills necessary. What Jason and I didn’t have this time was the mental strength. This was our first big objective since becoming fathers, and neither one of us expected or planned for the immense gaping hole in our chests that would come with being away from our kids. Had we pressed on, I’m sure the hole in my chest would have begun to fill with bitterness and frustration. No objective is worth introducing those emotions into a friendship.

Bailing five pitches up Zodiac may seem to some like an abject failure, but I didn’t see it this way. In addition to learning from the experience, having some fun along the way, and making it home to our families, we further stoked the fire in our bellies to stand on top of the Big Stone. I consider that a successful trip to The Valley by any measure. El Capitan isn’t going anywhere, and I’m going to climb it with three of my greatest friends.

Half Dome

Words and pictures by Michael Sweeney

The sun sets on Half Dome, Yosemite National Park.

“I’ll send you the pro carabiner.” Jason hollers up from Big Sandy Ledge. I hear a faint scoff from Lee; he knows as well as I do that nothing on this carabiner Jason is sending me is remotely close to protection.

Jason’s tone suggests the ultimate level of sarcasm, and yet, I’m somehow emboldened and encouraged. I pull up on the second rope I’m trailing from my harness and the carabiner in question arrives. It has a red piece of webbing on it, connected to some medieval-looking piece of iron. 

“Fuck. So this is a cam hook,” I mutter to myself.

I’m aid climbing the first pitch of the Zig Zags on the Regular Northwest Face of Half Dome in Yosemite. The Zig Zags are three of the harder pitches on this route, and they launch into a steep section of the wall directly below The Visor - an overhung outcropping of rock that protrudes from the summit of Half Dome. These three pitches sit approximately 1700 feet from the start of the route, and another 3000 feet above the valley floor. The height and exposure is palpable.

The difference between aid climbing and free climbing is an aspect of climbing that’s often misunderstood by non-climbers. People hear “free” and conjure up images of professional climber Alex Honnold climbing this very same route on Half Dome without a rope. How he keeps his wits about him 1700 feet above the ground without a rope is beyond my comprehension. Regardless, what Alex is famous for is referred to as free soloing. Free climbing is where a climber ascends a route using their hands, fingers and feet to pull on weaknesses and cracks in the rock, and is attached to a rope to catch them should they fall.

Aid climbing is another thing entirely. It involves placing gear, such as aluminum nuts and active camming devices into cracks, and pulling on these pieces of gear to progress upwards. Aid climbing is the technique climbers use to ascend routes that are outside of our ability to free climb. Only one person in our group is capable of free climbing at the difficulty of the first pitch of the Zig Zags, and he just led 17 pitches in a single, 26-hour push the day before. Needless to say, Lee deserved a break.

A cam hook resembles a wide steel chisel that has been curved back on itself. It has a hole drilled in one side that a sling and carabiner can be clipped to. The chisel end gets placed into a crack that is too shallow for even the smallest nut or camming device. Some poor bastard, me in this case, then clips a ladder made of nylon to the sling on the cam hook, and stands up on the top rung to reach what is, hopefully, a real piece of protection.

I glance down to my left; this pitch of the Zig Zags required a pendulum. This meant that I climbed to a high point where the crack in the rock tapered down to nothing and clipped my lead rope (the rope that will catch me if I fall) to a long piece of webbing tied to a piton. I then asked my belayer, Dylan, to lower me ten feet and started running back and forth across the wall. A big enough swing allowed me to reach another crack to my right, which I then placed two more pieces of gear into to aid my upward progress. These pieces were tiny, and soon this crack tapered down into nothing.

This is where my engineering brain really fails me in my battle against fear. I start running the calculations, “Ten feet of rope out to that corner. That webbing I pendulumned off is sun-faded and that’s ten feet, plus those last two nuts I put in were shit, which is another ten feet. So I’m looking at 20 feet of rope to my last good piece of gear. Multiply by two, and add 10 feet for rope stretch. Yeah I’m looking at a 50 foot whipper into a corner.”

In reality, that piece of webbing could probably hold a compact sedan off the ground, and those last two nuts could catch at least a twenty foot fall. Regardless, the thousands of feet of air whispering at my back don’t help my inner dialog calm down. Somehow, through all the dialog and fear, my body keeps moving. I step in the top rung of my ladder, watch the cam hook flex and twist under the load as it bites into the rock, reach up and sink in a red Black Diamond Camalot into a crack above my head. By comparison, this piece of protection is a boat anchor compared to the gear below me. The fear is gone - replaced with a surge of dopamine. I’m home free to the anchors, build backups and fix the two ropes for tomorrow in an orange Yosemite valley sunset.

I rappel back down to my friends Jason, Dylan and Lee, who are hanging out on what’s been dubbed Big Sandy Ledge. It’s Sandy, sure, but not very big, and is the site of our bivouac. This ledge was the goal of our first day of climbing.

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We arrived in Yosemite valley on a Sunday morning. After gaping in awe at El Capitan in the glory of early morning light, we strolled over to Half Dome Village for a hot breakfast. The Village is as touristy a place as you’ll find in a national park, complete with a cafeteria, gear shop, liquor and grocery store - all of which we were more than happy to visit. After our breakfast we left the company of World-Cup-watching foreigners behind and headed back out to the car. I still can’t fathom how anyone could sit inside in a place like Yosemite.

We packed up the haul bag and the backpacks, both sources of great debate and frustration, and began the long slog up the Death Slabs approach. I soon came to understand the name as we slogged up steep talus and fixed ropes in the hot July sun. We ran out of water a quarter mile from the spring that flows out of the base of the climb, and I nearly vomited from the heat and the sun. That spring is truly a miracle of nature, and I spent the entire evening enjoying it’s presence.

Lee and Dylan began fixing the first few pitches of the route on Sunday night as Jason and I rested and heckled our “lead team.” We had decided to split our group of four into two teams, and I was on the haul team. The lead team was responsible for leading pitches and fixing a trailing rope for the haul team to ascend. 

The haul team is responsible for lifting the haul bag, filled to the brim with water, food and gear up each pitch, while attempting to keep pace with the lead team. Jason and I employed the use of pulleys and traction devices, which only allow the rope to travel in one direction, to lift the nearly 200 pounds of supplies. My friends and I had spent the last six months practicing these rope systems in preparation for this route. I slept fitfully that night, anxious about the 17 pitches between us and our bivouac ledge.

The following day, our two teams worked to absolute perfection. Every couple of pitches I would get a glimpse of Lee, immersed in a sea of granite, at the sharp end of a bright green rope. He and Dylan flew up the first six pitches, and it was all Jason and I could do to keep up. When the wall turned vertical around pitch 8, our pace picked up with theirs, and we caught up with the lead team at the rope toss pitch. In the orange glow of the sunset, Dylan, Jason and I watched Lee try again and again to toss a knotted rope into a crack, take a massive swinging fall and eventually put up one of the most impressive leads I’ve ever seen.

What happened over the course of the next 8 hours Jason calls “fuckery.” Lee was at the top of pitch 12, the sun was going down, and the ledge we were planning to sleep on was at the top of pitch 17. All four of us had to pull our most fear-inducing rope tricks out of the bag to make it through the next five pitches, and we had to do it all by headlamp. To be honest, after midnight, I don’t remember much of anything. It was a blur of exhaustion, nausea, and uninterrupted, fearful focus.

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“Anybody have any idea what time it is?” I asked in a daze.

“Turn around,” Lee said as Dylan laughed.

The sky behind us was turning pink with the sunrise; no wonder my headlamp didn’t seem very bright. “Holy shit,” I muttered. This was the 24th consecutive hour the four of us had been climbing. Everything hurt, and I felt like I was going to puke at any moment. In a mindless fog I hooked up my pulley system and began hauling the haul bag. The haul team had to keep up. At 8:30 a.m. on Tuesday morning I was the last one to reach Big Sandy Ledge - 26 hours after I had been the first one to start up the first fixed rope on Monday morning.

We spent Tuesday resting, drinking whiskey and water, laughing, and eating exorbitant amounts of food. On Tuesday evening, I got the honor of leading a pitch in the sunset, and we reached the summit on Wednesday after another truly impressive display of teamwork. The only thing standing in the way of us and beer was a ten mile descent down the backside of the 2,100 foot wall we had just spent three days battling.

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Climbing is a strange activity. It’s frivolous, and it might seem the only real result of the endeavor is an elevated level of fitness and a collection of great stories for the campfire. I’m coming to learn that the most tangible output of climbing is the bond I’ve formed with my partners. 

I watched three of my best and most reliable friends perform utterly superhuman feats for four days on end. As we left the valley two days later, our bellies full of beer and pizza, we stopped to gaze back at Half Dome as another sun set on the valley and turned the Regular Northwest Face red and gold. 

Tears of happiness, appreciation, relief and joy welled up in my eyes. Six months of preparation got us through the biggest climb of our lives. Life is beautiful, my friends are great, and returning home to family is the greatest gift the mountains can give you.