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After spending Thanksgiving and Friday in the Front Range, I was planning to sneak up Holy Cross on Saturday. The drive home through the Tunnel and over Fremont Pass cured me of that idea. No way was I going to head back north; conditions could be nasty up there. So, let’s see, I’ve never made a November ascent of Missouri Mtn. The ground in that neighborhood was nearly bare last weekend and maybe I can include Iowa Peak and Mt. Belford.
Saturday, 7:00 AM, treeline by the cabin ruins in Missouri Gulch. A predawn start up those delightfully-efficient switchbacks has me in position for a productive day. The weather is promising and the wind downright manageable. I plod up the trail through a few inches of snow with occasional willow-trapped drifts. Unfortunately, it’s obvious now that a storm is creeping from the north.
Decision time. I could swing right and head for the normal route … but I’m a sucker for those North Face couloirs. This time of year, I should be able to finesse a route without crampons. I climb to the base of the face as the wind passes nuisance level and spindrift begins to fly. Plumes and devils frolic on the summit ridge. For quite awhile, I’m able to step on rocks and gritty snow; eventually the slope steepens and it’s time to get out the axe and launch. Shucks. An energetic kick with a La Sportiva Makalu makes barely a dent. I probe several spots, then reluctantly concede the checkmate.
Plan B is a rockier route about a quarter mile west. I drop 200’ and traverse still-steep sidehill. Can’t win; here I’m breaking through knee-deep crust on every other step. Time to head up. Ah, those rascally mountain gods; they’ve arranged for this very moment for me to pay for my sins. Snowed-up grunge and teetering boulders provide my penance. Ugh. It’s slow going, but the crest finally arrives. Sure enough, from the proverbial frying pan to … something worse.
I hang a left as the visibility ebbs and flows. Here’s the rugged stretch that I have to turn on the south. It’s typically a pretty spooky place in winter. Today, the snow is actually deeper and softer than I’ve seen before; I manage it with poles. As I step onto Missouri’s summit, the party is in full swing; it’s hosted by a frosty maelstrom of wind and snow. I hunker down and consider my future. Not sure I can see well enough to work my way over to Elkhead Pass and an additional peak is probably too much to ask at the moment anyway. Guess I’ll go down the normal route.
I work my way west. Man, it’s a long way to that saddle. I plunge-step to the flats and set cruise control for the trail. Looks as if the weather might be clearing; good news for tomorrow. I spot a few folks descending Belford and meet one during a de-gearing session at treeline. The truck welcomes me before 4:00. Well, OK, not bad; a few more of those and I’ll be rounding into shape for winter. What’s next?
Sunday, 6:30 AM, 8900’, Browns Creek trailhead. Stars have been bright above, but the wind is rocking and I suspect the peaks are socked in. The forecast argues for snow and blowing snow. I’ve been wanting to climb Mt. Antero from Little Browns Creek. No time like the present, eh? I hike to the Colorado Trail through shallow snow. I’d like to shortcut the lower part of the circuitous, sort-of-maintained Little Browns Creek Trail, so I turn left for 15 minutes, leave the track, bushwhack west, and grab the trail at maybe 10,200. That was OK.
It’s a pleasantly sheltered stroll for several miles as the snow gradually deepens to maybe 6”. In a classic tug-o-war, the storm pulses and retreats while I adjust to alternating snowfall and sun hits. At 11,800’ treeline, it’s clear that the clouds have won and time to face reality; this is going to be grim. I gird my loins with facemask, ski goggles over glacier goggles, and two chemical heat pack body warmers in each mitt.
Out in the open, the ferocity is striking. Why so angry? Progress is difficult; I seem to spend half my time just bracing. Shall I run away? Well, maybe go on for a bit; you can always turn around. I know that routine. Above 12,000’, I turn right and struggle up the left edge of a gully system that leads to the flats below Antero’s South Face. The wind force rises with the altitude; this is becoming truly impressive. I gain the lip above 13,200 and the tundra soon runs out. It’ll be snowed-up rubble for the duration.
Visibility closes in and I enter my own personal time warp. Anyone needing lessons in patience could do worse than this. It’s impossible to stay on my feet; I’d be spastic on this grunge terrain even on a calm morning in July. Just as well, keeping my hands on the ground maintains some blood in my thumbs. At some point, the wind turns it up a notch; I realize I’ve been enjoying the luxury of a partial wind shadow below the 13,700’ saddle on the South Ridge. Come on, Ken, focus on the romantic. Imagine a video of this with “To Dream the Impossible Dream” as the background music. I hum the tune to myself. Nice.
I hit the old trail 70’ below the top. Needed that. I literally crawl to the summit cairn. Whew! Lordy, I’m desperate for a drink, need some shelter for that. In the meantime, I practice with my new survival food. I have a large-cap pill bottle full of M&Ms in my bellows thigh pocket. I can deal with it wearing mittens and the enhanced hole in my facemask lets me force in some of those delicious, candy-coated morsels. Yum. Life is good.
No way am I going back down that route. I work along the South Ridge for a ways until I start to find snow patches on the east side. I can butt my way down these; it’s slow but safer than trying to stand upright on the shifting rocks. Several lifetimes later, trees emerge out of the murk and I’d swear they’re humming that Bob Dylan 1975 favorite. Looks like I’m gonna live.
I zip down hoping to reach the Colorado Trail before dark. Hey, you suppose today was just those thoughtful mountain gods giving me some tough love to acclimatize for the coming season? I do hope it’s that rather than retribution for those unkind comments I made about banshees in my recent Elbert thread. Anyway, another interesting day spent among the Colorado peaks.
Oh, the B-word? Well, the Brutal category is usually reserved for especially nasty conditions in full winter, so I’m loath to waste it on a trip in November ... but it was pretty gruesome up there.
P.S. Yo, Dwight. Yeah, I know this theme has been overworked. Anything I can do to enliven it … or maybe just give it a rest and switch to doing summer reports? |
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