Camped at 12,000' for three nights and hiked out on June 30. During my stay I climbed Mt. Belford and Mt. Oxford and also Iowa Peak.

Distance

11 miles

Time

5:38

Starting Elevation

~9,635'

Maximum Elevation

~12,000'

Video of Missouri Basin. If the fullscreen icon isn't available , you can view it here.

Click on any picture below to see the slides full-sized.

The Pfiffner Traverse is the name for a loosely defined route along or near the Continental Divide in the Indian Peaks. This route is described in Roach's guide book. It is not an undertaking to be taken on lightly, given the fact that the entire traverse is "against the grain" of the range, requiring either high altitude (12,000') traverses off trail or constant ascents and descents of various trails, often requiring elevation gains and losses of thousands of feet and up to 10 miles of trail travel out of the way. Needless to say such a fruitless, unknown grind such as this sounded just up my alley! When Mike and I started discussing our first attempt in four years at a long-term (7+ day) backpacking trip this year, the Pfiffner Traverse was the first thing that leapt to my mind. The following is the trip diary I wrote while on the trip.

Pfiffner Traverse Attempt—July 19 to July 26, 2003

Sunday, July 20, 2003

Sitting in tent at 4:20am writing this.

Started yesterday (Saturday) at 7:00am at the parking area at the Hessie trailhead (9,000') It took Mike and me 2:20 to gain 2,250' and six miles to King Lake (11,431'). We did good [sic] until the last mile where it steepens, which really hit me hard. I could tell I had just come from sea level two days before! (I flew back from the UK to Missouri Thursday, then after 4.5 hours of sleep drove for 11 hours to Colorado, then spent the night at John and Sally's in Nederland.)

After setting up camp on a cool but windy ledge looking down the hanging valley and the whole drainage with a waterfall in the valley below us, we ate and then hit Rollins Pass (11,676') above the lake then hiked north along the Divide until we were at a high point just over 12,000' looking over King and Bob Lakes. Great views to the west of Winter Park, etc., great views east down the valley and ultimately out over the plains. We then came down and I down climbed from the pass to a permanent snowfield above the lake and checked that out (very soft in the very warm afternoon).

Hung out the rest of the afternoon until the first of three rainstorms made us hang out in the tent until a break let us cook dinner (not having appetite problems on this relaxed trip. In fact, wishing I had kept more of the five pounds of food I took from my pack at John and Sally's.

Today I want to get an early (5:00am to 6:00am) start to climb the 40°-45° snow slope we saw from on top yesterday. It starts at a tarn above King Lake to the northwest and climbs about 600' to the Divide unbroken. It is wide and convex so I am not worried about rockfall and there is no cornice on top. There are also escapes to the bergschrund almost everywhere. Want to try the crampons on my leather boots and see how that goes. Also want to do it in the morning before the snow gets too soft. It has been hot in Denver (100°) and I think it got to about 80° here yesterday, so the snow gets real soft and slippery.

Monday, July 21, 2003

6:00am, in tent. 45° in tent.

Saw two mountain goats come up over snow—weren't afraid of us at all.

Yesterday was a bitch and because of it our itinerary has now changed. It started well enough. We were up early and walked over to do the snow climb, watching the sun come up as a fiery red ball rising above a ridge to the east at 5:40am. Mike decided not to do the climb, so I strapped on my crampons and went up—the snow was good, very firm. At about halfway up I went for a finger of stone that came down between two of the snow fields going up. The run out below me was not great and I got nervous. Should've finished on the snow but didn't, so made it a mixed alpine climb, about 200' on snow and 200' on rock at the same angle (45°). I then hiked back and was at camp by 6:30 or so.

We then broke camp and left at 8:00. It was easy up to the pass then up a steep hillside. From there we ambled along, dropping our packs to go up Skyscraper Peak (12,383'). We hit Devils Thumb Pass (11,747') and that's where the fun began. Instead of traversing the slope to the left (west) of the main peak, we climbed the peak straight up with our packs on. This was my route choice and it was a mistake because we went from tired to tapped.

We got to the col above Storm Gulch and realized we didn't have the strength to do the remaining traverse around Jasper and Neva. What was worse was the weather had turned (much earlier than the day before, when lightning started at 3:00pm and rain at 4:00) and we needed to get off the Divide. We came back south over a ridge and dropped to 12,000' just below the ridge line and set up camp. Exposed (to lightning) but not real exposed, we were on the only flat spot not on a ridge for miles. So we set up the Hole (from the inside because it had started to rain—some cursing but it worked) and rode out the rain storm. Once it cleared we determined we were sitting just above Devils Thumb Pass. After talking it out Mike wants to descend the trail from the pass down to the west which means about a two day itinerary change. We will probably skip Lost Tribe Lake (sigh) and head "straight" for Crater Lake. Two days of trail hiking down and up again, but whatever. I have to be flexible.

It was beautiful at this campsite after the rain cleared and we just hung around looking down at the pass and down to Fraser in the distance. We had the nice sound of running water, as the melt from the snowfields above us passes about 20' from the tent. And it did not rain again last night—a real plus given our somewhat lightning rod of a position (but we could not have gone farther yesterday without being even more exposed to the storm for quite some time).

Monday, July 21, 2003 (continued)

Well, in an unexpected turn of events, I am writing this on the back porch at the Stoddards' house, basking in the sun. As of going to sleep last night the plan had been to descend the Corona Trail, head down to the junction with the Cascade Creek Trail, and head for Crater Lake, taking two days to do it and getting us back on schedule. That was the plan.

At 5:00am I woke up and at 6:00 Mike informed me he had been up at 1:00 and was now sick, which he was, with active vomiting (multiple times to which I was unfortunate witness) and diarrhea. So then we had to decide which way to go, because at Devils Thumb Pass below us we would be committed one way or another. After putting it to Mike as "Can you stay out another night in a tent?", he said he thought he needed to be out [of the wilderness] today. That meant dropping back to the east side of the Divide and trying to get out in one day.

We left at 8:00 and were at King Lake at 11:40. I had us take a long break there because we were not even close to being halfway done as measured by trail miles. We then hiked the six miles out and were at the trailhead at 2:20pm. A nice couple (thankfully!) gave us a ride to John and Sally's. Oof! 10+ miles in 6+ hours.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

Saw bunches of mountain goats on drive to Monarch Lake.

Writing this from perfect campsite at Crater Lake (10,343') with Lone Eagle Peak (11,946') literally right out my tent door across the lake. The whole cirque is incredible. Will go up and poke around base of Lone Eagle Peak. Also looking at Cherokee (12,130') to my west.

Hit trail at Monarch Lake trailhead at 8:40an. Made it to [Crater] lake at 12:40pm, 7.3 miles—not bad! Stream crossings were problematic—progressively more so until the last one, below Crater Lake, I forded instead of crossing the single teetering log over 4' deep rushing water. No thanks!

Forced myself to rest this afternoon. There are numerous real waterfalls draining into Crater Lake. I can hear them as I write this. Many have plumes that leave the cliff walls in the wind.

Everything here is way steep.

"The map is not the terrain."—me

"A flash, a bang, and the sudden smell of bacon."—me

Weather was glorious today—70° in tent at 7:02pm.

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

10:00am and I am back in camp—whipped, defeated, turn[ed] aside at every path. I was on trail this morning at 7:00. Perfect day—blue sky, no clouds (yet). I go down to the creek in between Crater Lake and Mirror Lake and the only way across I can find is on a large smooth deadfall crossing the creek upwards from my side at a 15° angle over deep water. My worry was getting back down across it on my way back. So I decided not to explore Lone Eagle Peak.

Then I tried my hand at Cherokee behind me to the west. Roach's description belies the true nature of the slope. I could never find landscape that matched his description for more than 200 yards and then it just got cliffy and steep. So either I was way off course, which is quite possible, of course, or Roach is mad. I'm sitting on a rock on the edge of Crater Lake looking up at that slope, and while it is not technically impossible by any sense, it sure seems like a very steep bushwhack to me. I know, whinge, whinge, whinge.

So then I just went along the lake shore to the south almost to the first waterfall, a good third of the way around. Back to camp, a few chores, and now it's hang out time. Quite disappointed with how I felt today—"lake lassitude" (ha!) But an enforced rest day on my vacation may be just what I need. A day of contemplation. A day of enforced doing of nothing. Can I stand it? Will I survive?)

The weather is just amazing. I am sitting in the sun in perfect comfort. A nice breeze is blowing. There are no (0) clouds as of 10:16. Even the trout are feeding right at my feet. I just looked into the water and saw a trout swim by (really!) Birds, squirrels and insects are chirping, plus the occasional plop! or splash! of the trout, but the sound of the waterfalls, especially the one coming down the cliffs from the Hopi(?) Glacier across the lake from me.

So, what has kept me from doing what I wanted to do this morning (stream crossing), and what "made" me ford the last crossing yesterday instead of taking the "bridge" (one log, tilted, deep stream) is a fear of crossing running water (duh). This has troubled me for at least 10 years—I can remember a particularly heinous stream crossing higher up on the Pawnee Pass Trail (still in Cascade Creek valley, though from my first trip through here 10 years ago). It would be great to conquer this, because it hinders what I want to do and ultimately what I can do (or will do). To have faith enough in my own sense of balance is part of it, and of course I've never felt that I had a good sense of balance.

I am somewhat more cautious this trip now that I am solo. Even with Crater Lake being "crowded" (I've counted six other people here in the last day) the places I am (trying) to go are such if I hurt myself nobody could hear me nor would be coming that way again (this year).

So it is disturbing to see me remaining cautious, even while I want to break out of it. Sigh.

Thursday, July 24, 2003

5:00am, in tent. Raining. At Gourd Lake(10,800').

Left Crater Lake at 7:20am this morning. Could not cross the first log bridge! Tried marching right up to it and getting on, but something in my head just says "No". I think the biggest problem with it is the top is at an angle.

Anyway, I had my Tevas handy and so after extensive scouting to see if there was somewhere I could cross without using the log or getting wet fording (almost jumped one place—jump being the operative word—from rock to rock, with pack on) I put the sandals on and just forded it again (this time keeping my boots dry—duh). Was across at 8:00. Walked down, down, down to where the Buchanan Trail forks off—I think I did about 10 miles today—five down and five up! Stopped and enjoyed the many incarnations of Cascade Falls. Reached fork in path a little after 10:00. Then it was a mellow walk uphill (Buchanan Pass Trail has some uphill parts, but nothing like Cascade Creek!) until the Gourd Lake turnoff.

This was basically 16 switchbacks uphill over about three miles. It was heinous but predictable. Just a grind. Made Gourd Lake (finally!) about 1:40pm. Over six hours on trail! Have not done much of anything since setting up my camp on a promontory on the east side of the lake looking right up at Cooper Peak (12,296'). Four guys are camping just past me to the north and that's it.

The real problem will be climbing the slopes to the north and west of Gourd Lake tomorrow to get access to Cooper Peak! Looks to be hard work coupled with a route finding problem. Nothing impossible, just hard and hopefully I find a way up to Cooper!

Wildflowers have been beautiful this trip. This campsite has columbine (my favorite) and Indian paintbrush. Had the honey smell above timberline on the last two days with Mike. Have walked through more flowering meadows than I can count. Perfect weather for them and right time, too (my birthday plus or minus a week seems to be good wildflower times in Colorado).

Friday, July 25, 2003

11:06am in camp at Gourd Lake. Beautiful weather as usual.

I was up and "on trail" (very quickly off trail) at 6:00am. The secret to gaining the saddle above Gourd Lake is to go counterclockwise along the lake, first at the shoreline, then on the rocks right above it until you cross above the waterfall that feeds into the lake on the northwest side. After that you cross a little beaver meadow then "follow the grass", first along the creek, then breaking away to the southwest, finally angling up northwest until you hit the far left hand side of the saddle (as seen from Gourd Lake). From there it's down a gully with some easily recognizable snow fields (good for finding it on the way back!)

I never did descend all the way to the lakes as I saw no need. Instead I traversed around the cirque at about the height of the saddle I had come over (plus or minus 100') until I was somewhat under the saddle between Marten (12,041') and Cooper Peaks. From there it was a very steep "grass" and scree/talus climb with most of the time ultimately being spent on talus. Even reaching the saddle ridge was no break, and in fact on the Cooper side the climbing got worse for a while before breaking out into a talus/tundra mix. The peak to Cooper is actually not visible from Gourd Lake—that is a false summit. The summit is on the northeast side of the peak. Made it there at 8:00. Two hours, not bad! After filling in the summit register (Ken Nolan last October, Ken Nolan and friend 7/4/2003, then me) I descended to the false summit that looked down over Island and Gourd Lakes. The views all around were amazing, with the peaks around Lone Eagle cirque clearly visible to the south.

From there I descended to the saddle reaching it at 9:00. I then decided to try Martens, and made it to the base of the summit blocks (about 75'-100' high) and try as I might couldn't see a route up that I wanted to do solo on a peak that probably gets one party a year (if that, and this year it was me). So I was "close enough" for me and descended back to the saddle, and then a long return trip back to the lake, all with no major route finding problems. Back at camp at 10:30.

So Coopers was the one thing I really wanted to try and I did it, and I did it solo, and I did it with no trail—cool. The trip may have had its disappointments, but as I sit in the shade of the seventh perfect Colorado day on the shore of a lake in which I watched two cutthroat trout swim by me just minutes ago (water so clear you could see their "cut throat"), I can't complain. If it hasn't turned out as planned it was still a good hard workout in the wilderness and even with most of it solo I was going strong. Need to conquer a few fears (stream crossing) but did work on one this trip (route finding) and climbed a peak that gets 2-4 people a year, tops.

Columbine everywhere—at one point I was using them for route finding, as in "many bad choices, so take the route with the lucky flower." Corny, but as good as anything.

Some trip stats:

1) Averages for trip: 6.7 miles/day, 1,456' elevation gain/day

2) Weather: 45°-80° during the days, averages between 55° and 70°, daily rain for an hour between 1:00 and 6:00pm.

"Harder than it looks, especially with 50 pounds on your back."—me

"The map is not the terrain."—me

4:11om—raining, in tent. Ate. Tired. Thinking about tomorrow. Big flash and bang about six seconds after just now! And there are still two dudes on the far end of the lake fishing! Not me—waving a wet rod with some metal in it above my head while standing on a wet rock and connected to the water by the wet filament. Fun! Not!

Food was gaggable. Three [protein] bars during day, an MRE tonight. Still have bars and gorp, am getting to where I detest both! But I just have to march out tomorrow. If all goes according to plan, should be at Monarch Lake before noon, to John and Sally's before 3:00pm regardless of which way I go (Berthoud or Trail Ridge). BIG thunderstorm going over now.

Saturday, July 26, 2003

Left camp at 6:40am, was at Monarch Lake at 9:40—woof! Took me 1:07 to get from Gourd Lake to the junction with Buchanan Trail—2.7 miles. The rest was just a trudge—8.2 miles in three hours with two 10 minute breaks. Not bad. Then drove back through RMNP over Trail Ridge and was back at Nederland at 1:00pm. A good trip!

Click on any picture below to see the slides full-sized.

Devils Thumb Lake and pass (so named due to a rock spire by the lake) are one of many places in the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area that I have gone to multiple times. Its beauty and proximity to Boulder make for an easy choice when you can't think of anything else to do. I have no real trip reports, but one of the hikes I made to the pass with John stands out because it pretty much set a record for me for distance traveled and elevation gained. On July 15, 2000 (my 40th birthday!) we did the six miles between the Hessie trailhead at 9,000' and the pass at 11,747' in an hour. Six miles of decently steep uphill (2,700' elevation gain) hiking in an hour is an accomplishment! When we were talking about it at the pass, the conversation was along the lines of "That was some pace you set there, John." "Me? I was just trying to keep up with you!" So it must have just been one of those little male competition things happening subconsciously on both sides!

One-Way

~6 miles

Time

1:00

Starting Elevation

~9,000'

Maximum Elevation

11,747'

Click on any picture below to see the slides full-sized.

No Name Creek is located in the heart of the Weminuche ("Wem-uh-NOOSH") Wilderness Area in southwestern Colorado. At over 500,000 acres, it is the largest federally designated wilderness area in the state. With the ability to get days out from a trailhead with no way to return but via the same multi-day route (or other multi-day routes) backpacking there can be quite the epic. The following is extracted from the trip report I wrote for a trip there during a very wet monsoon season in 1999.

What: Attempt at a series of drainage traverses over high passes through relatively un-traveled wilderness.

Where: Needles Range, Weminuche Wilderness Area, San Juan Mountains, southwestern Colorado

When: August 21, 1999 to August 25, 1999

Who: Mike and me (John and Sally, in absentia)

Introduction

This trip was full of interesting lessons learned the hard way. Almost nothing about it went as planned, and yet it cannot be counted as a failure.

The original plan for the trip had been in the works for almost a year. In its final shape, we would start at the same place, the Needleton stop of the Durango-to-Silverton narrow gauge railway. My friends John and Sally Stoddard would go in on Wednesday, August 18, and establish camp at the "Y" intersection of two tributary drainages in the upper portion of No Name Creek basin. Mike and I would then follow on Saturday, August 21, and meet them in the late afternoon at their campsite. From there we would traverse through the Tenmile Creek basin to Vestal Basin, where we would spend some time bagging peaks in the Grenadier Range. From there we would descend to the Elk Park stop on Sunday, August 29, and pick up the train on its way back to Durango.

So much for the plan...

Day Zero—Friday, August 20

Mike and I left Denver at 12:30pm on Friday, August 20, and drove to Durango via I-25 and Highway 160. It took six and a quarter hours via this pleasant route (at least the 160 portion of it is nice), which is probably the quickest. We stayed at the Spanish Trails motel in Durango, which wasn't bad at all. We wandered around downtown Durango, which is cool, and then ate Mexican food at a restaurant owned by the same family as the one we ate at in Silverton on our scouting expedition over a month ago.

Day One—Saturday, August 21

We made the train quite handily the next morning due to my rather hyperactive insistence we be at the train station incredibly early. We had found a motel near the train station that would let us park the Colt for $3/day. The train ride up was cool, but not as visually striking as I had hoped. Part of that had to do with being on the wrong side of the car for the uphill portion of the trip (if we had ridden to Silverton and returned that same day, our side of the car would have had the good views on the way back). The train left Durango at 8:15am, and we were dropped off with at least 20 other backpackers and climbers (all of them headed to New York and Chicago Basins) in Needleton at 10:45. Needleton (8,212', approx. 37°38'N, 107°41'W) is basically a pedestrian bridge across the Animas River (which would be virtually impossible to get across without some sort of bridge or boat), and some private cabins. We were on trail heading north along the Animas at about 11:15.

After a false start up what I think would have ended up being the Ruby Creek trail, we soon hit the cliffs across from Watertank Hill, just as described in the guide book. The trail is very steep going up and over the cliffs, but not overly difficult. At the crest of the trail, we met two female forest rangers that took our names and destinations, and when we told them where we were going, one said, "Good luck!" This echoed the sentiment in town from the motel manager of "Be prepared to be wet." However, we were armed not only with copies of the relevant pages out of the guide books, but also a downloaded trip report from the Web by a couple who had done a similar traverse a year ago where it didn't rain on them once, so how bad could it be?

We then reached Ruby Creek, and after some consideration forded it at the fairly shallow, sandy spot right where the trail hits it. It was about knee deep at its deepest here. Again, all was going exactly to plan at this point. We then proceeded to No Name Creek, and this is when things began to go awry. The thing is, No Name Creek is fast, deep, and where the trail hits it, is basically wedged between the Animas and series of cascades as it finishes its steep tumble out of its drainage. There is approximately a 50-yard wide area where any attempt at fording is possible. After some scouting around, we decided to cross where there was a dam of fallen trees wedged among some rocks. The first half of the crossing was across sand with a depth no greater than our knees. The next part was through of pool that looked to be about crotch deep and was directly above where the water rushed through a gap in the dam.

I went across first, using a long stick to help balance and facing upstream. The water indeed was deep, approximately to my lower waist, and it was moving fairly quickly. I had to fight to maintain my balance, and with some struggle made it to the other side. Mike followed, and through a variety of factors (the most weighted of which was that the water came up to his lower abdomen), ended up falling, under a 56 pound pack load, into a full immersion baptism. I helped him up and out, and through that process we both ended up soaking wet.

Now, mistake one had just been made—Mike falling in the stream (while it cannot be said any slip or fall is a mistake, we were still at fault for not scouting for a better stream crossing, for Mike not knowing the correct way to cross streams, etc.) We proceeded to swiftly make mistakes two and three, with very bad results. The second mistake we made was to not stop, wring out, rest, and recuperate after the stressful (and scary!) experience at the creek. We wanted to make good time, and felt we were lagging a bit, so we just immediately started out again. The third mistake was that we couldn't find the trail up the drainage, and rather than spending five more minutes scouting for it, we proceeded to bushwhack straight up the creek drainage and up the ever-steepening valley side as we had to rise to keep above the cataracts the stream was falling through. This has to be the hardest physical effort I have ever accomplished. We basically went straight uphill for at least a half a mile on a 45-55° angle slope with 56 pound pack loads. Needless to say, this exhausted both of us rather quickly. In a surge of true desperation, we hurled ourselves further up the hill and finally found the true trail.

Mistake number four was that we still didn't stop, rest, eat, and recuperate. Instead, we swigged some water and charged up the trail. Being on the trail was better, but it wasn't much better. It is not a maintained trail, and probably sees less than 100 people a year. So it has no switchbacks in it, but instead takes direct paths up the incline (and the first two miles were solid, steep incline). There were lots of deadfalls blocking the path, and in many places the path had become a stream as well, since it represented a straight way down hill for water to travel. We bashed along this for a while, and then after a brief respite while I stopped and vomited (I think from previous iodine tainting in Mike's water bottle), did it some more. At one point I fell forward and caught myself with my arms with a large rock situated between them about an inch from my sternum—breaking ribs would not have been fun! During this whole time it rained on us, sometimes heavily. We were both completely wetted out from head to toe, cold and miserable.

By approximately 5:00pm, we were totally exhausted. We had not passed anywhere where we could camp (the valley had been too narrow and steep), so when we finally did stumble across a camping site, we decided to stop for the night rather than go on, since we did not know how much further it was (and it was a good thing we stopped, too, as it would have still been approximately two more miles, with hard willow bashing) to reach the meadows where we thought John and Sally would be. We set up the tent and immediately changed into dry clothes. We hung up the clothes inside the tent and crashed for the night, after briefly talking about whether this was even a feasible expedition at this point. Morale was very low at this point—the lowest of the trip.

I would estimate we traveled six miles this day, when we were supposed to travel eight. Of course, that eight-mile estimate had not counted the creek dunking or the off-trail bushwhacking straight up hill for a half mile.

Day Two—Sunday, August 22

In the morning the clothes we had worn the day before were still sopping wet (of course), so we put on our change of clothes and decided to try and day hike to where we thought John and Sally were and see if we could find them and discuss our alternatives. After about a half-mile out we turned around, however, because we were willow bashing and making our last set of dry clothes as wet as those we left in camp. We returned to camp and spread all our clothes out to dry in the morning sun, and by early afternoon everything was dry except one pair of boots each (we had each brought a pair of boots and a pair of scrambling shoes/boots). It was morale boosting to have dry clothes (including reserves) again.

We then discussed our options in the tent during the daily afternoon rainstorm. I pushed for continuing on, trying to meet up with John and Sally either in this valley, or by following them over the passes to Vestal Lake and meeting them there. Mike agreed, and so we came up with a plan where we would travel during the clear mornings and set up camp before the afternoon rainstorms that came every day between 1:00 and 3:00pm. We would travel in our "wet boots" and lounge around camp in our dry ones. If needed, we would take an extra day to dry out in between the two travel days. We were counting on two days travel time to reach Vestal Lake, given that everything was taking longer than we thought due to the relatively off-trail nature of the area. Even with two 12,900' passes to go over six miles in two days seemed reasonable.

We spent the rest of the time enjoying the campsite (10,400', approx. 37°39'N, 107°38'W). We had a waterfall directly across the valley from us that I would estimate was falling at least 400-600'. We had great views of the Index to our south (the waterfall was coming down its side), Animas Mountain to the southeast, the Heisspitz to our northeast, and the upper portion of Knife Point east-southeast of us. I wandered over to a talus slope to the north of camp and relaxed hanging out on the rocks, and climbed up the slope until I could also see the West Needle range to our west.

Day Three—Monday, August 23

We hit the trail at 7:40am. We made it through the willows immediately east of our camp more easily this time, due to the scouting we had done the morning before, although almost immediately my boots were filled with water and stayed that way (in fact, I spent almost the entire walking part of the trip walking in water up to my ankles inside my boots—so much for supposedly waterproof La Sportiva M-Hikes). We then had to head up another incline until we finally hit the upper drainage of the valley below the Y. We stopped by an old cabin where there was some sign of someone having camped recently (we thought perhaps John and Sally, but that turned out to be not the case) including a pair of fairly new looking tennis shoes hanging as if to dry from the rafters inside the cabin. The views of Knife Point, Sunlight Peak and Monitor Peak from this willow meadow are truly spectacular.

We then looked around, but could see no one camped in the meadow or its edges. John had mentioned camping at a lake at the upper end of the southeastern branch of the Y (11,754'), but we could see no evidence of a ledge big enough to hold the lake from where we were standing, and didn't want to go off on a four mile round trip with 2,000' in elevation gain to see if we could find them, since it would be in the wrong direction for our ultimate travel and we were convinced it would be fruitless. So we decided to head up the northeastern Y branch, which would be the ultimate direction of travel for the party. Our thinking was we were going to try and camp by an alpine lake at 12,552' at the foot of Peak Five and Peak Six, which was right below the 12,900' pass we would then attempt to traverse (both guide books and the trip report from the Web mentioned this lake as a beautiful camp site). If we were ahead of John and Sally, they would pass by us on their way over. If we were behind them, we would catch up with them eventually. I must admit that another aspect of our thinking at this point was the very high possibility that they had bailed because of weather. In fact, almost immediately upon beginning the ascent up the steep climber's trail that ran up the northeastern drainage of No Name basin, we met a climbing party of four descending (our only encounters with humans, and theirs, too), and they said it had rained on them continuously every day for four days except Sunday. Since this coincided with John and Sally's time in the valley, we added even more weight to the theory they may have bailed.

We continued up the trail for about a mile and a half. It was very steep. We then came to an open willow meadow, and crossed the stream to the south and continued up. This turned out to be a mistake, since it appears the trail we took was to the base of Jagged Mountain. We were both tired but not exhausted at this point, and considering the clouds were building up for the daily afternoon rainstorm, we set up camp (11,800', approx. 37°38'N, 107°35'30"W). We could almost immediately see the trail we should have taken on the far side of the valley from our campsite. We would have to do some willow bashing to reach it. It climbed up a very steep slope to a ledge where we assumed the 12,500' lake was located. At this point, we were approximately south-southeast of Peak Four, due south of Peak Five, south-southwest of Peak Six, west of Leviathan, with Jagged and Gray Needle just to the east-southeast, in clockwise order around our campsite.

The afternoon rainstorm was very intense this day, lasting from approximately 1:30 to 6:00pm, with some heavy hail, but the Walrus tent withstood everything OK. During the last few hours of the day we had dinner and I wandered upslope to see if I could spy the pass (really just a saddle) we would have to ascend the next day. I am not sure if I saw the actual pass or something just to the east of it (I believe I saw the 13,000' ridge running between Peak Six and point 13,564' instead), but it looked like a typical talus slope. At this point, we dove into the copies of the climbing guidebooks we had, along with the Web trip report by a couple who had done the same traverse the year before (although they had eight days with no rain, which would have made a huge difference). We poured over every adjective with rabbinical intensity, and finally came to the conclusion that climbing guidebooks (which we were using) rate things such as what we were attempting to do in a much different way than backpacking guidebooks do. What may be an "easy" 12,900' saddle for a climber would be a bitch for a backpacker with 56 pounds on his back. This was especially true since we were now no longer expecting to see John and Sally (I had expected them to hike by us this day), and without John's route-finding capabilities, our way up the talus and then down to Balsam Lake (the couple's trip report had mentioned the down-climb to Balsam Lake had been difficult to find) would be problematic. Added to this was the fact we couldn't quite even figure the route to the saddle from where we were standing, but just knew it was going to be very steep regardless of which way we took.

At this point, Mike voted to bail, retreat to our first campsite tomorrow, and then hike to Needleton the following day. I did not want to give up (and wouldn't have if I had been soloing), but couldn't argue, since it was clear Mike was worried about his capabilities in making the pass and getting over it and down uninjured. In any sort of mountain activity, the team must rate itself at the honestly stated capabilities of the least able member. Therefore the decision was made to descend the next day.

Day Four—Tuesday, August 24

We hiked back to campsite one with no mishaps other than me falling at least twice (full feet out from under me slips on wet slopes coming down the climber's trail from the upper basin—in both cases I fell back on my pack). We set up camp by 11:00am and hung out the rest of the day (in the tent for the three hours during the daily rain and hail storm). Watched the sunset lighting on the peaks, and then watched the full moon rise.

Day Five—Wednesday, August 25

On trail by 7:15am. During packing we discovered one of the plastic hubs that holds my tent poles in place had cracked—it wouldn't have been a total loss if it had broken all the way through, but it was good the tent was not going to be subjected to any more heavy weather (and very lucky that the rain and hail was never accompanied by wind on this trip—in fact, the No Name basin was remarkably wind free while we were there—what is even more amazing is as wet and windless as it was, it was also incredibly bug free).

We found out why we had missed the trail after fording No Name Creek the first time—it cut way to the north and then looped around to a more easterly course as it rises from the Animas River, while we had looked almost immediately in an upstream direction. The Noname Creek fording went much better this time, thanks to taking the extra time to scout and finding a place about 10 yards upstream from the pool that had been obscured by willows on the south bank the first time we were looking for a fording place. We couldn't see the bottom where we forded, but I was able to tell by the stream pattern it wasn't very deep, and it ended up coming up to my knees and Mike's lower thighs. We each used two thick poles, heavy ends down, and that helped a lot. It was a pretty exuberant moment when Mike made it across (I led all the creek crossings, and spotted Mike for the last third of his fording here), because we had both been rather spooked by the original dunking, and with the Animas raging just downstream, we had little room for error.

We then crossed Ruby Creek with no problems, and made it over the cliffs just fine (other than my back acting up from shouldering my pack wrong after the No Name fording—but I cinched up the waist belt tight and made it back OK). We were back at Needleton without mishap by 10:50am. The rain actually held off until 3:00pm, when the first downhill train arrived and picked us up, along with the five other people that were waiting. Within just a few miles, however, the terrain changed enough that it was clear and dry the rest of the trip back to Durango. We made it to Durango around 6:00, and were back in Denver by 1:15am on Thursday morning.

Aftermath

It turns out that John and Sally bailed a day before we did (Tuesday), after climbing into the Ruby Creek drainage by mistake. They spent three full days in pouring rain (which matched the report of the four climbers we met), and then transited over to the Chicago Creek basin and hiked out from there after doing two of the three 14ers in the upper Chicago Creek basin. They spent their time in Ruby Creek in the tent in the rain surrounded by a herd of 25 mountain goats (an amusing story in itself). Mike and I saw a lot of elk sign, but never saw any mammals bigger than a marmot, so they were lucky (even if the experience was rather surreal). I was glad to hear that Mike and I hadn't bailed so early as to be classified as wimps, and that John and Sally were safe and sound.

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Following is a trip report I wrote shortly afterward.

We arrived in the Flat Tops area Fri. night around 7:30PM. Since it had taken us longer to get there than we had planned (compounded by Jim's late flight arrival, Jim and I getting lost finding Mike's place of work, and the fact that Highway 131 to Yampa had more curves and was slower than we thought). So, since it was getting dark, we paid $3 and stayed in one of the Forest Service campgrounds for the night near Stillwater Res.

Sat. morning we were on the trail at Stillwater Res. by 8:30. We then climbed out of the valley and up trail 1119, past Little Causeway Lake to the eastern terminus of the Devil's Causeway ridge, and then passed down the other side, ending up setting up camp a 100 yards from the northern shore of Causeway Lake. Estimated trail miles at around six miles (evenly distributed on both sides of the pass) and elevation change as 1,200' up and 1,200' down. As with all the valleys in the Flat Tops area, we were at 10,000+' (approx. 10,200' at the lake), in a glacially flattened valley, surrounded on three sides by basalt cliffs rising to 11,500-12,000' (the cliffs to the west of us were part of the "Chinese Wall," a particularly baroque formation). Predominant trees are Englemann Spruce. There are a LOT of deadfall and dead standing trees in the Flat Tops, from a spruce beetle infestation in the late 40s and early 50s. An amazing number of dead trees are still standing after 50 years, interspersed with 40-50 year old living spruce). Saturday night we heard coyotes and elk bugling (it is bow hunting season there right now, so we saw a few hunters -over the weekend).

Sun. morning we hiked back up to the pass, and then ascended the steep hill leading to the ridge to the west, and crossed the Devil's Causeway (thereby allowing my friend Mike to overcome his fear of drop-offs when presented on both sides at once—something he hadn't told me about until we confronted the Causeway, but that he then conquered—it is great to be witness to someone overcoming a fear). It was as advertised—the Causeway itself is probably no longer than 1/4 mile, but the tricky section is only about 75' long. There, it goes down to 3-4' wide, with sheer drop-offs on both sides. The drops on both sides appeared to me to be about 200', followed by 600' of really steep scree slopes. You wouldn't want to fall, it would hurt. The views from here were amazing—you could look into two valleys at once, and in fact, at the thinnest points, could hold both drop-offs in your peripheral vision.

We then walked out onto the Flat Top to the west, and after about a mile and a half turned around and came back, returning over the Causeway. The tops of the Flat Tops are actually not quite flat, and rise in places to peaks in the low 12,000' range. The tops are pretty much entirely above timberline, except for some scattered krummholtz in various sheltered places. Estimated trail mileage on Sun. was about six miles, with approx. an 1,800' elevation gain from the valley floor. One other interesting point—on the Flat Top east of us were (domestic) sheep grazing at approximately 11,800', with a shepherd with two horses, a dog, and a tent with stove camped over there as well. It was strange seeing a flock of sheep above timberline. According to the guidebook and Forest Service handouts, grazing is still permitted by permit in areas where it has historically occurred.

When we got back to camp, we ate, and then around 7:00PM JimP went into a stand of timber about 150-200 yards away we were using as our latrine area, and when he came out, I went to do my business. When I got back to camp, I realized the TP roll had fallen out of my pocket, so I went back looking for it. Not too far from where I thought I would have dropped it, I looked over my shoulder into a thicket of spruce trees, and saw a prone adult cougar looking back over its shoulder staring at me. The estimated distance between us (no exaggeration here, I am concentrating on being as accurate as possible) was 20-25'. I maintained enough presence of mind to not turn away from it, to NOT maintain eye contact, and to back away from it. When I got over a ridge, the adrenaline took over and I have to admit I ran back to camp, but I don't think it was following me.

Needless to say, I was excited. I told Jim and Mike about it, and then went to a neighboring campsite to warn them not to go to far off in the trees to do their business. The adrenaline slowly left, with no traces other than the occasional shiver. A funny footnote—the guidebook I have for the Flat Tops has a section about animals and what to do with encounters. The first sentence he says for cougars is to feel lucky if you see one, because he has been going there 30 years and has only seen their tracks. I personally feel REAL lucky. I think (a) the cougars and bears in the area are not real human habituated (even on Labor Day weekend, even with bow hunting season going, the area wasn't real busy), (b) it may have just eaten, as the sun was behind the western ridge and it was kinda that blue-sky-overhead twilight you get in mountain valleys when the sun is still up but hidden and that is one of their hunting times, or (c) it doesn't like albino biped hairless elk for food.

Sun. night heard an owl, but had no more wildlife encounters that day. Went to bed with a brief rain storm around 9:30. When the cloud cover went away, the moon was so full that night (in fact, all three nights) that it cast long shadows, and actually woke me up around 4:00AM thinking the sun was coming up. As an experiment, I could successfully read the print on the cover of a book I had brought *inside* the tent from the moonlight alone (another night I went out in the middle of the night, and was quite able to walk around without stumbling just with the moonlight as illumination).

Mon. morning we hiked out, starting at 7:00AM. We saw a herd of five to six elk at treeline in the distance—for all the elk the area is supposed to have (somewhere in the 20,000+ area, if I remember correctly), they were rather absent because of the hunting, I am sure. We made it back to the car in record time (3.5 hours) via a reverse of the Sat. route (helped by Mike and I taking most of Jim's pack load—for a flat lander with no time for acclimatization, he did amazingly well, but carrying even 33-34 lbs. on Sat. had been understandably trying for him, having arrived from approx. 600' elevation less than 24 hours before, and with us spending the whole weekend above 10,000'). We were to the car by 10:30AM. The ride back was smooth sailing until just above Silver Plume west of Georgetown, then it was stop and go until Idaho Springs (doing its job to remind me, as a Coloradoan, that it is just stupid to go in the mountains on Memorial or Labor Day weekends—now I won't forget for another decade). We were back in the city at 2:30PM.

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I did a solo weekend trip up behind Mt. Powell in July, 1998. Starting at Lower Cataract Lake, I backpacked up the Surprise Trail to Surprise Lake. From there I took the Upper Cataract Trail by Upper Cataract Lake at the base of Eagles Nest (13,091'), following the trail from the lake on around past Mirror Lake and on up into the cirque, camping in a meadow at just a little under 11,000' at the base of Mt. Powell (13,534') and Eagles Nest. One of my memories of this trip was that it was the buggiest place I've ever been! The mosquitos in the meadow were very intense—so much so that I spent most of my time either moving from place to place in a vain attempt to get away from them, or huddling in the tent for respite until I could no longer stand being cooped up in the middle of such a gorgeous place and would go back outside, just to then wander around waving the mosquitos away from my face again. And this was with being generously slathered down with insect repellant! The valley was very wet and I was probably the biggest mammal around, so they divebombed me continuously.

On Sunday I then hiked from the meadow up to a pass at 12,000' just to the west, and then to the top of Meridian Peak. From there I could see Vail to the south, and had good views of various ranges to the west, north and east, with beautiful views of Eagles Nest, Mt. Powell and the rest of the cirque. After that I came down, broke camp and hiked out without incident, other than getting briefly lost around Upper Cataract Lake due to the multitude of unmarked trails around it and a little lake nearby. Some route finder I am—I get lost on trail, but not off!

I want to go back and climb Mt. Powell! It's a great looking peak in a beautiful, rugged range.

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"Sometime in the 1990s" (that's as best as I can date it), Mike and I drove up the Fall River Road off of I-70 to the St. Mary's Glacier trailhead (9,800'). From there we hiked to the glacier at about 10,600', which is really not a glacier in Alaskan or Cascade Range terms, or even in Wyoming terms. It is simply a large permanent snow field filling a basin with about a 70' sloping face on the lower end. We hiked up the face of the glacier and along the snow field, exiting onto a slope on the north side around 11,000. From there we climbed uphill off trail through the bristelcone pines. These ancient, twisted trees are among the oldest things alive, scratching out an existence near timberline. We came across the most bizarre sight among them—a line of them stretching over 100' that really appeared as if someone had planted them. They were just in a row, their gnarled branches each reaching from side to side to touch their neighbors as if in some bizarre topiary.

Breaking out of timberline around 11,400', we continued northwest up the slope of Kingston Peak. We really did not have an itinerary that day, but once we saw how close it was, and that it was just a gentle walk along the ridge to the summit, we decided that would be our goal. We reached the summit easily, and had great views of (well-named) James Peak (13,294') and Mt. Bancroft (13,250') on the Continental Divide to our west, the Indian Peaks stretching out to the north of us, and all of the Front Range sweeping from north to south to our east.

The only disappointment was looking down into the saddle between us and James Peak and seeing a jeep road with SUVs on it, but it is hard to get away from that in the areas where mining left many roads, trails and railroad grades, such as near Idaho Springs where we were, and in many places in the gorgeous San Juan mountains in southwestern Colorado. I guess since the history of exploration and mining in Colorado turned me onto history, geology and a love of mountains in general when I was growing up there in the 1960s and 1970s, I shouldn't complain now that my sense of esthetics have changed!

We then hiked the three miles back out the way we came, and left. A nice day hike.

Round-Trip

~6 miles

Starting Elevation

9,800'

Maximum Elevation

12,147'

Click on any picture below to see the slides full-sized.

The following is from my trip report.

In 1993 I took the first overnight backpacking trip I had made since Boy Scouts in the 1970s. I had been toying with the idea for a while, and asked my parents if they would buy me a backpack for my birthday that year. With that, a used sleeping bag and a tarp for a tent, I was set! But where? Chuck and I were looking at some topo maps of the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area when we noticed that Ward (on the east side of the Divide) and Monarch Lake (on the west) were only about 12-15 air miles apart, even though they are over 100 miles apart by road. So why not a trip over Pawnee Pass to connect the two?

With that itinerary in mind, we were dropped off at Brainard Lake (10,300') early one Saturday. From there we hiked up the Pawnee Pass trail, passing by Long Lake and Lake Isabelle before starting the steep climb up the pass. I remember getting sort of sick at this point from the exertion (a common problem of mine before I figured out I wasn't getting enough hydration!)

After a long struggle uphill under the unaccustomed weight of a full backpack, we finally reached the pass (12,550') about mid-morning. The pass is nestled between Pawnee Peak (12,943') to the north and Shoshone Peak (12,957') to the south. Then we started a steep downhill section, switchbacking constantly through a scree field. It was steep enough that it was actually as hard work going down, to keep braking oneself, as it had been going up. The trail at this point drops about 1,000' in less than a quarter mile. When we could notice, Pawnee Lake was below us, nestled among rugged peaks on all sides. After making it down to the more gradual slopes by the lake, it started to rain. This was before I had a bunch of sophisticated gear, so I simply donned a poncho and we huddled under some trees and waited it out, munching on food and talking. Then we continued down the drainage.

Not long after the lake we came to a stream crossing that sort of freaked me out. It was on a single wet, smooth log that was about 10' above the crashing rapids of Cascade Creek. I had no poles or walking stick to balance myself with, and ended up going over it very slowly, scared the whole way. If I had fallen with a full pack on my back, it wouldn't have been pretty! But I made it, and that was a real accomplishment to me. We then continued the hike downstream. Cascade Creek is aptly named. The drainage drops so fast from the Divide to Monarch Lake that about every quarter to half mile we would pass a waterfall. In fact, one of the things we were on the lookout for was Cascade Falls, supposedly the waterfall used in the Coors beer commercials. But the waterfalls were so common, and all of them so pretty, that the running joke for the whole weekend became, "I think this, this, must be Cascade Falls!"

We camped on a hillock overlooking a stream meandering through beaver meadows, with perfect views of the Divide and the pass we had come through. Chuck broke out a fishing rod and went fishing for trout while I just hung out and enjoyed myself. It was a beautiful place, and a great reward for a hard day—we had covered about 10 trail miles to this point.

Sunday morning we broke camp and headed on down, passing at least three more "Cascade Falls" (including what I believe to be the real one). We finally made it to Monarch Lake, and walked down to the ranger cabin there, where we had a good talk with a man holding the perfect job on earth. He was an older ranger who sat on a porch swing in front of the cabin, with chipmunks literally running back and forth over his feet, Monarch Lake before him and the Continental Divide rising behind it, and all he had to do was answer questions on where was the nearest outhouse, how far this or that trail led, etc. I suspect it was a reward for a lot of long years doing less glamorous work in the Forestry Service, and I bet there's a waiting list a mile long for getting that job, but I would like to be on that list!

We then walked a long way down along the south shore of Lake Granby, until we reached the spillway by Sunset Point (8,280'), where our ride would pick us up (completing about 20 miles, total, for the trip). It was still too early for them to arrive, so Chuck fished in the lake and I watched the sailboats. Odd seeing sailboats after being above timberline! It was hot, and I remember getting rather "cooked" in the sun. Our ride finally came and then it was all over but the long trip back home. For the first backpacking trip I had been on in almost two decades it turned out quite well, and I was hooked.

Distance

~20 miles

Starting Elevation

10,500'

Maximum Elevation

12,550'

Click on any picture below to see the slides full-sized.