The wind blew hard from the northwest all night. My trusty inflatable mattress pad didn't seem near as plush as I remembered it, and I shifted about trying to find a comfortable angle. Cassie lay next to me in the back of the pick-up and I curled my legs around her. Dogs are great foot warmers. A couple of times I stuck my head out of my bag, put on my glasses, and looked at the stars. At 11,000 feet on a clear night there are a lot of stars to see. When I got up the next morning the wind was still blowing.
Since the first time I saw them at 19 I have been enchanted by the Spanish Peaks. They have always seemed magical. I imagined Spanish traders and priests tromping by. They are mountains Zane Grey described in his
Riders of the Purple Sage.
To the Plains Indians they were Huajatolla ("breasts of the earth") and carried a religious importance. Which proves, I suppose, that all men think the same when it comes to breasts and religion, but that's getting kinda off the point.
I was at the top of Cordova Pass, south of La Veta. This was a few days ago, after I decided in the space of about 30 minutes to drive down, spend the night in my truck, and climb the west peak. A spur of the moment decision, but something I have thought about doing for years. I threw together a pack, tossed in some snacks, filled a jug with water and headed out.
Sleeping in a bag in the back of a truck in the wind with the temperature in the low 40's at the age of 51 is nothing like doing all that stuff at 25, let me tell ya. At least not in my experience. I got up and I was one old, creaky S.O.B. That's the first thing I noticed.
The trail to the West Peak is about 2 1/2 miles long. We had it to ourselves. I don't mind hiking on crowded trails so much, but I sure love hiking on trails that are empty. I was the only one in the parking lot. I let Cassie run a little. The rising sun lit up the Sangre de Cristos to the west. Patches of aspen were lit up on the hills about them, glowing in shades of yellow and gold.
When you hit timberline the trail kinda fades away into a ridge-line of loose, unstable scree. It's that type of stuff that isn't overly big and often shifts when you step on it. It gets kinda tiring climbing on it. A lot more than I thought it would. That's the second thing I noticed.
Many years ago, when I was new to Colorado, and new to places with mountains I climbed everything I could find. Not technical stuff per se, but everything else. I climbed the buttes around Douglas County, I climbed mountains. Sometimes I would be with others, but most often I would go alone, with my dog Hank. I found I could move pretty fast alone, and I started getting confident of my slight abilities. Too confident.
There is a mountain that sits north of Durango, visible along Hwy 550 before you reach Silverton. One 4th of July weekend back in those days, while exploring Colorado I saw that mountain and decided to climb it. I parked my van and started hiking. The first day I crossed a river and camped just below timberline. The next day I made my way up, and near the top I had to cross a steep, snow filled colouir. I slipped and before I knew it I was plunging totally out of control, headfirst down the ice and snow towards a rocky run out hundreds of feet below.
Luck was with me, and I crashed into a wall of rock just before the colouir widened out. I was stunned. Above me I could hear Hank barking excitedly. It all had happened very, very fast. I finished my climb and went back down, crossing the river and making my way back to my van. That night I sat in a bar in Silverton, absolutely thrilled to be alive.
Now I was staring up at the climb above me on the west Spanish Peak. The wind was blowing and I felt a little nauseous. That was the third, and deciding thing I noticed. Nausea is not a good thing at altitude. I sat down, in the sun behind a rock that sheltered me from the wind. I thought about that day on that mountain so long ago and how I almost died. I petted Cassie, sipped some water and decided to turn around. This mountain would have to wait for another day.
Looking back it is easy to see all the mistakes I had made that day so long ago. I had climbed a mountain way beyond my abilities and skill level. I didn't tell anyone where I was going, because I hadn't known. I had just picked a mountain and decided to climb it. I hadn't even left a note on my VW van. The register on the top had maybe 10 names the whole year. If I had even so much as twisted an ankle I would have been helpless and alone. Scary stuff.
I think it is easy, when one starts hiking and climbing, to get over confident. The newness of it all and the rush from being on top of the world can be blinding. The summit fever we hear about is a very real thing. In reality, the top of the mountain is just the top. That's all it is. Getting there is just about as meaningless as things can get in the grand scheme of things. The mountain sure doesn't care if you make it or die trying. Neither, really, does anyone else.
On the way down I met another climber. He asked me if it was windy on top. I said I didn't know, I had decided to turn around. That was all we spoke. Soon I was back at my truck, eating a sandwich and staring up at the peak. I was content. It had been a good hike. I petted Cassie and put away my gear. I'll be back and I'll reach that summit one of these days.