11/24/98 By Gary Swing
On Monday evening, I pulled up the Colorado Avalanche Center's web site on my office computer to check on present avalanche hazards in the central mountains of Colorado. The hazard levels seemed pretty minimal and the weather forecast was favorable, so I was inclined to try a hike of Taylor and Aetna Peaks from the town of Garfield the next day. I left work that evening at 8:30 pm, earlier than usual. We had just finished the project we were working on, so I would have the following day off. My co-worker Steve and I rode our bikes home down the Cherry Creek path and up the D8 bike route through Cheeseman Park before going our separate ways. After making dinner and packing my gear for the next day, I finally got to bed around midnight.
I slept better than I sometimes do the night before a climb and awoke about 5:15 in the morning. After breakfast, I loaded my gear in the back of the Dodge Colt my wife and I share, and took off at 6:00 am on the long drive from Denver to Garfield. There was already an inordinate amount of traffic on the roads, especially on U.S. Highway 285 through the foothills. The going was sluggish, but clearly not as bad as it would have been in the opposite direction, as a continuous flood of foothill commuters choked the narrow road to their jobs in Denver. Beyond Kenosha Pass, the road was more open and I was able to make better time.
My first challenge was trying to find the trailhead for my planned hike. I had two guidebooks: Garratt and Martin's climbing and hiking guide to Colorado's High Thirteeners, and some pages I photocopied out of Walter Borneman's book on Colorado's "other high peaks" (other than fourteeners, that is). I missed the trailhead on my first pass, driving all the way to Monarch Pass without finding County Road 230. I stopped at the pass and got out to retrieve my Garratt and Martin guidebook from the back of the car. It was clear, sunny, and not unduly cold outside. The Monarch Pass Visitors Center was closed for the winter. From the pass, there was a spectacular view of Taylor and Aetna, including Aetna's prominent "Grand Couloir." The mountains appeared to be largely free of snow, as had been all of the Sawatch Peaks I passed enroute, from Princeton to Shavano.
I headed back east on U.S. 50, this time stopping to examine anything that might be a county road. The Borneman guide indicates that the trailhead is just west of the Highway Department buildings at Garfield, but it is simply wrong. I pulled in to those buildings, but there was nothing there. The Garratt and Martin guide is too vague. I soon found the road just west of the Monarch Guides (snowmobile guides) building. As I stopped at the 9,660 foot road junction, two men in a sports utility vehicle pulled up and asked if they could help me find something. When I told them I had just found the road I wanted to use for a hike of Taylor and Aetna, they tried to discourage me from going that way. They said it would lead me right to the base of a major slide path. Instead, they recommended that I go about half a mile east to another county road which would lead me most of the way up Taylor Mountain.
I looked at my topo map to consider their advice. While the Taylor Gulch route appeared to be a reasonable trail for Taylor Mountain, it looked like it would be too inconvenient for combining the two summits. I decided to park at the junction of U.S. 50 and County Road 230, to follow the Columbus Gulch route which Walter Borneman describes as a good winter or early season climb. Since there appeared to be little snow, I switched the sandals I like to wear while driving for my normal summer hiking boots, and left my snowboots in the car. Nonetheless, I decided to keep my ice axe and in-step crampons with me for safe measure. I stuffed my route guide and map into the pocket of the insulated nylon Colorado Avalanche pants which I bought for $12 at a Target clearance sale, strapped my snowshoes to the back of my pack and started off at 10:00. It was a late start indeed, but about as early as my schedule permitted.
Right at the start of County Road 230, there was a trailhead register and a sign posted by the National Forest Service. It warned of extreme avalanche danger and stated that the road crossed several major avalanche routes. It didn't seem to me that the present conditions warranted such great concern, and I figured that I could either turn back if I encountered a hazardous area, or else go around it.
I hiked up the road for a mile to the stone wall ruins where the Columbus Gulch stamp mill once stood. There was a small amount of hard packed snow on the road with some ski and snowmobile tracks. At the stamp mill, I turned right (north), and headed uphill through the Aspens along the route of the former Columbus Mine tramway. This slope was almost entirely free of snow. The tramway route was marked by thick metal cables lying on the ground, and an occasional small metal object abandoned by miners. As I plodded up the hill, I felt out of shape and regretted packing so heavily. In addition to the ice axe and snowshoes which I didn't expect to use, I packed enough layered thermal clothing for extreme sub-zero weather, almost a gallon of water, and some food. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring along a pack mule.
At about 10,800 feet, there was a softer snow field where I considered putting on my snowshoes, but it wasn't very deep, so I plodded on. A bit further up, I walked atop a line of mine tailings to stay above the snow. As I continued up the gulch, it appeared that there may, indeed, have been an avalanche here. The dark, dirty snow was all jumbled in an array of chunks up the center of the gulch. Nevertheless, there wasn't much snow left in the gulch; it was hard packed; and the angle of the gulch wasn't very steep. The temperature felt like it was probably hovering just above the freezing point, but there were bitter blasts of icy wind.
A single set up footprints marked the right edge of the gulch above me. Part of the time, I followed this set of prints, but more often, I walked on the dry ground above the right side of the gulch. Shortly above treeline, the footprints turned left, angling up below a small cornice to gain the ridgeline. That didn't look like a smart thing to do, to me, so I continued along the line I was following, gaining the ridge to the left in a more level area. As I attained the southwest ridge/shoulder of Mount Taylor, the wind redoubled its assault. I staggered and stumbled up the broad ridge, using my hiking pole to help brace myself against the ground as the not-so-gentle breeze howled at me to go away. The sky was clear, if not tame. The route was also clear, with grassy slopes marked by scattered patches of hard packed snow. I saw a few sticks marking the way, and followed them until they began drifting too far away from the summit of Mount Taylor and towards the connecting saddle. Mount Taylor itself looked rather undistinguished as a peak, but there was an excellent view of Mount Aetna from Taylor's shoulder.
As I headed more steeply up and to the right to gain Taylor's highest point, the wind increased its velocity. I had planned to eat lunch on Taylor's summit, my 101st bicentennial (Colorado's 200 highest) peak. However, when I reached the 13,651 foot summit of the state's 172nd highest mountain around 12:30, I was barely able to stand against the power of Zephyrus. I tried huddling among some rocks on the summit while I drank some water and looked towards the east. Even so, I found little shelter against the wind, and departed quickly.
From the summit area of Taylor, the short steep ridge from the connecting saddle to the summit of Mount Aetna was most enticing. Under normal conditions, I love hiking and scrambling along ridgetops, and this looked like it would be a good one. The right side of the ridge appeared to be almost entirely clear of snow and ice, and the entire route from peak to peak seemed like it would be an enjoyable, but relatively easy jaunt with calmer air currents.
My usual inclination would have been to follow the rigdgetop from Taylor to Aetna, but I felt like the wind wanted to hurl me into Hunkydory Gulch, so I headed below the left side of the ridge as I continued on my way. Still, the wind was becoming unbearable to the point that it was no longer wholesome fun. Only a true masochist could enjoy such a tempest. I had only felt wind this strong twice before.
Ten years ago, I did an October climb of Mount Washington in New Hampshire with a friend from Maine. We did a long hike from our tent site at Dolly Copp Campground up the Great Gulf Trail to the summit about 5,000 feet higher. I believe that trail has the most elevation gain of any trail to Mount Washington, and it's much less traveled than the Tuckerman Ravine Trail. The Great Gulf Trail was largely sheltered from the wind, but when we rounded the summit plateau, we were blasted. It was extremely difficult to walk to the summit. When we got to the Mount Washington visitor's center and cafeteria, their weather station reported steady winds of 70 miles per hour with gusts of 80 to 90. We begged a ride back down the mountain with somebody on the auto road.
On another occasion. back in 1990 when I had first moved to Boulder, I was fascinated with the Chinook winds which would occasionally hit the city. One day, I planned a hike in Boulder Mountain Parks to ascend a ridge from the east so I could reach a west-facing rock wall where I could feel the full force of the Chinook. I don't know the wind speed on that occasion, but I was pressed against the rock wall like a graviton ride at an amusement park. It was incredibly exhilarating, but I had a fairly safe line of retreat. I wouldn't deliberately seek that kind of a thrill again.
Here I was on the Taylor-Aetna connecting ridge confronting another incredible wind, and there was no easy way out. A short distance east of the connecting saddle, I jammed myself into a crevice to take shelter and each lunch. I was afraid to tackle the open stretch of flat saddle with its great exposure to the wind, but I still wanted to reach the 13,745 summit of Mount Aetna, Colorado's 127th highest peak. The route looked beautiful. I knew I could do it under normal conditions. I had turned back from summits several times in the past due to adverse conditions such as lightning, hail, snow and ice hazards, or dangerous routes that I wasn't comfortable with. However, I had never been stopped by high winds before.
After lunch, I continued towards Aetna and started across the 13,000 foot saddle. In the middle of the saddle, I was hit by the fiercest blast of wind I had felt yet. I literally felt that I could be picked up and blown off the mountain. I dropped to the ground and held on to some rocks until the wind subsided for a moment, then ran back toward the crevice where I had lunch. I decided that Aetna didn't want to be climbed that day, and started making my way back to the car. My turn-around time was about 2:00 pm.
The Hoffman Park Basin contained far more snow than my ascent route. I didn't want to go that way unless I felt it was absolutely necessary. I also remained cognizant of the two avalanche warnings I had received and didn't want to chance such a different course on my return. Garratt and Martin's recommended route ascends the Hoffman Basin, but does not comment on winter mountaineering. I began following the posts back along the shoulder/ridge to tree line, but the return trip was quite an ordeal, as I struggled with the elements. The wind felt much stronger now than it had during my ascent, and it seemed like some of the gusts could blow away entire trailer parks. I alternated running between gusts with dropping to the ground for shelter against the blasts. Instead of returning to the Columbus Gulch, I followed the southwest ridge between Columbus Gulch and the Hoffman Park Basin back to the county roads.
I stopped at treeline, which also doubled as the snow line. Here, I sat under a bristlecone pine to put on my Denali Llama snowshoes. Then I proceeded down the ridgeline through the trees. There was considerably more snow here than on my ascent route. It was soft enough for my snowshoes to be useful. The route was fairly thickly wooded and the snow was well-anchored. I descended through the trees until I reached County Road 230C. Somewhere along the way, I lost a snowshoe strap without realizing it.
I followed County Road 230C downhill to County Road 230, where I turned left. The snow on County Road 230 was too hard to justify snowshoes, so I strapped them to the back of my pack. After a short break, I continued on my way. There was a set of fresh footprints headed in the same direction I was going.
I passed one fairly nice house with no noticeable driveway. It didn't look like anybody stays there in the winter. Shortly thereafter, I passed by the stone remains of the stamp mill. A bit further on, I negotiated my way around a newly fallen tree which had blocked the road. I reached the trailhead at 4:30 pm. I had not seen any other living creature, Homo sapiens or otherwise, during my hike. Signing out at the trailhead register, I noted the high winds on Taylor Mountain.
Walter Borneman writes that his suggested route up Taylor Mountain via Columbia Gulch and down Mount Aetna via the "Great Couloir" involves 4,750 feet of elevation gain in a 6.3 mile round trip hike. He indicates that the route to Taylor's summit alone involves 4,000 feet of elevation gain in a 5.2 mile round trip. Garratt and Martin describe their Hoffman Park basin route to Taylor and Aetna as a 9 mile hike with 4,800 feet of elevation gain.
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