Mount Edwards (13,850 feet) 8/9/98

NOTE: This text report is stored locally on CRMTR. If you find this report on the authors website, please let me know and I'll link to it instead...
From: see@my.web.site (Mark R. Vanderbrook) 
Newsgroups: rec.backcountry 
Subject: Trip Report: Mt. Edwards, Colo. 
Date: 10 Aug 1998 20:19:35 PDT 

Having suffered defeat on Mount Ouray due to poor physical condition four weeks earlier, and having had no opportunity to climb since, I went in search of an easier objective. After much consideration, I set my sights on Argentine Peak, Mount Edwards and McClellan Mountain.

At 5:30 Sunday morning, I was enroute the trailhead beneath partly cloudy pre-dawn skies. I hoped to reach the trailhead by 7:00 and start the hike up the remainder of the road shortly thereafter. The nearly non-existent traffic would certainly be no hindrance, but I wondered whether Iíd beat the horrendous Sunday afternoon eastbound I-70 stop-and-go on my return. After a quick stop for fuel at Downieville, I continued up to Georgetown and started up the Guanella Pass road. I found the signed "Waldorf" turnoff about where the guidebooks said it would be, and I pulled off the pavement and onto the dirt. One thing the guidebooks hadnít prepared me for was the condition of the road. I was glad to have four-wheel drive. Although I would probably have made it without engaging four-wheel drive, a two-wheel drive truck or passenger car would certainly have run out of ground clearance in a number of the roadís rougher spots.

Almost immediately, I regretted not bringing maps covering the drive in. There were numerous junctions that the guidebooks had not mentioned, and I could only guess which way to proceed. Fortunately, I guessed right. Aided by one guidebookís use of the word "switchbacks," I took those turns that kept me climbing as rapidly as possible. Of course, I also favored the more heavily-traveled path. And as my odometer indicated I should be nearing the trailhead, I held my GPS out the window and took a fix, and learned I had made some good choices. A minute or two later, the Waldorf mine came into view.

With the slow going from the Guanella Pass road, I was no longer ahead of schedule. Indeed, it was nearly 7:15 as I pulled into a convenient parking spot just below the mine, which is situated at about 11,550 feet, right about at treeline. Having set a check-in time at home, as I always do when hiking or climbing solo, I was concerned about any unnecessary delay, so I changed into my hiking boots and made my final preparations as quickly as possible. At about 7:20 I was underway.

I am ordinarily no big fan of hiking up four-wheel drive roads, but thus far I was aware of no other visitors in the area, and I was enjoying the walk. The road headed south along the west side of the Leavenworth Creek drainage; high-tension lines angled across the basin to the east. It was cool -- I was tempted to put on some fleece -- and the sky was still a mix of various types of clouds, with a little blue here and there. Argentine Peak beckoned to the southwest.

After a while, as the road climbed toward a switchback to the right, I glanced up and did a double-take. Sitting atop the ridge above was what appeared to be the tail section of a large, possibly military aircraft. This illusion was not dispelled for several minutes, when the view from above the switchback made the airplane tail into a dilapidated metal-framed building.

As I approached a switchback to the left, I noticed Mounts Evans and Bierstadt and the Sawtooth peaking above the intervening ridge to the southeast, and after a quick check of the map, I identified Squaretop Mountain to the south. The weather appeared to be holding, neither clearing nor worsening much. I climbed on, and a few minutes above that switchback, found myself at the top of 13,207-foot Argentine Pass.

To the south along a gentle ridge stood Argentine Peak. Before me, to the west lay Horseshoe Basin, pretty but scarred by many roads and jeep trails. The road descending steeply southwest from the pass looked much narrower and rougher than the part I had just hiked up. Grays and Torreys were obvious to the northwest, and the ridge to Mount Edwards extended to the north. Sections of tattered siding on the decaying building swung in the gentle breeze that blew through the pass. The weather remained cool and mostly cloudy.

I had been pondering whether to turn south and bag Argentine Peak first, or to turn north and collect Edwards and McClellan first. With the weather less than ideal, I decided to head north. I would get the highest peak (Edwards) first, and be in better position to collect two summits -- maybe three -- if the weather held.

As I took a short break there, at the pass, I noticed an odd visual phenomenon. Whether my eyes were open or closed, singly or together, part of my field of view was occupied by a pulsating, sparkly shape. Having recently had laser eye surgery, I wondered briefly if I was experiencing some altitude-induced complication. I quickly ruled that out, then remembered the sparkly peripheral "halo" I had experienced on those (thankfully few) occasions when, as a child, I had suffered from migraine headaches. As I debated what to do, the headache began.

I had never suffered from "altitude sickness" -- if that was what I was experiencing -- and had no desire to start. I took a couple of Ibuprofen, then decided I wouldnít give up at least one summit without a fight. I started up the ridge toward Mount Edwards, moving slowly and waiting to see what would happen. And as I climbed, the symptoms began to relent. After maybe 15 minutes, I felt much better.

I followed the gentle ridge over a couple of minor high points, gaining elevation slowly. There were snippets of trail in a few spots, but they were faint. Finally, the ridge broadened and I began working my way up the peakís easy, grassy south slopes. From the ridge below I had seen something -- two people? some sort of animal? -- on the ridge running east from the peak toward McClellan Mountain. But it had disappeared before I could decide what it was. As I neared the summit, the mystery was solved: a ratty-looking mountain goat watched my progress. As I climbed, he (she?) ambled my way.

As we came within 10 or 15 feet of each other, each of us moving slowly (and one of us breathing heavily) I took some quick pictures, then I dropped my pack and sat down. When I appeared unlikely to proffer anything tasty, his (her?) curiosity eased, and the tundra vegetation became more interesting. From here, a short stroll brought me to the summit and the view down the peakís abrupt north face into Stevens Gulch. A patch of sunshine was reflecting off the windshields of the numerous cars at the Grays Peak trailhead. My watch read 10:40. Patches of blue battled for supremacy with clouds that were beginning to show some significant vertical development. The patches of blue were clearly in retreat.

I plopped wearily down next to the summit register, which was attached by a cable to a heavy rock. Inside its threaded and capped container I found a very soggy log. I scribbled my name on a scrap of paper I had with me, then placed it with the log inside the container and resealed it.

The breeze from the west seemed to carry an occasional, faint voice with it, and as I looked over at Grays Peak, a mile and a quarter in that direction, I was able to count 12 to 15 people on that busy summit, and more ascending. I found the solitude on "my" peak rather preferable.

Now that I had vanquished the earlier migraine-like symptoms, my stomach began complaining. What was up with that? Was I beginning to develop an altitude-related sensitivity? I had eaten a healthy serving of trail mix earlier, perhaps more than I should have. In any event, sitting there didnít seem to be helping and the clouds were consolidating, so I gathered my gear and started down. I had spent about 20 minutes on top.

Only a minute or two from the top, I heard voices that were too clear to have originated on Grays. A second later I spotted two climbers approaching the summit along the east ridge. They were almost within earshot, and the mountain goat, still grazing, found himself (herself?) between us and became agitated. I stopped and let the goat settle down, not wanting to spoil the other climbersí chance for a close encounter. But the two women gave the ragged goat a wide berth.

We chatted briefly about the routes we had taken, the worsening weather and our woolly companion, then they set off for the summit, and I once again headed down the grassy slopes. Although somewhat geographically challenged, they were quite pleasant, and would descend as I had ascended, via the pass. Under worsening skies, I retraced my steps back to the pass, contouring around some of the ridge points over which I had climbed on the ascent. Argentine Peak would have to wait for another day.

As I descended into the pass, the two ladies caught up to me. Together we greeted the four-wheel drive enthusiasts we found there, enjoying the view and climbing on the metal skeleton of the abandoned building. I bid the two of them farewell -- they were in a bigger hurry than I -- then I set off, down the road toward the trailhead and my truck.

The remainder of the descent was fairly routine. I greeted a party with llamas between the switchbacks below the pass, and encountered numerous four-wheel aficionados on the way down. About an hour into the descent thunder began rumbling down from above. Not anxious to don raingear, I quickened my pace, but still did the last 10 minutes in light rain. At 12:35, only slightly damp, I was back at my truck, eagerly pulling dusty boots off tired feet.

Although I was not thrilled to have needed three and a third hours to do 2300 vertical feet, I was happy to have bagged my first new summit since Wetterhorn, back in 1996. (Except for a re-climb of Princeton, all of 1997ís summit bids had failed; Challenger, Kit Carson and El Diente due to weather, Snowmass due to subpar physical condition, and a late-season stab at Evansí west ridge due to snow conditions). I only hope the headache and stomach upset donít become a habit. Perhaps my next fourteener climb, scheduled for later this month, will tell.

ÿ