Mount Sherman

If you are reading this, consider it some silly, small token that your current situation has landed upon. I am determined to find some privacy through this thing we like to call the internet. So if you found this post buried amongst all the other 58, well then I would say it’s meant to be.

It’s liberating going into repeats and actually finding more than a summit after each mountain. With each connection toward nature, not to mention the people along side this brutal insanity, I feel a step closer to something bigger than me. And with each hike now comes this familiar comfort that I am home and I don’t have to look any further.

Flash forward and it is Thanksgiving 2021. I just got off a plane to what feels like some other place in time. Either I am in some matrix that is simulated with yet another airport flight, or I am constantly out of place. Anyway, I AM GRATEFUL to be off that plane, and out of that airport full of sea-blob-staring, anxiety-ridden souls. Currently in the living room, distracted by Chip purring across my laptop begging for attention, something you can only appreciate from a furry friend.

I find it comforting that the mountains are the most reliable thing in my life.

Guess I still hate the holidays and this time of year. It comes around like clockwork and I always find myself packing and moving. Everything must go. HUGE BLOW OUT SALE. Wanted: new routine, new confidence, new love. I can’t help but feel bittersweet this time of year, not to mention so incredibly alone in this entire life-journey thing. Trying to find a more positive spin, but the truth remains that I am skeptical about a soulmate.

Back to Mount Sherman. If you even care to hear about this mountain. It is in fact my favorite little slice of 14ers that I introduce people to. It is close enough to the city that you won’t be exhausted driving and running on little sleep. It is the shortest of all the fourteeners, not to mention, considerably less vertical gain than the rest. Naturally, it is the mountain I chose for my friend Lisa, who is looking to get back out there!

Climbing Mount Sherman feels like climbing into the new year. Where am I even heading? Suppose I no longer care for the top – the views will be nice, but nothing I haven’t seen before. Yet I don’t think I particularly care for the bottom either – I know what awaits me when I return back to the city and am doubtful about how it serves me.

Nope, here right now, walking this snowcapped mountain in my mind, I choose to be optimistic curiosity and thankful for the people next to me, that are quietly going through their own little mental mountain. The howling wind is a great excuse to keep to ourselves as we trudge on. Even the success of summiting is short-lived in this cold, and we find ourselves enjoying the quicker hike down.

Anyway, what I’m really saying is that I know exactly where am I right now (if you only knew how much of a broken record it is), but equally feel lost. I would like to place this promise to myself into the metaverse. I want to, need to, promise to, spend a year actually taking care of myself for a change. I often take on too many humanitarian projects (often with the people closest to me) and wonder why I lose myself in helping them achieve greatness. I have given far too many years building up others who put my needs on the back-burner. Ultimately, I become frustrated and spontaneously rip the informal contract into tiny littles pieces. It may take some time, and hopefully the shortest of all seasonal changes, but I think I will reach this new height.

Dan, Lisa and myself basking in blinding lights.

The Crestone Traverse

At least once a year, some unfortunate climber sends the local search & rescue office into full gear. It is actually crazy to see the data! Luckily, fate was kind to me as I embarked across climbing from Crestone Peak to Crestone Needle, otherwise known as one of the four Great Traverses in Colorado.

Backpacking into South Colony lakes was unreal. It felt like the world was closing in on me and I was safely protected within the bosom of this range. The Sangre de Cristos, and specifically Crestone mountains, have been very influential in my climbing experience. They have left me battered, afraid, hopeful, satisfied and all emotions in-between. The evening light rain showers welcomed me, refreshing me for the night ahead.

Awoke at 2am with more eager anticipation than usual, after-all, today I would climb my last first Colorado 14er. There was something bittersweet about knowing this will be the end of an era. However there was equally something comforting in the perspective of how far I’ve come throughout this journey.


Found company around 3am in the darkness of moonlight. The headlamps of two older men would shine yards away, and I knew we were both chasing the same thrill. We sling shot on the switch-backs, exchanging awkward hello again’s, and eventually resolved to just climb together as we were clearly able to keep up with each other.

Chris and Wade surprised me when they took out their ropes and harnesses going up the first summit, Crestone Peak. While I confidently hung behind, without a rope or care in the world, I found it useful to pick up some basic partner ropes skills while watching them climb the loose terrain. One does not simply climb these mountains.

The sun was breaking across the mountain range, and each peak greeted us with a soft, yellow smile. I was in awe of the rays of sun striking the side of the red gully. It was so inspiring that I needed to feel it. I spontaneously removed my approach shoes and climbed into the light. The rock was smooth and numbing, swallowing my stomach while I basked in the sun. I only recently starting removing my shoes at random points along the 14er hikes, simply to feel the earth, or rock, beneath me. Feels silly, but don’t knock it until you try it.

After the endless scramble of the red gully, we made the summit, just in time to watch the peaks light up. I typically don’t bring coffee past 13,000ft, however I really wanted all the cozy comforts to simultaneously stimulate my heart with emotion on this last climb. Made a cuppa and watched the sand dunes in the distance. From this vantage point, one could see all of the San Luis Valley, and if you squint just right, the mystical magic it held.

It was during our climb down and toward the traverse cairn that we began to see people. I typically prefer less people around for these more technical climbs, however I embraced everyone with the biggest grin. Practically hugging strangers on the mountain. Not really.

Anyway, we made our way across the rocky face of the traverse with one route in sight. The famous black Gendarme rock pinnacle stared us in the eye. I knew it was all fun and games until this point. Based off Saguache Search and Rescue data, this upcoming approach is where most deaths occur.

I had no doubt in my mind that every mountain I climbed over the past two years has led me to this very moment. Fear subsided into ecstasy, and every bone in my body told me I was ready. A truly rare feeling for me to feel so certain about something, when life has always held so much doubt.

We made our way across the rocky face of the mountain with one route in sight. Then, finally, the famous black Gendarme rock pinnacle stared us in the eye. I knew it was all fun and games until this point. Based off Saguache Search and Rescue data, this upcoming approach is where most deaths occur.

It began with a small class 5 move into this narrow bulge. Yes, I am aware as I am typing this how sexual mountain climbing can be. It is probably best that all the research led me to believe this 5.2 move would be the most difficult, and distract me from the later crux. I conquered it with ease, and felt like it would be smooth sailing after. There was an exposed, fun climb across a mini rib which allowed you to see the entire back west side of the mountain – it dropped down for over 4,000 terrifying feet.

Little did I know how steep the approaching 40 foot rock wall would be. The same rock wall that sits on the edge of this 4,000 drop ridge crest. This mountain crux is Crestone Needle’s way of slapping you one last time. You are merely 300 feet away from the summit, and if you can pass this one last, potentially fatal test, then you can enjoy the panoramic views. It is so fitting that there are 3 paths you can take up from this point. If it weren’t for the constant reminder of the breeze, I would have thought I was in a video game simulation.

I watched Wade go first, desperately wanting the ropes he has been utilizing this entire time. Chris followed, certainly intimidated, but with the safety net of knowing he was harnessed in. Matt and I looked at each other and he asked me which I would prefer, going third or last. I knew that he was a strong indoor climber, despite this being his first 14er climb of the season, however I wanted to know everybody was safely above me versus looking below in fear.

So I watched him accent upward, and quickly turn into a faint speck. I was at the final pitch, all alone with a racing heart. My hands reached above me, and chose the path less traveled. The far left route that would force me to see the entire backside of the mountain below. There are no words to describe this mental fuckery. I bit my lips with each hand hold, focusing on each rock. While my hands felt great, I kept having flashes to what would happen if/when my foot would slip beneath me. The hand holds weren’t large enough for my feet to find stability.

About half way up the climb I realized I was completely and utterly alone. Not even my helmet would protect me from the deadly fall should I mess up ONE move. The group was well into safety, as I tried my best not to look left, down or up for that matter. One rock at a time. Just one more rock.

My legs began to quiver and I had to stop to control my breathing. I was having flashbacks to the blizzard on the nearby mountain Kit Carson. I could see my death below me and had to ask myself how badly I wanted this life. Some of you can easily relate to this type 2 fun that shakes your bones and leaves you on another high afterwards.

My hands were beginning to lose circulation and I knew I had to climb on, for fear of my fingers losing grip. At one point I even attempted to call out to Matt. He obviously had no control, nor could really talk me out of this sticky situation. The only option I had was to climb up. So I did.

Eventually I reached the top of the ridge and held back tears – I imagine this is how someone cast away deep in the ocean would feel once reaching land after fearing for the end. Perhaps I’m being dramatic but this certainly was the bang I was looking to go out on.

I didn’t realize how great that final summit would feel. My final 58th mountain. Damn. I did all that. Too excited to eat my protein bar or drink water, I paraded around in a silly rainbow poncho – LIFE WAS GOOD.

Rah, rah, rah, I climbed down the other side of this mountain and made it safely to camp where I packed my things and lived happily ever after as a Colorado 14er Finisher.

Attempted Murder in Missouri

Let me first start this off by saying I rarely like to plan out adventures. I enjoy scoping out the overall terrain, but I get this sense of surprise by not looking too much into these class 2 routes. I figure the mountain is there, and I will find the trail.

The morning started just at sunrise. I was still new to hiking on my own, and certainly did not want to encounter any animals at dawn, especially mountain lions. I couldn’t tell you how many stories I’ve heard of morning traill runners encountering their scare of stares.

My personal goal was to hit Missouri mountain, summit, and cut across to the trail that connects to Oxford and ending on Belford. Most hikers would summit this in reverse order, but I purposefully wanted to knock out the most difficult climb first.

I slowly found myself above tree line. While I did not see anyone on the trail all morning, I could see the few spots of people on the ridge of Belford, climbing up.

The climb up Missouri was an endless switchback. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily miss the cairn along the talus rock, and find myself on an entirely new face of the mountain.

It took me a couple hours, but I was finally in the home stretch. I cross the south ridge feeling like I landed on mars. The sand was red clay, and lovely curves cut off to drastic edges.

I slowly found myself above tree line. While I did not see anyone on the trail all morning, I could see the few spots on the ridge of Belford, climbing up.

The climb up Missouri was an endless switchback. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily miss the cairn along the talus rock, and find myself on an entirely new face of the mountain.

It took me a couple hours, but I was finally in the home stretch. I cross the south ridge feeling like I landed on mars. The sand was red clay, and lovely curves cut off to drastic edges.

Found myself on the summit just a few moves later. I was alone, but I was accompanied by the views of the land. I cannot begin to describe the joy I felt a top my tower of solace.

Everything in life just aligned so perfectly in that moment. Until it didn’t.

The trail downloaded from my alltrails app indicated a clear cut across the north face couloir. I later found out this heat map was most likely based on mountain goats.

I slid down the scree with uncertainty. It was a fun speed and I didn’t have to climb back up, so I didn’t see the harm in this route down.

It did not take me long to look ahead and address the MASSIVE 1000+ feet of ICE SLAB that would soon become my life. In a fast approaching panic, I desperately reached around me. The rocks were so loose that I couldn’t find a single one sturdy enough to support my weight.

The sheet of ice was quickly below me and by some miracle, my single poorly-treaded hiking boot stopped me from falling below to my death. I caught my breath, looking at the plunge below me with dread. I knew the foot hold would not last long, and quickly found a jagged, knife-like rock to carve out a hand hold above me.

My life depending on this weak, little foot hold as I found a second rock and utilized it as an ax. Primitive, but effective, I was able to use these two rocks to ax diagonally toward the safety of some slab 400ft away.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I was finally on stable ground, but when I looked above to the distant, VERY distant trail, I was cliffed out. I took off my shirt to use as a towel to wipe off the entire pool of sweat that was now my body. I never sweat. My body must have suddenly went into shock as I used ever inch of concentration and energy to quickly get myself out of the scary situation I was not completely out of.

Frustrated with my lack of knowledge in mountaineering, I was loosing hope and reassurance that I would get out without a broken bone at best. I had to pep-talk myself for a solid twenty minutes that I would get out of this unscratched. It was then that I turned to look above and assess my climb up that I saw a human being above me on the trail. Words cannot express how grateful I am to that one stranger whom I never saw again. Seeing that dark figure of a person above me was enough. I was seen, spotted and accounted for on this mountain. They were simply a symbolic reminder that help is easily on the way should I hurt myself.

With a bolt of energy, I started with my first two hand holds. Then one by one, found my feet. I zoned out into a trance as I spent the next hour climbing into the rest of my un-lived life. To this day I cannot tell you how or what brought my mind and body to jump into this muscle memory. If past lives exist, surely I had summited Everest.

The next hour was the best hour of my life. I made it down the mountain, embracing every moment with gratuity. I had so much to see and conquer and this was just the beginning.

However I did loose an hour and was doubting if I could finish the other two summits before nightfall. It was then that I encountered a trail running blazing from the meadow up Missouri. As we crossed paths, he stopped to greet me. I was a little frazzled from my recent dance with death, and he clearly noticed. This kind man took the time to ask what I did, and where I was going. After sharing my story and my hopeful goal to summit the other two, he was the final push I needed to validate I could do it.

So I picked up my pace and spent the next hour in pure bliss, reminiscing on past life and excited about future. The clouds were drifting away into a blanket of blue around me.

From the saddle, I could see the long stretch of elevation decline and gain I would experience before hitting Oxford. I was game. BRING IT.

With a new sense of step, I hurried my way up to the second summit. It was so much better than the first, and I’m pretty sure they were the same views.

I made it across to my last summit of Belford by 4:30pm and celebrated. The weather was completely on my side all day, despite my decisions going against me. I was low on water, after all I packed 16 oz to wet my mouth between summits. I was training myself to drink lots of water before and after the hike, but during just under 20oz.

Anyways, I met a nice old man on my last summit. He offered me water after we spoke about our days and our evenings ahead. He was my moral support system to help me get down and chase darkness out of the woods.

Lesson learned today: never again will I underestimate the power of a pile of rocks. These mountains are majestic and can trial you in many ways.

Some still say its organic shapes were a reflection of the constant movement of thoughts on never-ending ideas. It was remarkable but prudent, complex but minimal, and it’s geometrical lines contrasted beautifully with the curly waves that defined it.

This was my sanctuary, the place where I could go to rest, but also to celebrate. You only have to walk a few steps into the woods to understand the mysterious peace of the valley. Was it the endless organic shapes? Was it the assurance of its geometrical lines? Or was it simply the mountain?

Capitol Peak

Aside from Little Bear Peak, Capitol Peak, is considered the state’s most difficult 14er to climb. Scraping the sky at 14,137 feet, this is Colorado’s 32nd highest mountain. Don’t let that number fool you, the fatalities are sharp and quick.

I was already glowing with glory as I drove away from Little Bear heading toward Capitol. I couldn’t turn down the invite to climb the hardest class 4 the Colorado Fourteeners have to offer. While Capitol Peak was planned for weeks, I wanted to put my body to the test and climb them back to back, less than 24 hours apart. I’ve climbed 3 and 4 mountains in one day, so theoretically I felt prepared for this boomerang.

Began the drive into the trailhead with an exciting surprise – I SAW MY FIRST COLORADO BEAR. Only took 4 years of living here. I suppose climbing Little Bear that morning must have opened some mystic portal to all the bear viewing. Anyway I was grateful for the close encounter and found my friend Jenny. We set up camp in her fancy Tepui and quickly found sleep.

That night was restless. I tossed and turned in my sleep as my stomach growled. I had enough food. I thought I had enough water. Why did I feel so nauseous? Almost feverish, experiencing hot flashes but writing it off as the amazing insulation of Jennys’ Tepui tent.

The four of us set out at 3am, well before sunrise. Lillian gracefully lept across cow patties in the pasture, meanwhile Jenny and Brandon stared at the meteor shower above. Our goal was to meet our two friends, Dan and Katie, camping at Capitol Lake. My stomach was still hurting, as if I had food poisoning and was carrying a stone.

We found them just after 6am, when they were scheduled to leave without us. I rejoiced as we approached them waiting on a rock off the trailhead. We look behind us and another hiker is quick on our trail. Who was it? JEFF! The fun California botanist who was invited to join our group to avoid going alone.

Sunrise found us quietly and we watched the lake below wake up from our saddle perch. The group somehow grew to eight as two others from the trailhead teamed up with us. I wasn’t expecting, nor hoping for a large group, but the personalities vibed on the same frequency.

We started out giggly and eager. Each step was a brisk, yet slow roll into the morning. Meanwhile my hands were sweating and I felt much slower than normal.

We spent almost an hour crossing this field of talus. The talus turned into large boulder slabs, and we joyfully bounced across them. Everyone spread out and made their own adventure through the valley, always waiting for the group to catch up on major segments. I took a look around our group on the mini snack break and knew I had enough in me to carry on with them. The air filled with positivity and I couldn’t let myself or them down. Clearly I wasn’t sick enough to turn around, or I would have.

Eventually we approached K2 – a brief taste of exposure that requires technical climbing down. The rock was solid compared to Little Bear Peak, but we each helped one another spot the loose slabs just in case.

One tricky move before touching the lower trail toward the knife edge was to stretch your body down a few feet, hoping to find a decent foot hold before letting go of the secure slab above.

Today it was this type 2 kinda fun that kept me going! I was monitoring my breaths, but aside from that, didn’t really know what signs to look for that would make me stop and turn around. Vomiting? No way.

The knife edge found us with open arms. Literally. We hugged that skinny slab of rock like our lives depended on it. Actually, they really did depend on it.

A few weeks prior, a young man died at this exact point. Some speculate it was during the floods and the rock was slippery. A rescue team of three came to search for the body, however they were each injured by falling rocks (from climbers above) and helicoptered out. It was a tragic accident that left the body uncovered.

Needless to say, I did my best to avoid thinking about the poor guy resting below me as I battled my own health. I slowly scooted across, finding renewed energy in each burst of adrenaline. One should make it across if they straddle the rock across the entire 600 ft stretch.

After the knife edge, you mentally feel like you are already at the summit. Our group continued on for another hour or so, climbing rock after rock.

The routes are not easily marked at this point, but if you look hard, you can spot the cairns, or as our friend like to called them, “Rock Ducks”.

My stomach was not letting up despite the water, medicine, electrolytes and salt tabs my friends gave me. I had never felt this way after or during a climb and assumed it must have been something I ate between climbing Little Bear to Capitol.

My energy levels were lower than normal, despite training my body for years to survive on so little water. Something was wrong, but I was determined, and to be honest, too far to turn around now. So I sucked it up, and slowed down my breath, focusing on each step.

We made it to the top by 11am, and what felt like my last lung. It was so rewarding to soak up the blue skies and lakes below. I found my seat and sprawling across the rock, ready to fall into a deep sleep. The group trailed in, one by one, and the eight of us had the summit to ourselves!

Throughout the years hiking fourteeners, never had I found a crew so dial-ed into summit snacks. Jenny came prepared with her chocolate-dipped dehydrated fruit, twizzlers, and mini peanut butter pretzels. Dan arrived with sardines over salted crackers and wasabi peas. I felt so basic with my apple and had to laugh feeling like we were comparing elementary school lunches.

We spent a good hour at the top, enjoying each others company and cracking jokes. In all honesty, we probably were just dreading to climb back down. Eventually another group approached and we took our queue to scramble out. Somehow climbing down a summit always feels longer than climbing up. We achieved our greatness, we peaked, and now all that is left is go down.

The nausea was not fading, and each step became difficult. My stomach pounded in unpredictable pain, so much that it hurt to talk. When I finally approached the knife edge, I was actually concerned. I’ve been on 53 summits now, and never had I doubted myself on a mountain. I was scared to black out mid-straddle across the cliff. It certainly was helpful to have seven friends ahead and behind me, silently supporting as we each made our way through the trenches.

There was only one difficult spot where I became dizzy and saw spots. The mountain moved all around me and I had to stop crawling on the knife edge. I was practicing all five points of contact (hands, feet, and chest) as I took in deep breaths. I knew I shouldn’t linger long, so I kept moving, and reached the side of safety with a big exhale.

We carried on many more miles throughout the day – I started to realize that maybe it wasn’t my lunch and that I was possibly experiences symptoms of severe dehydration. I didn’t notice because I skipped the moderate signs of headaches and went straight into fight or flight mode. Yet the end was more in sight that ever, and that kept me going with each step closer to home.

We all made it back to the trailhead parking lot around 5pm. After 20+ miles of hiking that day, including the Little Bear summit and road hike down, I was spent. I bolted to the nearest town of Aspen to resupply on water and food, hoping to set myself up for the four hour drive home to Denver. I started driving only twenty minutes when my eyes began to blur and I swerved my car over the median more than twice. It was clear I couldn’t drive, so I pulled over in Glenwood Springs to car camp until morning.

I was grateful to know when to stop and rest. The next morning I awoke with 110% energy again and found myself in a nice coffee shop around 6am. Coffee in hand, I got back on the highway to make the 3.5 hour trip home. To my surprise I SAW ANOTHER BEAR CROSSING THE ROAD 20ft IN FRONT OF ME. There were no other cars on the highway when the fluffy black/brown big guy ran across the empty road. Pretty sure Little Bear Peak took my wish to see a bear and granted me with two big bears, back to back.

Moral of my story. Drink more water?

Little Bear Peak

Little Bear Peak is Colorado’s most dangerous Fourteener. The Peak is located deep in the Sangre De Cristo Mountain Range, towering above the San Luis Valley at a height of 14,037 feet. True to its name, you should not poke this cute bear, nor climb all over it because you may just anger the beast.

Lake Como, also known for being the most difficult road in America, is a 5 mile hike into the lake, where we were setting up camp that night. The sun was setting Thursday evening as we began the long journey into the dark. Headlamps guided us in around 9pm and we attempted to sleep despite the 30+mph winds.

We set out at 5:30am, a little later expected after a night of restless tent-flapping. The trail felt all too familiar, after all, we were just there three weeks ago climbing the adjoining fourteener group: Blanca and Ellingwood Peak. Little Bear Peak is 14 miles roundtrip from the bottom of the parking lot, and we were grateful to get the first 6 miles out the night before. Funny how easy a map can make the last mile to summit appear. We had at least four obstacles that laid ahead: The Talus Gully up the west ridge notch, the long walk across the south ridge, the famous Hourglass, and the ugly, exposed remaining route above the hourglass.

Kelsey and I began the ascent into the Talus Gully with little optimism, attempting not to look at the loose rocks above. With each step we took, a small mountain of scree would slide below our feet. The occasional larger rock would fall and everyone would simultaneously scream “ROCK!”.

It continued like this for over an hour, and we quickly made friends with the young climber coming up below us. Liam was a junior in high school from Fort Collins, and shared the same goal of bagging this difficult peak. We fell into the saddle with surprise, watching the early morning sun peak its head above the valley. There were jokes of this mountain being the only bear I will probably ever see in Colorado. Crazy how I have lived here four years and never seen a bear in the wild.

Let’s just skip the long, enduring walk across the south ridge, as it was a series of elevation de/increase, leaving us a bit deflated for the hourglass. We approached with confidence, relieved to know we were the first to summit and therefor nobody would be above us. The most dangerous part of this section, and the reason for previous injuries and fatalities.

Nearly an 800ft vertical climb through a chute of slab, loose rock, this section really requires technical skills. The routes are unmarked, requiring you to determine each hand hold as it comes. There is a measly rope, however the other broken ropes at the top remind you to not rely on it.

Larger rocks drop, regularly and unpredictably into the steep, narrow section below, potentially resulting in fatal falls. There is no avoiding this unfortunate part of the climb, and for that reason, every climber spaces out and gives other groups room to safely climb.

Just out of the hourglass it begins to open up into another large field of loose talus. At this point we are straight bouldering without ropes and cautiously practicing three points of contact.

I step up onto a slab, sending a small rock down the gully. Panic ensues as I yelled “ROCK!” loudly several times, hoping that the two guys below were no where near. No bigger than a book, I sincerely hoped it would fuze out and stop after a few plunks down. However, the rocks on this mountain are like dominos, each one setting off the next rock tumbling down. It picked up speed, hitting another rock and combusting into five smaller astroids down the opening until you could no longer see it through the angle of the steep slope…

The next few seconds of stillness were nerve-wracking. The three of us quietly listened for any sign of good/bad news. Not hearing a thing, we continued up the steep wall of focus. We were in the home stretch, and the peak loomed over us from above, tempting us to come closer.

At the summit, I felt accomplished, and cute. I would not recommend this mountain for everyone, because it’s not just the technical nature of the route that makes this climb so formidable, but the unpredictable nature of rockfall risk. I was so proud of myself for finally tackling it and proving to myself that I was ready for the route.

I can understand why the hourglass is difficult to share amongst other climbers; I learned how to plan for rocks that ricochet, and how to accept those who consider themself too experienced to ever drop rocks on someone else.

As always, the climb down was exhausting. It is often overlooked that just because you can get yourself up, doesn’t mean you don’t have to climb back down. The hourglass down was challenging, and ran into another group where we paused and encouraged them on. It took us another a couple hours to back-climb down the gully and across the talus field.

We reached camp a little after 12pm and quickly packed up, knowing full-well the hardest part of this journey was going to be the brutal 2.5 hour hike down Lake Como Road again. The rocks rolled my ankle across every switchback and my mental energy was just as low as my physical.

We stayed optimistic, attempting to soak in the last views of Blanca before jumping on the road again. One quick food pitstop in Buena Vista (2.5 hours north) before I would drive another 2 hours toward Aspen. I was planning to reset my body clock and repeat the climb, just with the most technically draining 14er in all of Colorado – Capitol Peak.

When do you make the SOS call?

🚨
My voice echoed throughout the gullies as I shouted for @sturgeon.dan – my hiking bud had been missing for 30min.
🌨
We were last together on Kit Carson, our attention on the clouds. They were unlike anything I’d seen, playful pillows hiding behind the summit. I saw another cluster in the distance. Were they closing in on us? I warned Dan that we had about 30min – whatever was coming, we would be in the eye of it.
πŸŒͺ
I paced the avenue as 1/2 blizzards dumped, debating on if I should go back to search for him. The snow was hitting from all directions & I lost vision. My heart pumped as a memory of my CapHill 1BD entered; Matt and I playing rummy in front of a fireplace. I could hear the fire cracking as my toes soaked through a 2nd set of socks. I could feel the purr of Chip as my fingers became numb from scrambling. I wanted so badly to be on the couch with them.

🚁
The 2nd blizzard hit & the reality of the situation settled in. Dan may not get off this mountain. If he is in need of help, rescue could take over 12hrs & the snow could cover him. Screw the fees, how can you put a price on someones life? My hands shook as I held down the SOS button on the Garmin InReach. Then watched the 20sec countdown commence.
πŸ†˜
Better to search for 1 person than 2. I marched across the ridge line, bullied by wind. It blocked all sound, except for the GPS device, which synced morbid beeps to my heartbeat. I constantly looked behind me for a silhouette. BREATHE. Finally saw a figure & broke down in tears. HE IS ALIVE! I quickly cancelled the call for emergency rescue.
πŸ—»
3/20 hikers summited this snowy class 3. The other guy began at 2am. 15mi post-holing over 14hrs.
Looking back I am not regretful nor wiser. We had the energy & skill to accomplish, but losing a hiker is unspeakable. A truly remarkable, memorable hike that left my bones rattled and mind full of gratitude.
🀯
πŸ·πŸΊπšŽπš›: Challenger + Kit Carson
π™΄πš•πšŽπšŸπšŠπšπš’πš˜πš—: 14,081’ + 14,165’
π™»πš˜πšŒπšŠπšπš’πš˜πš—: Westcliffe, CO
πšƒπ™·: Willow Creek
π™³πš’πšœπšπšŠπš—πšŒπšŽ: 15 miles
π™΄πš•πšŽπšŸπšŠπšπš’πš˜πš— π™ΆπšŠπš’πš—: 6,250’
π™²πš•πšŠπšœπšœ: ♦️♦️♦️