There is no such thing as an easy Colorado 14’er. Though some peaks may be easier to climb than others, all promise a difficult day of hiking and route-finding for most people. But, a great day of hiking and climbing can create positive memories, urging us to do it again and again.
So it is with Mt. Lindsay one of the state’s southernmost 14’ers, in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. My first climb many years ago was with a group of guys who were fit and fast and had no agenda other than camaraderie among the peaks. We casually joked and laughed our way though the trails and waltzed our way up the prominent and steep sawtooth ridgeline to the summit.
A few years later, my nephew and his friend arrived from Texas, wanting to climb a 14’er with a bit of a challenge on the next day. I suggested Mt. Lindsay. I charged up the trail, leading these two high school distance runners with what I had hoped would be my acclimatize delevation advantage. I had worried about how they might handle the steep terrain, but they sauntered up with ease to the airy rock buttress to the summit. The 8.25 mile round trip was punctuated by their wide-eyed and toothy-grins pulling up through the jagged rocks of the northwest ridge. These were fun trips, accentuated by the laughter and excitement of being in such a beautiful place.
A few years ago, when my dad suggested climbing Mt. Lindsay with my teen daughter, Megan, I jumped at the chance. This would be my third time. But this time, the conditions were less favorable than my past hikes. A heavy avalanche season had left massive trees scattered across the access road like spilled toothpicks, and the mandatory creek crossings had become waterlogged from heavy monsoons. Additionally, my daughter was experiencing some knee and hip pain, which slowed us down. But, the morning air was noticeably fresh and as the birds provided the music, we happily chatted as we worked hiked up through the forest.
We got our first grand-sweeping view of the valley above us as we broke free of the trees. By the time we hit the saddle below the summit ridge, it was well past noon and the wind had picked up–a key difference from past experience. My dad, who had been increasingly feeling unwell, began to reassess his determination. Since the terrain above was much more varied, loose and steep than the buffed trail we had been following, I was equally concerned. As his altitude dizziness was intensifying, he agreed it would be too dangerous to continue, but insisted we go on. I left my hiking poles with him, reminding him not to leave them behind for the marmots who would inevitably chew the foam grips off for burrow bedding.
Megan and I started up the sweeping rocky north face in search of the unmarked passage up to the ridge. However, the closer we climbed to the ridgeline, the more wind we faced. Despite the dangerous wind powerful enough to push her off her feet, Megan displayed courage and strength as she climbed. While not a veteran of high-exposure terrain, her cool head and solid movement gave me confidence. I didn’t recall the climbing being nearly so difficult in the past, then realized we had been forced off route onto the steeper and more challenging face of the headwall and were battling unnerving wind gusts. I worried that it had become too dangerous, and that my poor judgment had set us up for an impending catastrophe. As I photographed my surroundings, I questioned if I should turn back or regret moving forward. The last thing I wanted was to lead my wholly-trusting daughter into unreasonable danger. Clearly a fall here would be devastating, if not fatal. She reassured me repeatedly that despite the difficulty of the conditions, we should press on.
The wind whipped our hair into our faces as we clambered through the final moves to the milder-sloped summit ramp. Following a brief celebration, we opted for a more sheltered and easier route back down. Upon arriving back at the saddle–my dad now long gone–were my gripless hiking poles. It seems the marmots got the foam for their beds after all. We were hitting the end of our energy reserves, but managed to drag ourselves back to the truck, wind-worn and exhausted.
And there was my dad waiting for us, feeling a bit better from what was a one-time bout of altitude sickness. In hindsight, I should have recognized his symptoms and prioritized his safety by choosing an easier route. Instead, I let my past experiences color my expectations for the day, and didn’t properly assess the conditions.
It was another valuable warning that the mountains had given us: we should always assess risk carefully before committing. The day was still a win for us, thank goodness, but humbling too, and we accepted that graciously. One thing I’ve learned is that the mountains are one of life’s best classrooms, and I’m always looking forward to the next lesson.
