Cabin Journal

Deaths on the Mountain

From July to November last year, four men have gone missing on Longs Peak and the adjoining Mount Meeker, the mountain that looms above Meeker Park and my cabin. (That's Meeker on the left and Longs on the right in the photo.)

Two bodies were found last summer, but searches for the other two men have been suspended until spring, as mountain storms made it too dangerous for rescuers. And, by this time, snow has covered up any trace of their bodies.

According to the National Park Service, two people on average die every year attempting to climb Longs Peak, one of the more famous fourteeners (that is, above 14,000 feet) in the state and especially predominant along the Front Range, where it and Mount Meeker dominate the mountain skyline.

Besides being tragic, three deaths (two of them presumed) on Longs Peak in a five-month period is unusual (plus the one  on Mount Meeker)—and unnecessary. Each was hiking alone, not a recommended practice for mountain climbing. Three were from out-of-state so may have been unfamiliar with how quickly weather conditions can change at high altitudes—from a warm, sunny day to cold and snowy—even in summer (the photo below, shows snow on Longs Peak in July).

At least two seemed unprepared for mountain climbing. The body found in August on Longs Peak was a man from Illinois who had attempted the 14-mile (round trip) climb several years ago but had been unable to make it down before dark and spent the night on the peak before being rescued. And yet, on his second attempt this summer, he didn’t start the hike until 2 p.m. Seasoned climbers of Longs Peak begin their ascent around 5 a.m. because it takes most hikers about 15 hours to complete the hike that climbs 4,855 feet along steep ledges. Starting at 2 in the afternoon  means getting to the summit around dark. What often happens is that unprepared hikers try to find a shortcut back down, often across steep—and deadly— slopes of loose rock.

In November, hikers coming down from the top of Longs Peak advised a young man from the Air Force Academy that the weather conditions were stormy up ahead and urged him to turn around. Reportedly, he was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, sweatpants, a hat, lightweight gloves and tennis shoes—an outfit that is inadequate for conditions sometimes described as Arctic. Even in summer, tennis shoes and sweatpants will not keep you warm if it rains, and such shoes are hardly capable of navigating steep, rocky terrain. His is one of the two bodies not yet found.

You can’t blame the National Park Service for failing to warn people. On its website, the federal agency doesn’t mince words when describing the route to the top of the peak:

The Keyhole Route is not a hike. It is a climb that crosses enormous sheer vertical rock faces, often with falling rocks, requiring scrambling, where an unroped fall would likely be fatal. The route has narrow ledges, loose rock, and steep cliffs.

For most of the year, climbing Longs Peak is in winter conditions, which requires winter mountaineering experience and the knowledge and use of specialized equipment. Disregard for the mountain environment any time of year has meant danger, injury and even death.

The website  goes on to warn that climbers should “Be prepared to turn back during sudden, drastic weather changes. . . .  Don't have summit fever: Enjoy the experience, but be willing to turn around at any time.”

I know it can be hard to turn back, to admit failure. Even on comparatively short hikes, I’ve sometimes pushed myself more than I should in order to reach a scenic waterfall or alpine lake, with the result that coming back down I’ve been almost too exhausted to make it to my car. And if you’re a young man who has told all his friends that he’s going to climb the famous Longs Peak, it’s got be even harder to admit defeat, especially when you can take a picture of yourself on top of the mountain and immediately share it with your social network. It’s an instant record of your amazing accomplishment.

That’s what the climber who died on 13,900-foot Mount Meeker (above) last July did before descending, and so we have a photo of him on top of the world, grinning, surrounded by sharp mountain peaks. But something went terribly wrong afterward, because it took searchers almost a month to find his body in steep terrain below the summit.

I don’t know why these four men (one who was in his 60s but the others  younger) drove themselves to challenge the mountain, possibly beyond their capabilities or skills. Was it a desire to impress others or to prove something to themselves? Was it arrogance  or ignorance that made them push on when they should have turned back?

I just wish they would have taken the advice of the National Park Service, as well as others who posted online comments, like this one, about their climbs on Longs Peak:

Best advice I can give you is take your time, every place you step, make sure you are on solid rock, and hug the walls on the ledges and narrows, keep your balance and you will make it. One small mistake could very well be your last.

Take lots of breaks and don’t be afraid to turn around!

Temporary Rewilding

I’m not happy that the government shutdown has caused nearby Rocky Mountain National Park to close. It means I can’t get up to my favorite winter trails— Dream Lake,  Glacier Gorge or the alpine portion of Trail Ridge Road that’s closed to cars in the winter.

And yet I relish the thought that the park is returning to some wild state—if only temporarily. At Wild Basin in winter, normally the road is plowed half way up to the trailhead (that goes to Ouzel Falls), but with no park staff to plow the road, the gate is now closed at the entrance station. This week, when I skied down the road (below) that I usually drive, it felt like the landscape was returning to some  natural state, with the snow piling up on the dirt road and being pushed around by the wind rather than a plow truck.

Most visitors to the park hike in only a mile or so from the trailhead, so if they are starting at the now closed entrance, that means most of the park is empty of humans.

I wonder if the animals notice the difference. Suddenly, they don’t have to be careful crossing the road and don’t have tourists with cameras following their every move. With the new blanket of snow, the trails and unplowed roads blend into the landscape. Maybe best of all, there’s complete silence—no motor noise, no human chatter, no garbage cans or restroom doors clanging. Maybe even the hibernating bears can get some sleep.

I’ve read that humans have more of an impact on nature than we know, that animals stay clear of human trails. Without humans, maybe the elk feel calmer, or the bobcats and coyotes are better able to hear the sounds of their prey—mice scurrying through the grasses, for example. Maybe the stellar jays are talking among themselves—they love to chatter —about how quiet it is. Where did all the humans go?

We’re waiting, some of us not so patiently, on the edges of the park, for it to reopen. Meanwhile, beyond human reach— in the ponderosa forests, open meadows and high mountains— nature is taking a deep sigh, enjoying the quiet and slow pace before the government opens again, the entrance gates come up, and humans rush in with all our noise, trash, speediness and self-obsession.

 

For the Love of Cold

A bulge of arctic air descended on Colorado last week. When I went cross-country skiing on Saturday, the high was 15 degrees. But out on the trail, enjoying each stretch of the skis through powdered snow, marveling at the thick layers of snow on the high peaks, and feeling the comfort of the sun’s rays, I didn’t mind the cold; in fact, it felt good. After a summer of hot weather and little precipitation—a weather pattern that extended into the fall—the cold seems like a luxury, something to enjoy, relish and be grateful for.

Last November, I was inside the cabin staring out at the few inches of snow on the ground—an early winter gift. On my computer I saw a story about a fire that destroyed the town of Paradise, California. At first I couldn’t make my brain compute—trying to correlate the snow on the ground here with the videos of the gray ruins of a town and flames ravaging forests. Surely, this was some technical glitch on the Internet, producing a story from last summer. When I realized the horrifying truth, I could only wish for snow and cold to descend on California, as it eventually did.

In this age of climate change and increasing fires, winter has become a respite. After worrying all summer that a fire would break out among the cabins and forests in Meeker Park and the rest of Colorado, and watching the ponderosas, aspens, willow bushes and flowering plants start to suffer from lack of moisture, I relax now, knowing that the blanket of snow is replenishing the trees and other vegetation.   

After days last summer of smoky skies and air from fires to the West, for the next few months I don’t have to worry about breathing in the noxious air when I  go for a walk. And I don’t have to avoid going for a hike in the middle of the day because it’s too hot. Instead I can enjoy our clear skies, deeply blue once again, inhale the sharp, cold air and even enjoy the natural warmth of the sun.

More than that, the cold feels like a challenge, like something alive, something that wakes us up. Cold reminds us that the world can be hostile and that we have to be constantly alert. A small thing like accidentally getting my glove wet (dropping it in the snow, for example) when I’m out hiking or skiing can lead to serious consequences, like frostbite. Or if I take the wrong turn on a trail and got lost, even if for a short period of time, I could suffer from hypothermia if I can’t find my way back before early darkness and cold descended.

On the other hand, warmth puts us at ease and lulls us into a sense of security that might not be warranted in this day and age when glaciers are melting, the sea is rising, and a whole town can be wiped out by a catastrophic fire.

Even as I write this, the temperatures here in the mountains have climbed into the 50s—almost unheard of at 8,500 feet in January and another ominous sign of global warming. The snow is starting to melt around the edges, and the creeks are already thawing. I’m already looking forward to the next cold snap.