So far, in my 14er journey I’ve had surprisingly good luck with weather. Weather’s a huge factor when it comes to climbing mountains, not just because you don’t want to be outside in the cold and wet, but because at fourteen thousand feet the weather can be unpredictable and unforgiving.  

Once above timberline, there’s nowhere to shelter from whatever comes your way. And on any given mountain, you’re going to be up there in the open for hours. Conditions can change astonishingly fast.  Even on a sunny day, clouds can roll in in just a few minutes dropping temperatures and precipitation.  Hypothermia is a definite risk, but lightning is the greatest danger.  On a high mountain ridge, surrounded by nothing but an open talus field, you are essentially the tallest thing on the landscape and therefore, the most likely target.

In climbing 14ers, I may have, on occasion, overestimated my speed through complex terrain or underestimated by aversion to exposure but when it comes to weather, luck has been on my side. Until it wasn’t.

Next on my climb list were two peaks in the San Juan mountains southwest of Lake City, Redcloud Peak and Sunshine Peak. Less than a mile and a half apart and not technical, they are usually climbed together. The route involves an ascent up and over Redcloud via the mountain’s northeast ridge, a traverse south over to Sunshine and a return back over Redcloud. With a round trip of 12 miles and 4,800 feet of vertical it makes for a challenging but not unreasonable day.

After a summer in which we couldn’t buy a rainstorm, the Super El Nino seems to be kicking in and the afternoon monsoon showers that we should have seen in June and July are just now showing up in September. To maximize my weather window, I picked a day with minimal chance of afternoon rain and arranged for an overnight stay in one of Lake City’s rustic cabin motels to allow for the earliest possible start.

I was at the Silver Creek trailhead shortly after 6:00 a.m. I could see stars through intermittent clouds in the gradually illuminating sky. The air was still and damp from the previous night’s rain.  And even in the dim light I could see the golden glow of aspens on the mountainsides all around me.  I was in for a treat.  Fall has arrived in the San Juans. 

Signs for the Silver Creek trailhead.  Taken in the afternoon when there was enough light to actually read them.

Fritillary?

Heading up the Silver Creek trail in the dim morning light.

The views were classic Colorado.

The trail follows Silver Creek all the way up into a high basin. The creek is beautiful but from the trail I noticed it looked a little odd. You know how cascading water appears white from air bubbles created by turbulence?  Silver Creek was like that the whole way up, even in sections where the water clearly wasn’t cascading.   I decided to hike down to the creek to get a closer look.

To my surprise, the water was crystal clear. What was white was the creek bed and the rocks on the banks.  I touched one of the rocks. It felt like it was coated in some kind of hard mineral.  No, I did not taste my fingers.

Reaching a hand into the cold water, the white on the bottom of the creek was a fine white powder that appeared to have been deposited by the stream. I had never seen this.  All I can think of is the water must be extremely high in some mineral. Calcium maybe?  Over time, as the water churns down the mountainside, the mineral settles out and gets deposited on the surrounding rocks.

Here’s a short video of how it looks up close.

Here’s a photo of where a small spring, rust colored from high iron, flows into the white water of Silver Creek.

My favorite shot.  Silver Creek with golden aspens.

Heading into the upper basin.

I met this little guy along the way. Pikas are usually extremely elusive. In the mountains, when you’re small you don’t live long unless you stay far away from anything and everything.  But this guy was hanging out near its burrow next to the trail and sat still long enough for me to get a couple of pictures.

A tarn in the middle of the basin. The mud on the banks made me think it was previously dry but had been partially refilled by recent rains.

Looking back on Handies Peak and Whitecross Mountain from the basin.

Climbing out of the basin up to Redcloud’s northeast ridge.

On the northeast ridge, Redcloud’s summit finally comes into view. 

The trail on the northeast ridge was well-defined and easy to follow but surprisingly steep.

Almost to the false summit.

As I was approaching the top of the false summit at 13,800 feet, the wind, which had been non-existent to this point, suddenly kicked in from the south. I looked up to see this coming directly at me from up the valley. Oh crap!  It was ten o’clock in the morning.  This is not supposed to happen at ten o’clock in the morning.  

Within seconds the sky darkened to an ominous shade of gray. A wall of cold air hit me in the face and the rain started. I quickly pulled my extra fleece out of my pack, pulled it on and snapped up the hood on my rain shell.  The rain intensified, blowing sideways, mixing with graupel.  I snapped one more photo at the point where I turned around.  

I stuffed my phone back into my pocket and began partly running, partly sliding back down the ridge.  How I managed to not fall on my ass is beyond me. The rain was falling in fat, cold drops. In just a half dozen strides, my shoes and pant legs were soaked.  I kept running.  My only thought was to get off that exposed ridge as fast as possible.

I ran for maybe 20 minutes. Then, as quickly as it started, the wind died and the rain stopped. I could see blue sky through patches of clouds.  

Oh, for crying out loud!   I turned around to look back up the ridge.  My fear turned to exasperation. I was approximately 1,000 feet below the point where I turned around. I sat down on a rock to ponder my fate. Relieved to realize I wasn’t going to die in a lightning strike or require a rescue, I was now faced with the decision of whether to retrace my steps back up the ridge and continue my hike or to call it a day and head back down.

Mentally, having to regain 1,000 steep, hard-earned feet is extremely difficult. I could’ve forced myself to do it but if I did, by the time I reached Redcloud’s summit an additional hour would have elapsed and physically, I would be spent. And by extending my climb later into the day, I was increasing the likelihood of getting caught in another, possibly more prolonged storm.  Doing the double over to Sunshine Peak and back, was out of the question.

Disappointed for not having reached my goal, I headed back down.

Back down at the trailhead I could finally see Sundog Peak in daylight, all decked out in its fall colors.

In hindsight, for the 20 minutes it took the storm to pass I could have just hunkered down on the northeast ridge and let it blow past. But in the moment, there was no way to tell how long it would last or how severe it would get. Turning around was the right decision.  A hard decision, but the correct one.  Sometimes when climbing it’s easy to forget that I’m doing this for fun.  I’m not getting paid to summit.  I don’t HAVE to do it.  The decision to turn around is the proper response to what are very real risks versus the arbitrary reward of crossing a mountain off a list.

And as always in Colorado, it’s not like it was a bad day. I spent the morning outside in the fresh air working legs and lungs in a stunningly beautiful landscape. Most importantly, I returned safely home to tell about it.