Trip Report
Five Days in the Weminuche Wilderness
Climbing Mount Jupiter
August 1 - 5, 1999
by Dale Barnard
Crew: Denise Prendergast and Dale Barnard
The Vallecito Trailhead lies just at the southern edge of the Weminuche Wilderness of the San Juan Mountains in Southern Colorado. We had most of five days to hike twenty-three miles, at which time we would flag down the Durango-Silverton Narrow Gauge Train that would return us to civilization in Durango. Denise, armed with plenty of moleskin, wore new hiking boots that still needed to be broken in. She seemed a little nervous about the timespan of the journey, thinking ahead about how she would smell at the end of five days without a shower, and how fun it would be to put on wet, smelly clothes each morning. However, her excitement about trying something new seemed to give her the strength to face it with a smile. Throughout the trip, she proved how open-minded she was to the significant levels of filth and discomfort that all backpackers face.
She set out on the trail in front of me, as she would throughout the trip, setting the pace to her liking. She carried twenty-five pounds in an REI-brand internal-frame pack, and I carried forty-two in an REI-brand external frame pack. We each had eight pounds of food. The trail gradually ascended along Vallecito Creek, beginning at 7,916 feet in elevation, providing us with ample time to acclimate. The trail climbed the valley high above the level of the creek. A narrow gorge below us obscured a direct view of the water from the trail, but we could hear its thundering sound as it rushed down the valley. After a few miles, the day-hikers disappeared, leaving only those willing to carry camping gear on their backs. The afternoon showers arrived right on schedule, around one o’clock, and stayed with us until just before nightfall.
At about mile six, the creek gorge diminished, and the valley opened up to mossy meadows full of flowers, strawberries, and colorful mushrooms. We camped in a healthy aspen grove, making sure to position ourselves out of range of dead trees that could fall on us. We cooked ramen noodles, hung our food bags in a distant tree to avoid an encounter with hungry black bears, and then squeezed ourselves into our little tent for a good night's sleep. During the following restless nights, we would look back at this night of low-altitude sleep with longing.
In the morning, the sun came out, and we cooked instant oatmeal and sipped hot coffee, nicely warming us from the inside out on this chilly morning. Bringing a light-weight stove had been Denise's idea. On my other trips, I generally roughed it with cold food to minimize weight.
After hiking two miles through the mossy valleys, we crossed the rushing creek on a bridge and headed up the Johnson Creek Drainage toward Columbine Pass. We said good-bye to the wide, gradual Vallecito Trail and began a much steeper climb. The trail was surrounded with plentiful wildflowers that seemed to beg us to take their pictures. It was around 11,000 feet that we saw our first Colorado Columbine, an intricate white and purple flower. After a six-mile day, we camped high in the Vallecito Basin near timberline with two other tents nearby. The thin air at 11,400 feet and the persistent rain tapping on our tent made sleeping difficult.
In the morning, we waited in the tent for a while, hoping for a break in the rain, but we finally gave up and cooked breakfast. The trail quickly left timberline and climbed steeply up grassy slopes to the glacially-carved Columbine Lake at the base of Columbine Pass. We then began hiking straight up toward Columbine Pass, feeling a bit puzzled as to why the trail suddenly stopped offering gradual switchbacks. By the time we huffed and puffed our way to the top of Columbine Pass at 12,680 feet elevation, the temperature had turned very cold, and the wind whipped up the valley. Usually, reaching a pass rewards a hiker with an expansive view into another drainage system, but this time, the fog blocked the view.
We congratulated ourselves on completing the upward half of the five-day hike. Descending the other side of Columbine Pass, now in the Needle Creek drainage, we were soon rewarded by a momentary break in the fog, revealing one of the most spectacular sights I have ever seen. Far below us, spruce trees clustered in the wide valley floor, and in a semi-circle around us stood majestic, granite peaks, some of which reached more than 14,000 feet in elevation. We could only imagine how thin the air must feel atop the peaks, 1,400 feet above us. Creeks of all sizes raced down the steep, treeless slopes, forming cascading waterfalls and sharply-cut gorges. The alpine mountainsides blossomed with a variety of wildflowers, contrasted against green slopes and sheer granite faces.
Once we reentered timberline in Chicago Basin around three o'clock in the afternoon, we immediately set up camp, worn out by the unrelenting rain and cold, although our total mileage for the day was less than four miles. We spent most of the afternoon in the dry tent, reading aloud to each other. I had carried along Part One of Lonesome Dove, which I had ripped out of the mega-novel in order to conserve weight.
I spent some of my free time studying my guide books to plan my summit attempts the next day. They gave vague directions such as, "When the trail leaves timberline, scramble up the grassy slope to the west ridge." The Trails Illustrated topographic map provided some guidance, but the scale was such that only the most prominent features could be related to the actual view from the valley below. I had allowed only one day for mountain climbing before we would have to hike down to the train, so the poor weather conditions threatened to prevent any summit attempts.
I woke up the next morning at 7:00 to the sound of continuing rain. Luckily, there seemed to be no lightening, which would have prevented hiking above timberline. I decided to attempt a summit, without any high expectations of success to avoid disappointment. Denise chose to stay at camp for the day since mountain climbing had no appeal to her. I felt drawn to the high country, particularly the challenge of the thin air. I emptied all but the essentials from my backpack, added some snack foods and two liters of water, said good-bye to Denise for the day, and set out through the cold rain toward the nearest high mountain called Jupiter. Although it was not one of the much-sought-after "14ers", it still seemed like a good challenge at 13,840 feet. I hoped to follow a summit of Jupiter with a summit of the 14,087-foot Windom.
With thick fog obscuring a clear view of the mountains, I had to rely entirely on my guidebook to decide which ridge to ascend. When I thought that I had found the correct ridge, I began hiking straight up its steep, trailless slope toward the clouds. Within an hour of huffing and puffing, I found myself standing atop the ridge, able to see both the Johnson Creek and the Needle Creek drainages from a single vantage point. Johnson Creek feeds into Vallecito Creek, while Needle Creek feeds into the Animas River, all eventually draining into the Colorado River.
I followed the ridge over large boulders and rock pinnacles to a high point that I thought might be Jupiter Mountain. Silly me! As I followed the ridge down the other side and then back up toward a still-higher peak that I hoped was 14,087-foot Windom, I eventually realized that I had initially ascended the wrong ridgeline, and it took almost two hours of precarious and strenuous climbing and scrambling along the rough ridgeline before I finally stood below a giant peak emerging out of the fog.
This peak dwarfed the other high points along the ridgeline that I had been climbing. Unfortunately, two missing chunks of the ridgeline lay between the peak and me. I had to retrace my steps a bit and then downclimb a steep, rocky ridge, followed by a horizontal traverse to pass below the notches, and finally climb back up to the ridgeline to resume the climb toward the summit.
It took less than thirty minutes to climb to the top, with only a large block above me that was the true summit. I set down my pack and hiking staff, and then made two easy rock-climbing moves to reach the top. Under a rock cairn on top, I found a summit register. Finally, I could know exactly which peak I had climbed. Had it taken me three hours to climb Jupiter Mountain or had I already climbed Jupiter and now stood on Windom Peak?
It was Jupiter. Ugh. If I had ascended the correct ridge in the first place, I could have avoided perhaps an hour and a half of effort. Nevertheless, I felt a certain sense of accomplishment as I peered out in every direction into the fog bank. I stood 13,840 feet above sea level, nearly a thousand feet higher than I had ever climbed. At least I was not alone in my disorientation along the ridgeline; when I looked at the summit register, the comment field of the previous entry, dated three weeks earlier, simply read, "I thought this was Windom."
After a short rest in the chilly air, I signed the register and then climbed back down to my backpack to study my maps. I still hoped to summit Windom Peak. Already, my legs felt like jelly, and my lungs burned from the cold air, but the day was still young. My guidebook said, "To reach Windom Peak from Jupiter Mountain, downclimb the north side of the west ridge." That seemed like a good start, but how would I know when to begin ascending again? With the thick fog, I could not see Windom Peak, which, according to the topographic map, lay a short distance away along the same ridgeline.
As luck would have it, the fog momentarily cleared, revealing a tremendous view of the valley below, giving me a few minutes to try to determine which peak was Windom. Without a more detailed map, it was difficult to find a good climbing route. I decided to downclimb below a steep snow field, traverse along the ridge a few hundred feet, and then try to regain the ridgeline.
The closer I got, the larger the snow field appeared. I decided to try crossing it. I planted my hiking staff, kicked the side of my boot into each step, and slowly worked my way across. Once, my feet slipped out from under me, and I caught myself by putting all of my weight on my trusty hiking staff, leaving a 30-degree bend in it. The staff continued to be useful. Once across the snow field, I ascended a steep scree slope until I found myself staring up at some precariously perched rocks that, if dislodged, would fall on top of me. I had to downclimb a fair distance before trying a different route. This time, I got much higher, although it got steeper and steeper. I was stopped near the top by a slick, exposed rock face that I felt was just too dangerous of a climb.
At this point, I started realizing that I may not make it up Windom Peak unless I could find some other climbers to point me in the right direction. It took another two hours of scrambling and traversing beneath several peaks before I finally arrived at Twin Lakes, an area dotted with a few other climbers. They showed me an easy-to-follow route up Windom Peak, but unfortunately, I had already expended a lot of effort in my attempts, and it was already two o'clock in the afternoon, leaving me with a painful decision: Should I attempt the two-hour ascent of Windom Peak in the degenerating weather and risk arriving back at camp in the cold darkness, or should I abandon further attempts?
I decided that since I had no flashlights with me, and I was already fatigued, it was best to start back to camp. I still had to descend more than 1,500 vertical feet to the valley floor before making the final thirty-minute climb to camp. It took almost two hours to reach camp, where I was glad to rejoin Denise. She had read a whole book—“Stick”, by Elmore Leonard—while hiding out from the rain. We made ramen noodles and hot coffee, a welcome feeling of warmth after a cold day.
In the morning, we faced only seven miles of downhill hiking to reach the train by 4:30. As feared, Denise's new boots gave her many problems, and we stopped three times to adjust her moleskin and bandages. Nevertheless, the miles flew by and we arrived at the Animas River before 3:00. One of the four scheduled trains had already picked up twenty wet hikers, and another twenty or thirty still waited. Most of the hikers were boy scouts who passed the time by throwing rocks and climbing trees. The next two trains were already full and did not stop for us. Thankfully, the final train of the day always picks up any remaining hikers, even if there are no seats available. After waiting two hours in the rain, we welcomed the last train of the day, which luckily had plenty of seats for everyone.
The Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad, built around 1882 to service the silver miners, cuts its path though the Animas River Valley along steep cliffs and grassy meadows. It felt great to sit and watch the wilderness go by at a mere twenty miles per hour, transitioning us slowly back to civilization. Denise had completed her first serious backpacking trip with sore feet, tired muscles, and one roll of photos to show for it. She did stink quite a lot, but no more than I. When I mentioned the possibility of doing some more backpacking in a few days, it proved to be poor timing on my part. Time to reminisce and heal would be required before discussion of future hiking trips.
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