On the Road in the Rockies - Part 3

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6-  RACING THE STORM

A few miles down the east side of Independence Pass stands a monolithic chunk of glacier-polished granite called Monitor Rock.  With a summit elevation of 10,469 feet, it reigns omnipotent over the forest, glowering down on travelers on Highway 82.  Of all the remarkable climbing in the Pass area, this is the biggest stone around.  How could we NOT climb it?  Just down the road is the Twin Peaks campground, and we stayed here for two nights, nestled deep in an aspen grove with a sublime view down the valley (undeniably one of the best campsites of our trip).

It was drizzling when we arrived late in the afternoon.  There were only a handful of other campers: most of the sites lay empty.  Our closest neighbors, two vacant sites between us, were three climbers from Grand Junction.  For two days, they had been grappling the sport routes on Monitor Rock’s west face, and each afternoon, they said, storm clouds would rumble in, bringing showers that would last until nightfall.  Come morning, it would be bright and sunny again, and thus the cycle repeated itself.  Their advice to us: Get an early start.

Our interest lay in two old trad routes on the Monitor’s south face: Trooper Traverse (5.8) and The Nose (5.6).  Both are five to six pitches long, with a history going back to the 1940s when they were first climbed by members of the Army’s Tenth Mountain Division (they trained in this area during WW2 to prepare for combat in the Alps).  Trooper Traverse had been my first choice.  But since it had rained unremitting into the night, we opted for The Nose at the last minute—it would be easier and almost certainly quicker.

We set the alarm for six o’clock and, as the Grand Junction climbers had foretold, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky come morning.  Coffee and oatmeal for breakfast, and then we drove a mile up the highway to the crag.  The Nose follows a broad, south-facing buttress through a series of ledges, with an easy, 15-minute approach to the start of the climb.  The route was in the sun, which was nice.  Better still, we had the whole place to ourselves.

I led the first pitch, which followed smooth, broken slabs and overlaps that were still seeping rainwater in places.  A hundred feet up, I came face to face with the first crux of the day: a 5.6 overhang.  The cracks were still a little wet, but the hand jam was adequate for the awkward high-step onto a

polished slab to gain a higher hand hold.  A few more delicate moves got me to an exposed stance where I could plug in another cam, and then it was smooth jamming up to a comfy ledge.

I belayed Terry up and we sailed through the second pitch.  It was less difficult than the first one.  By now the sun had done a good job of drying out the rock and warming our spirits.  Pitch 3 wandered up disconnected cracks to a spacious ledge with a panoramic view of the valley—a view that was so divine, we decided to stay awhile to relish it.  Setting the rack and slings aside, we sat on that lofty perch and shared a granola bar.

It was during this respite when I began to take exceptional note of the clouds swelling up along the Continental Divide.  Fluffy white clouds had been scuttling across the sky all morning, but not of any size to cause alarm.  But now, the thunderheads forming yonder were dark and ugly and slowly coming our way, and I figured we had maybe two hours before they reached us.  The race was on.  I grabbed the rack as Ter put me on belay, and then I was scrambling up the next pitch.  It was easy ground, so I only placed a couple of obligatory Camalots along the way.  When I reached the next belay ledge, I built an anchor and brought Terry up.  Then I quickly started up Pitch 5: a 5.6 hand crack that was considered the crux of the climb.

I was about six feet above the belay ledge, at a stance to place my first piece of protection, when I reached for a sling and discovered that I didn’t have any.  Not one.

“Sweetie, you got the slings?” I asked.

“No. You have them.”

“No, dear, I’m telling you, I don’t have ‘em.”

“Well then, where are they?”

That’s when it hit me: I must’ve left them sitting on that big, gorgeous ledge with the panoramic view of the valley—the very ledge that was now 150 feet below us.  And not only was it the slings that I’d forgotten, but half of the spare carabiners!

I’ll admit it: I dropped the F bomb here.  Maybe two. (My wife will tell you that I was cursing like a drunken sailor, but who are you going to believe?)  I was pretty sure we could’ve squeaked by and finished the climb without the slings and extra ‘biners.  But leaving gear behind doesn’t come easy for me, except when it’s absolutely necessary. (Ask any climber: this stuff is not cheap.)  For this reason—that, and feeling like an idiot for forgetting gear—I down-climbed back to Terry and fixed the rope for a single-line rappel.  Then I rapped down to the prior belay ledge, and sure enough, there they were: right where I’d set them.  Quickly, I snatched them up and speed-climbed back as fast as I could, huffing and gasping the entire way.  Bleak storm clouds were now directly overhead, shutting out the sun.  I could smell the rain on the breeze.  It was coming.

Back on lead for Pitch 5, I jammed up the hand crack, plugging in gear, keeping it moving with a close eye on the sky.  Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the rain was holding.  I was almost out of rope when I reached a broad shelf with a twisted, lightning-scorched pine tree (a bad omen?).  I used the gnarled trunk for an anchor and belayed Terry up.  Far away, there was more thunder.  The summit was close at hand: just one pitch of easy climbing remained.  However, from what I had culled from the guidebook back at camp, we could now escape to the right, following a series of precarious but easy ledges to the back of the crag, and from there, descend a short, 3rd Class chimney to the ground.  With a storm bearing down and all the best pitches behind us, this seemed like the prudent option.  Much of the way was marked with small cairns (there were some big drop-offs if you were to go the wrong way), and before long, we were scrambling down the 3rd Class chimney to the forest floor.

We were trucking down the descent trail when the heavens opened up, first with hail and then rain.  Thunder crashed like artillery.  We donned our parkas and continued down the path, past an abandoned mine from a bygone era, down to the highway and back to the van.  By the time we reached the road, the rain had stopped and the sun was breaking out—at least for the moment.

Back at camp, we relaxed in the van for the remainder of the afternoon; reading books; listening to summer showers come and go until nightfall.  It was pasta and salad for dinner.  Then we turned in early, rain still tapping random patterns on the roof.  This is when one can reflect on the day, and the words of John Muir came to mind:

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away like the leaves of Autumn.”

7-  HIGH IN LEADVILLE

In 1882, the Tabor Opera House in Leadville hosted a lecture by the famous Irish playwright, Oscar Wilde, one of many celebrities who visited this bustling Silver Boom town, the second largest town in Colorado at the time, after Denver.  Wilde later recounted his visit to one of the many saloons along Harrison Avenue, recalling a sign on the piano which read: “Please do not shoot the pianist. He is doing his best.”  Not long after, at the Silver Dollar Saloon across the street from the Tabor, Doc Holliday shot a man over a five dollar gambling dispute.

Those were indeed Wild West days, but Leadville has changed considerably since then.  For starters, population-wise, it’s now only a fraction the size of its heyday when all the mines were running full tilt.  At an elevation of 10,200 feet, it’s the highest incorporated city in the country, erected in a sage-covered valley near the headwaters of the Arkansas River, circled by divine peaks, one of them a 14’er named Mt. Elbert.

It was about noon when we arrived in town.  Inclement weather, or the pending threat of it, had dampened our aspirations for climbing on Monitor Rock for a second day, so we broke camp and hit the road.  Our first stop was the municipal water district office on the outskirts of town, where three dollars bought you potable water from a spigot attached to an old hand pump, similar to the pump Ma Ingalls used at the well in Little House On The Prairie.  You could pump until your tank was full or your arm fell off, whichever came first.

Pumping your own water (15 gallons worth) works up an appetite, so our next stop was downtown to find a place to eat.  We settled on the Golden Burro Café, which was next door to the Yellow Ass Saloon.  Terry had a tuna melt, while I went for the Ruben.  Then we split a piece of homemade pie for dessert.  The food was scrumptious, the service was extra friendly.  In fact, all the people in this town were unconditionally gracious and laid back.  After lunch, we strolled down Harrison Avenue, shop to shop, in and out of rain showers.  There were shops selling antiques; eclectic books; souvenirs; mountain bikes; backcountry skis; fishing tackle.  There was the Melanzana store, where you can walk in and literally buy their quality fleece clothes as they roll off the sewing machine.  In this respect, Leadville is the anti-Aspen, or at least resembles what Aspen must’ve been like in the 1960s before all the money moved into town.  The middle class works and lives full time in Leadville, and tend to embrace the rugged outdoors and are fiercely independent.

Ironically, the town can appear high in more ways than just elevation.  I passed by a marijuana dispensary shop on a side street, and this piqued my interest.  I whipped out my i-Phone and did some Googling (you gotta love 21st century technology).  Lo and behold, there are THREE pot stores here!  I found this quite intriguing, since Wikipedia reported the town’s population at 2,600, with 69 percent of them in the 18-60 age range, which calculated out to 598 potential customers per shop.  While it is unknown how many of those potential customers have health issues warranting a doctor’s prescription for a bong load, rest assured the ones in need are well taken care of.

The Great Outdoors is a big deal in this town, from fly fishing on the Arkansas River, to cycling over alpine passes.  For such a small community, there were a lot of bicycles, and the locals seemed to ride them everywhere: to work; school; the grocery store; the pot dispensary...  Come winter, there’s the annual skijoring competition (an old, Norwegian sport where skiers are pulled by dog teams or horses).  But the “Big Event” of the year is the Leadville 100, and it was just one week away.  We ducked into the race headquarters during a hailstorm and browsed through the T-shirts and souvenirs.  A slew of event organizers were hustling about, setting up tables and unloading boxes from a delivery truck.  This hardcore mountain bike race attracts over a thousand competitors, including the best pro riders.  It’s 100 miles of high-altitude riding, mostly singletrack and jeep roads, with a total elevation gain of 14,000 feet.  And if that’s not grueling enough, there’s the 100-mile trail run, which is held the day after the bike race.  Many of the entrants are Ironman ultra-marathoners, and they will compete in both races, back to back.

Late afternoon, the rains relented to a low, slate-grey sky.  We stopped at a grocery store on our way out of town to pick up a few more days of food.  As we were entering, a young couple on mountain bikes rolled up and parked at the bike rack near the door.  Both of them wore rain parkas and had scruffy dreadlocks and nose piercings, and they also looked in damn good shape.  The girl pulled a couple of canvas grocery bags out of her daypack and they followed us into the store.  That’s another thing: Ter and I were the only customers in the store who didn’t bring their own bags.  We stood out like a sore thumb at the checkout stand.  I felt like I should’ve been wearing a sign: “Please don’t shoot the tourist. He is doing his best.”

Exactly how does one get a marijuana prescription anyway?

8-  DOWNHILL AT THE BRECK

It was one of those immaculate days where everything seems to fall into place as a natural order of things.  We rose early morning to a warm sun and blue skies.  While Terry whipped up some Spanish omelets, I gave the bikes a checkout, and after breakfast, loaded them onto the rack.  We then drove into Breckenridge, up to the ski lodge, where we bought tickets; donned helmets; jumped on the lift; and before long, we were standing on a scenic ridge at 11,300 feet, psyched for the first run.  Then the second run.  Then the third run, and the fourth…

We began the day on the intermediate-level Swinger, discovering right away that the trails at Breckenridge—aka The Breck—contrasted from those at Snowmass.  Where the slopes of Snowmass were mostly loamy earth, making for smooth, fast trails, Breckenridge was comprised of brittle shale, spawning bone-jarring sections of trail that had our bikes’ suspension systems earning their keep.  Some of the rocks were deceptively loose, poised to ruin your day if your tire were to strike it at the wrong angle.  We were streaking down through the woods at one point, my wife leading the way.  I was tucked in right behind her, just twenty feet separating us.  But when we shot across one of those “loose” sections, she kicked up a stone the size of a golf ball, and it spun back and struck my helmet with a resounding smack, narrowly missing my face.  I didn’t tailgate her after that.

After five runs down the mountain, we stopped at the lodge at the bottom for a bite to eat.  The plaza was hopping with both tourists and cyclists.  Kids were darting through the crowd, cotton candy and balloons in hand.  A blues band was playing a Steve Miller tune, adding to the festive mood, all of this to a backdrop of emerald mountains and sunny skies.  Business-wise, The Breck appeared to be having a prosperous summer.  And with its close proximity to Denver—just 80 miles away—it probably does just as well during the ski season.

The actual town of Breckenridge was also very cool: a bustling hamlet with quaint shops, sidewalk cafés, and an excellent bakery that was out of this world (darn, I can’t remember the name of the place).  Another cool thing about Breckenridge is that it’s likely the most bicycle-friendly town in the country.  I’ve never seen so many bike paths and lanes—which may go to prove that if you build the bikeways, riders will come.

Meanwhile, back on the mountain, we were wrapping up lunch when a couple of gents in dusty riding duds asked if they could have our table when we left.  They looked to be in their late 30s, early 40s.  One was lean and quiet, while the other was burly and vociferous.  I chatted with them while Terry went to the bathroom.  They were from Austin, Texas, and the boisterous one swanked that he’d been to The Breck a few times before, and that it was one of his favorite places to go downhilling.

“It’s stellar man,” he declared.  Then he asked if we had gone down Dwight’s yet.  Dwight’s is a black diamond run, and when I conveyed that we hadn’t, he gushed: “You gotta ride it, man!  It’s awesome!  Best trail here.”

When Terry returned, we said our goodbyes to the Texans and headed over to the lift.  But just as we were queuing up to hand our bikes off to the lift operator, Terry sounded the alarm, pointing to my Camelback and crying: “Hey, hey!”

Somehow, the bite valve at the end of my bladder’s drinking tube had been ripped off, and water was squirting out in a steady stream, onto the ground, my bike, even hapless people walking by.  I quickly shut the finger valve, but by then, the bladder had pretty much been emptied.  We searched the ground for the bite valve, but alas, it was gone and lost forever, no doubt inadvertently yanked from the tube back at the lunch table.

After a post-lunch sortie down Pioneer to get the juices flowing and the confidence glowing, we elected to give Dwight’s a try.  Akin to the other trails, it was loose and rocky in places—only steeper.  We careened down through lodgepole and spruce, and in due course avoided the most gnarly section by escaping onto Breakaway.  It was daunting work—so daunting, in fact, that we gravitated back to the mellower Pioneer and Swinger for the remainder of the afternoon.  In all, we logged 27 miles for the day, descending 10,400 feet.

Back down at the lodge, we snagged an empty table outdoors and ordered up a couple of pale ales.  The band was still laying down a wicked groove at the far end of the patio, and all the tables were packed and kids were dancing about.  In fact, sitting at the table right next to us, were the two guys from Austin!  Only Mr. Vociferous didn’t look so well.  He looked as if somebody had beaten him with a baseball bat, slouched over with his elbows propped on the table, a handful of ice cubes pressed to his face.  Angry red scrapes were etched across his right cheek, from jaw to the temple, and his lips were swollen and bloodied.  His right leg and arm were also cut up, as if he’d been dragged across a giant cheese grater.

To hear the poor fellow tell it, he had been barreling down Dwight’s when he suddenly decided to take an “alternate” chute, and things went downhill—no pun intended—soon after that.  He catapulted over the handlebars into a face plant, and then tumbled down the slope a bit before coming to rest.  Miraculously, he didn’t break anything.  In fact, he was in surprisingly good cheer—or going into shock.  When he hobbled off to use the men’s room, obviously in pain, Terry suggested to his friend that maybe he should take him to the ER to see a doctor.

“Just in case,” she told him.

The man smiled, and replied: “I’m an ER doctor.”

So there you go.  Back at our campsite on Dillon Lake, nine miles north of town, we sat outside the van in our camp chairs with a glass of Shiraz, treasuring the sunset; Neil Young’s Harvest Moon on the stereo; the planet slowly rotating on its axis.  As the day withdrew on the horizon, one thing was assured: another one lay ahead.

TO BE CONTINUED...