Scaling the Needle

-Westcliffe, CO-

I breathe the fresh air into my lungs as I step out of my car and look toward the mountains. Zoe and I are here to climb the famous Crestone Needle over a year since our last 14er adventure together at Capitol Peak. Grabbing my gear from the trunk of my Prius, I hop into Zoe’s higher clearance, four-wheel-drive vehicle to navigate the treacherous miles of road between us and our campsite at the true trailhead. As the sun sinks lower in the sky and we drive deeper into the shadows of the forest, we can’t help but feel a little nervous. Will we have another hellish night in the wilderness, feeling the oppressive sensation of being watched like we did at Capitol, or will our joy of camping be restored? I’m unsure, but there’s no turning back now.

The road is in worse condition than the reports on the internet suggested. We pressed on at a slow crawl, navigating carefully around massive potholes and slick boulders. One troublesome drainage pipe almost proved impossible for us to get over. With the help of some friendly but eccentric hikers, we eventually get the SUV over the pipe and guide the vehicle safely to the trailhead. We breathe sighs of relief, thankful to have made it and dreading the drive back down. Our one comforting thought is that the road is dry. In the rain, such a drive would be impossible.

After we set up our tent and get some hot camping food in our bellies, I’m struck by how peaceful the site feels. As night falls and the moon rises above us, I realize I don’t feel the anxiety and paranoia I had been so worried would carry over from the Capitol Peak trip. I’m almost giddy, excited to finally be back climbing a 14er with Zoe. I can’t shake the feeling that this is going to be a successful trip after all.

“Something always goes wrong,” Zoe reminds me. “On every trip one thing has to go wrong.”

“Maybe our trouble on the road was the one thing,” I say optimistically as I settle into my sleeping bag for the night. I set my alarm for 4AM and struggle to fall asleep, feeling a bit like a kid on Christmas Eve.

When the alarm goes off, the sky is just as dark as it was when I closed my eyes. Shivering in the early morning breeze, we quickly warm our bellies with some hot-off-the-camp-stove oatmeal before gathering our gear for the twelve-mile round trip hike ahead. With our headlamps lighting the way, we take a quick glance at the trailhead signs warning us about the dangers of climbing the Needle and its sister mountain, Crestone Peak. At this point in our 14ers journey, we know the drill: watch for wild animals, bring plenty of water, stick to trails when possible, and most importantly, don’t get caught up above tree line during a thunderstorm. Fortunately, the weather forecast for the day was clear, so we press on. We’ve got a long day ahead.

It takes us until sunrise to reach the end of the trees where Crestone Needles finally shows its impressive shape, reflected back off the South Colony Lakes. Around the lake several campers are just now having their breakfasts and gearing up for the climb. Part of me wishes that we had backpacked in and camped here as well, but I enjoyed the peace of mind that came with camping so close to the car. Still, the prospect of waking up and only having a little over a mile until the summer has me feeling a little jealous.

Looking up at the steep gully before us, I groan. These first gullies are always the worst. This one is all the stands between me and what I really came here for, the sporty class 3 climbing on solid rock beyond. The air feels thin in my lungs; I haven’t acclimated to the altitude yet and I’m significantly less in shape than I had been the previous summer. To make matters worse as we considered the daunting challenge ahead, Zoe’s stomach began to ache fiercely. Knowing this is my one shot to summit a 14er in 2019, I panic for a moment. What if this ends up being just another failed climb? The summit fever is real. I’m not ready to call it quits just yet.

“Can we try to make it up the gully to the ridge?” I ask.

“I think so.”

“Ok, but seriously, let me know if you need to stop or turn back,” I say, selfishly hoping it won’t come to that.

We stop and start so many times I lose count, but, just like the Little Train Who Could, we refuse to quit. When we finally reach the top of the gully, we turn back to see how far we’ve come and gasp at the view. A beautiful valley winds beneath us, decorated with still lakes and distant peaks. All of it glows with the golden light of the early morning.

“Even if we don’t summit, this view right here is worth the whole trip,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty bad,” Zoe says. “But I can keep going a little longer.”

I survey the route ahead. Now, we must descend the other side of the ridge a way and make our way around the back of the mountain to where the trail ends and the scrambling begins. The closer we get to the peak, the farther our destination seems to be. The tip of the Needle towers impossibly high above us. I feel a mix of excitement and fear churn inside me. If we succeed this will be the most difficult 14er we have ever summitted.

In addition to the steep scrambling it requires, the South Face of the Crestone Needle presents some difficult route finding. Cairns still guide the way, but eventually they become harder to spot. A few stones stacked on top of each other blend into the surrounding mountainous terrain. Additionally, at some point we will have to cross over from one gully into another to avoid much more difficult climbing. From our research we know there is one good place to cross over and we know that is can be very difficult to spot. After ascending several hundred feet, we spot a rock formation that looks similar to the pictures. Right beneath it should be our portal to another gully that leads all the way up to the summit.

Safely in this last gully, we look up toward our goal and I once again feel a twinge of exhausted despair. We’ve come so far, but it looks like we’ve barely made any progress at all. Realistically, we are less than a quarter of the mile from the summit, but when the terrain is this steep a quarter of a mile feels like a marathon. Tired and aching, we press on knowing that we’ve come way too far to turn back.

Foot by foot we climb and at last we reach the summit. To the south we can see the majestic Great Sand Dunes. They look surprisingly small from up here, but no less striking. To the west, Crestone Peak stands slightly taller than the Needle. A jagged ridgeline connects the two peaks, and we are both relieved that we decided not to try to climb Crestone Peak and climb the traverse over to the Needle. With Zoe’s aching stomach and our exhaustion, I don’t think we would have made it off the mountain if we had attempted that route today.

Satisfied by our success and encouraged by the lack of any approaching storm clouds, we sit down to enjoy the view and some well-earned snacks. I can almost see the curve of the earth from up here. Sitting on the eye of the Needle, I am reminded why I love climbing mountains so much. Every climb pushes me to a point where every muscle in my body begs me to quit, but I keep going. I reach a point where I look how far I have to go and don't think I can do it, but I keep pushing anyway. Mountain climbing reminds me that friendship sticks through the roughest patches, both physical and emotional, and offers encouragement through it all. It's hard work, but those who put in the effort are rewarded with beauty and accomplishment. In my several years of climbing mountains I have found that I'm tougher than I ever could have imagined.

Much to the chagrin of our tired bodies, however, what comes up must come back down. Downclimbing steep rock is frequently scary and never much fun, but we are even more worried about the descent thanks to that gully cross over. On the way up, missing the gap just meant some more challenging climbing. Some people even choose to go this way. On the way down, though, if we miss the gap we will descend too far into the gully and reach a deadly drop-off. According to internet reports, this mistake is common and has lead to deaths in the past.

A ways down, I point off a cairn that seems to mark the gap. We cross over and find ourselves somewhere altogether unfamiliar. For about half an hour we compare our surroundings with pictures saved on our phones, climbing up and down both gullies for over half an hour. We know we will have to make a decision soon, before we become too tired to climb anything safely. We must either risk climbing down too far in one gully looking for the actual cross-over or descend a difficult stretch of rock knowing at least we are in the right gully. I argue for the latter option, hoping I'm not leading us to our deaths. I'm confident enough in our climbing abilities that I decide it is worth the risk to avoid cliffing out.

I'll never know if we made the best decision, but we eventually make it back to level ground after an eternity of the most stressful down-climbing of my life. The easier, but still miserable class 2 gully back down to South Colony Lakes is uneventful. At this point, I'd give anything to be back at the trailhead. Dark clouds gather in the distance but mercifully leave us dry as we walk. About six miles of wobbly, trance-like hiking later my wish comes true. The tent and car wait for us right as we left them.

Packing up the tents, I look over at Zoe and smirk. "I guess you were right, something does have to go wrong after all. The drive up here. You feeling sick. Us getting lost again. I feel like I never want to climb another 14er again."

As we climb into the car and I sink into the cushioned seat, the idea of climbing another mountain sounds miserable, laughable even. I couldn't be more relieved that this adventure is over. Zoe turns the key in the ignition. The car sputters but doesn't start. She tries again to no avail. After everything else that has happened, I can't believe anything else could go wrong, much less getting stranded miles away from civilization by a car that won't start.

Tensions are high as Zoe tries every trick in the book to get her car working. Nothing. To avoid flooding the tank with gas we let it rest for a few minutes. The dark clouds we saw earlier are right on top of us. If it starts to rain, it is unlikely we'll be able to get the SUV back down the mess of a four wheel drive rode even if we do get it started. Neither of us particularly wants to spend another night in the woods without dinner either.

Breathing a quick prayer, Zoe tries the key again. Nothing. One more try and finally the engine comes to life. Seizing the window of opportunity, Zoe pulls the vehicle back out of our campsite and steers us toward the road. Without warning, the clouds open and the rain pours. Thunder claps and echoes in the valley as we attempt to make it down the road before the rain renders it impassable.

No such luck.

The rain comes down so hard that it takes effort to be heard over the roar. Water rages down the road, quickly turning the dirt to slippery mud. Several times, I climb out into the elements to guide Zoe around and over obstacles. Bottoming out on a sharp rock is constantly a concern and we wince every time we hear a rock scraping beneath us.

One final pothole and the surrounding boulders force us so far up onto the side of the road the SUV seems certain to flip. Looking at me with fear in our eyes, Zoe says, "I don't think I can do this. I'm going to destroy my car and we're going to be stuck here. And I think I might have a flat tire now."

I'm no longer sure that we're going to make it out either. We can't move backward. Moving forward will likely flip the car. Even if we do move forward the rocks will probably tear the bottom of the car apart. It's going to take a miracle and a little luck to get out of this. With held breaths, we inch forward a little bit at a time. It's past the time to care about the rocks screeching against the side of the car. My side of the car is lifted higher in the air. Please don't flip.

"You can do this, Zoe. We've made it this far." I hope I sound more confident than I feel. I try to hide my fear.

At last, we make it past the obstacle. I feel like crying with relief, but I can't let myself relax until we make it back down the road to my car. The last couple of miles are rough, but nothing compared to what we've left in the rearview mirror. When we finally return to paved road, I sigh.

"Never again."

"Never again," Zoe agrees.

Somehow I know neither of us truly mean it. We'll be back on a mountain again before we know it, but for now we go our separate ways and happily leave the many misadventures of Crestone Needle behind us.