The crisp air at our roadside campsite encouraged decisive moves. Camp struck, we drove to the trailhead, dropped packs at a locked gate on the gravel road Dr. Bobo used several years ago and according to the directions we consulted. Dr. Bobo drove the car to the parking area some two miles down the road, while Primate and I proceeded up the gravel road with Dr. Bobo's daypack.
I realized I forgot breakfast and lunch, which we'd stored in the cooler overnight, after Dr. Bobo drove away, tried to call him, but his cell phone was off.
About one and a half miles up the road, near another locked gate, an SUV sped by on a connecting gravel road headed downhill. I waited for Dr. Bobo.
I watched Dr, Bobo approach with sandwiches in hand. "I'm glad you remembered to bring those," I said, "I have some food along to snack on, but it would've been a hungry day. Can you believe that road?"
"That road may have been here when I was here last, but I followed the same directions in the guidebook and don't remember it."
On up the road another two miles we came to the ski area parking lot, our intended parking spot. One car occupied the lot.
"We could have driven here," I said, knew it too late to safe us any hiking distance.
Snow, the surface thawed and refrozen numerous times, crunched under our boots. We followed the blue-dot trail signs, spray-painted on the conifers towards Williams Lake.
The peak trail turned at Williams Lake, steeper up the flank of the mountain. Discouraged at the amount of snow, the trail buried, we followed old tracks and blue dots through the evergreen forest. Where the trail came to a gully with views of the up slope, we studied the patches of snow on the thirty-degree slopes. Doubts of our success emerged. Staying on the trail impossible, due to snow cover, and the snow crust slippery in places and soft, slushy in others, we debated.
Dr. Bobo said, "I'm having a hard time with this. I'm getting tired easily, but I'm okay when stop a few moments."
"Stop?" Primate said.
A more direct line up the slope over exposed rock and grass towards a ridge saddle appeared the easiest route, the steep slope would require more of a strenuous climb than hike, but minimize snow travel.
"We have all day, no rush, except if bad weather develops. Let's just take a beeline over the rock and grass," I said, more motivated to achieve the summit than Dr. Bobo, who's done Wheeler Peak.
"You go on ahead. You need to get to the summit, I don't," Dr. Bobo said. "I'll follow."
My effort reminded me of Denali, of Katadin, Whitney, many of my other climbs. Several steps up, a rest for several breaths, check up slope for the next best steps, avoid thoughts of failure, check for cloud formation above to judge a change in weather conditions. My adopted mountain mantra, Tinseng Norgay's words to Edmond Hillary on Everest, came to mind, "Slow means success."
I experienced a familiar climbing illusion - an objective appears far away, closer but still far away, then suddenly, as if by surprise, within easy reach. I crossed the exposed trail, continued my bee-line towards the ridge saddle. What was the point of following the trail?
Relieved to reach the flatter ridge trail, I felt reassured I'd succeed. Probably succeed, if good weather held. The clouds looked okay, the breeze stiffened. I quickened my pace, approached a high point on the ridge within a half-mile, saw a square cairn of cement and stone.
Could that be the summit?
A bronze plaque on the cairn at 13,161 feet read, WHEELER PEAK.
I took several photos to record my effort, started down without delay, no need to linger, always the possibility of an onset of bad weather.
Back down the ridge trail, I met Dr. Bobo on his way up. "I'm going on up," he said.
"I'll wait for you here," I said. "I'll find a soft place to sit my butt."
"Sit," Primate said. "Tired."
Dr. Bobo voice echoed off the mountainside, "Woo hoo."
When Dr. Bobo rejoined me, we refueled on our sandwiches, hydrated, recuperated and mentally prepared for our down climb.
Slow, we snaked down on clear trail, then followed our direct path towards the gully to gear I'd left behind.
Out of danger of possible lightening strikes, into forest with partial cover from rain, our thoughts turned towards the car, each step that carried us there. We focused on the slushy snow of late morning, worked to avoid a slip or post-holing up to our knees, or higher. Sore knees and tired feet turned the hike into a chore.
Dr. Bobo's called to me from behind.
I answered, concluded he'd gotten off trail.
"I'll be there in a minute," he said. Moments later, "Damn it. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
I waited.
"I must've post-holed ten times," he said, when he caught up.
Onto gravel road again, we hiked faster, until we reached the lower locked gate. Dr. Bobo proceeded to the car while I stayed with our gear.
Down the road, by the clear-running stream, a celebratory bottle of Dead Guy's Ale, a Rogue River, Oregon brewed beer, helped dampen our aches before we headed south towards Alburquerque, past arts and crafts shops of Taos, along the Rio Grande, the afternoon traffic of Santa Fe, and stopped for the night in Bernalillo.
A well-earned and excellent southwestern style dinner at the Ancient Spirits Bar and Grille prepared us for an early turn to bed.
We drove 644 miles today.
Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.
I realized I forgot breakfast and lunch, which we'd stored in the cooler overnight, after Dr. Bobo drove away, tried to call him, but his cell phone was off.
About one and a half miles up the road, near another locked gate, an SUV sped by on a connecting gravel road headed downhill. I waited for Dr. Bobo.
I watched Dr, Bobo approach with sandwiches in hand. "I'm glad you remembered to bring those," I said, "I have some food along to snack on, but it would've been a hungry day. Can you believe that road?"
"That road may have been here when I was here last, but I followed the same directions in the guidebook and don't remember it."
On up the road another two miles we came to the ski area parking lot, our intended parking spot. One car occupied the lot.
"We could have driven here," I said, knew it too late to safe us any hiking distance.
Snow, the surface thawed and refrozen numerous times, crunched under our boots. We followed the blue-dot trail signs, spray-painted on the conifers towards Williams Lake.
The peak trail turned at Williams Lake, steeper up the flank of the mountain. Discouraged at the amount of snow, the trail buried, we followed old tracks and blue dots through the evergreen forest. Where the trail came to a gully with views of the up slope, we studied the patches of snow on the thirty-degree slopes. Doubts of our success emerged. Staying on the trail impossible, due to snow cover, and the snow crust slippery in places and soft, slushy in others, we debated.
Dr. Bobo said, "I'm having a hard time with this. I'm getting tired easily, but I'm okay when stop a few moments."
"Stop?" Primate said.
A more direct line up the slope over exposed rock and grass towards a ridge saddle appeared the easiest route, the steep slope would require more of a strenuous climb than hike, but minimize snow travel.
"We have all day, no rush, except if bad weather develops. Let's just take a beeline over the rock and grass," I said, more motivated to achieve the summit than Dr. Bobo, who's done Wheeler Peak.
"You go on ahead. You need to get to the summit, I don't," Dr. Bobo said. "I'll follow."
My effort reminded me of Denali, of Katadin, Whitney, many of my other climbs. Several steps up, a rest for several breaths, check up slope for the next best steps, avoid thoughts of failure, check for cloud formation above to judge a change in weather conditions. My adopted mountain mantra, Tinseng Norgay's words to Edmond Hillary on Everest, came to mind, "Slow means success."
I experienced a familiar climbing illusion - an objective appears far away, closer but still far away, then suddenly, as if by surprise, within easy reach. I crossed the exposed trail, continued my bee-line towards the ridge saddle. What was the point of following the trail?
Relieved to reach the flatter ridge trail, I felt reassured I'd succeed. Probably succeed, if good weather held. The clouds looked okay, the breeze stiffened. I quickened my pace, approached a high point on the ridge within a half-mile, saw a square cairn of cement and stone.
Could that be the summit?
A bronze plaque on the cairn at 13,161 feet read, WHEELER PEAK.
 |
| Connard On Wheeler Summit. |
I took several photos to record my effort, started down without delay, no need to linger, always the possibility of an onset of bad weather.
Back down the ridge trail, I met Dr. Bobo on his way up. "I'm going on up," he said.
"I'll wait for you here," I said. "I'll find a soft place to sit my butt."
"Sit," Primate said. "Tired."
Dr. Bobo voice echoed off the mountainside, "Woo hoo."
When Dr. Bobo rejoined me, we refueled on our sandwiches, hydrated, recuperated and mentally prepared for our down climb.
Slow, we snaked down on clear trail, then followed our direct path towards the gully to gear I'd left behind.
Out of danger of possible lightening strikes, into forest with partial cover from rain, our thoughts turned towards the car, each step that carried us there. We focused on the slushy snow of late morning, worked to avoid a slip or post-holing up to our knees, or higher. Sore knees and tired feet turned the hike into a chore.
Dr. Bobo's called to me from behind.
I answered, concluded he'd gotten off trail.
"I'll be there in a minute," he said. Moments later, "Damn it. I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
I waited.
"I must've post-holed ten times," he said, when he caught up.
Onto gravel road again, we hiked faster, until we reached the lower locked gate. Dr. Bobo proceeded to the car while I stayed with our gear.
Down the road, by the clear-running stream, a celebratory bottle of Dead Guy's Ale, a Rogue River, Oregon brewed beer, helped dampen our aches before we headed south towards Alburquerque, past arts and crafts shops of Taos, along the Rio Grande, the afternoon traffic of Santa Fe, and stopped for the night in Bernalillo.
A well-earned and excellent southwestern style dinner at the Ancient Spirits Bar and Grille prepared us for an early turn to bed.
We drove 644 miles today.
Low points - eighteen; high points - fourteen.
It makes me want to be there! Damn the torpedoes full speed ahead. (Admiral Farragut) Until next time my friends... Peace!
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