High times

Like all the best sibling-bonding sessions, heavy expletives colored our time high on an exposed flank of Mount Sneffels.

“This was your #@!$%&* idea!” my brother screamed at me through the gale.

“Shut the #@!$ up and start climbing!” I yelled back, wind, snow and rock raining down around us.

“But you’ve got all of the goddamned gear,” he said in a more pleading tone.

“Just #@!$%&* move! There’s no time for gear,” I said with a desperate finality.

The Snake Couloir rips down Mount Sneffels’ exposed north face in an abrupt but jagged line. It’s awe-striking from first sight – a narrow chute coursing its way up the peak through steep rock escarpments. The route covers approximately two miles and gains 3,000 feet in elevation all on snow and ice. Eventually, it dumps successful climbers, tested and exhausted, onto Sneffels’ 14,150-foot summit.

All those years ago, its largest lure for my brother and me was mid-summer alpine ice climbing in a surreal setting. That escape to thin air was intended as a breather of sorts, a means of dipping back into the wild. It was to be a lofty summit and high adventure with a friend I was meeting again now that high school and parents were well behind us.

The plan played out … at first. The early hours of the ascent proved to be nice and tame. “People have skied down this monster. It’s not going to be that bad,” we’d agreed during those first steps. Another hour on, we were just above 12,500 feet and nearing the snake’s crux turn, stapled to high ice and snow by a rope, a couple of screws and a picket. Then, the whole picture shifted.

Blue skies and sunshine vanished as a wall of vapor hit the mountain’s side and rolled up the deep chute. In seconds, visibility vanished, wind picked up to gale force and snow began blanketing the high stone walls, the snake and us. In a life spent largely above 8,000 feet, I still have yet to see that kind of blizzard during the first week of July.

Blue skies and sunshine vanished as a wall of vapor hit the mountain’s side and rolled up the deep chute. In seconds, visibility vanished, wind picked up to gale force and snow began blanketing the high stone walls, the snake and us. In a life spent largely above 8,000 feet, I still have yet to see that kind of blizzard during the first week of July.

Soon wind, snow and blindness were no longer our only concerns. Freshly soaked by the storm, the couloir’s walls became unstable. Out of nowhere, rocks started pinballing down upon us. They started small, but pebbles soon grew into softball-sized

stones, softballs into melons, melons into blocks the size of large television sets. Under the pound of granite, we soothed ourselves with our bout of cussing and pushed on, cursing our way up the mountain, making slow but steady progress and keeping our helmets pointed uphill.

All told, we sat under high winds and the relentless pound of large rockfall for an impossibly long hour. Throughout, the sound of electricity buzzed off the walls, our ice tools, carabiners and zippers, lightning haunting our every breath and step. Throughout, we paid dearly for what we hoped would be an easy and intoxicating summit. At some point during the episode, we both crossed psychological summits, regaining a little perspective on what really counts in life, realizing that it is, in fact, continued life.

Right when the shitstorm finally seemed bearable, the rockfall predictable and the lightning not so threatening, the storm blew out as quickly as it had arrived. The summer sun returned, we summated, and I managed to make it back to my desk job a little wiser for the wear.

Back on normal time, the growing glut of downtown traffic seemed less bothersome. All week long, large herds of tourists meandering down Main Avenue failed to trip me up. Somehow, the cost of housing and rising rents seemed less irritating. Not a single gazebo worker tried to pawn off a raft trip, pair of glasses or time-share on me. And I happily coughed up $5 for a pint of microbrew, gladly pairing it with a $9 burger. Yep, I was comfortably distanced from it all. My head still danced high in the clouds.

And I was not alone. On Thursday, my phone sprang to life. “I’ve got an idea,” my brother said anxiously through the other end of the line. “What do you say we give the north slopes of El Diente a try? Maybe, we can even leave the #@!$%&* gear at home this time.”

– Will Sands