My dad and I came to Colorado from Arkansas planning to grab at least two, maybe three or four, mountains. On the “definite” list were Sherman and Blanca. We might nab Ellingwood while we were in the fourteen-thousand-foot neighborhood above Lake Como, and we might veer down to Wheeler Peak in New Mexico if we could still feel our legs after Blanca.

Things did not go as planned. And that’s okay. We left central Arkansas at 4am on Sunday, June 10 and were winding down at the Silver Dollar Saloon in Leadville by nine ‘o clock that night.

At about five the next morning, we were heading up Sherman via Iowa Gulch, thinking this was a “warmup” for the much more intimidating tasks ahead. Things were more or less fine till we hit the perpetual Himilayan blizzard blowing at the top of the ridge.

Brief aside for context: I’ve climbed/hiked, by myself, Mount Whitney (in a day), Telescope in Death Valley, and Nevada’s Mount Charleston. My 66-year-old dad and I, since 2011, have climbed/hiked together Elbert, Massive, Harvard, La Plata, Grays, Torreys, Bierstadt, Sniktau, Arkansas, Quandary, the Decalibron, and Shavano. We aren’t exactly vintage veterans, and we might not be mountain goats, but for a couple of water-breathers from central Arkansas, we tend to know our way around a class 1 or 2 fourteener. We get early starts (sometimes two or three a.m., depending on the mountain and route); we dress in layers; we drink plenty of water, etc. Most importantly, we respect the mountains.

The last sentence of the previous paragraph notwithstanding, it’s almost cruel that a short route on the likes of Sherman is what did my father in. But that wind was obnoxious, and even after we dove for cover behind a massive cairn at the top of the ridge, my dad was shivering badly to the point he could not open his water bottle. Was it the wind? Were his new medications not agreeing with the elevation? Was it simply that he was a year closer to seventy? All of the above? A few of the above? I dunno. Regardless, he said he felt too “off” to continue, and I wasn’t going to go on and leave him there shivering and “foggy” behind that cairn, and I sure wasn’t going to send him back to Iowa Gulch by himself, and so the two of us were defeated—for the first time!—by the gosh-awful Winds of Sherman.

Ah well. I was proud of my dad for not pushing things and making himself seriously ill. Sherman isn’t going anywhere. He felt better the next day, though he made final his decision to be done with this hobby that he’d picked up so late in life. We picked around Leadville and Salida and rolled down to Alamosa.

I’ve wanted to summit Blanca for years. But my best chance at it was ruined when I injured my right knee on my way down from Harvard. And, to be honest, my dad’s always been a little intimidated by it.

This year, though, it was right in front of me. My dad told me to go for it: “You’ll be fine. You’ve done this for years, and you’re in good shape.” My wife—after hearing me wax eloquently about how I’m a little nervous, as I haven’t undertaken such a large hike solo in nearly ten years—sent me a text message saying simply: “Climb the damned mountain.”

So I did.

I left Alamosa at 2am, drove my 2wd Tundra about two miles up Lake Como Road, and was hiking under a beautiful strip of the Milky Way by about three. I made it to Como around seven, relaxed for a bit, enjoyed the view of Little Bear, read a few pages of Free Fire by C.J. Box (random note—great book by a great writer!), and charged on.

The faint switchbacks below the Blanca-Ellingwood saddle were the most exhausting part of the climb, I think. I like to think of myself as being in pretty good shape, but there were a couple of times I looked up, shook my head, and wondered what in the world I thought I was doing, attempting this thing in a day…

Anyway, two things happened that lifted my spirits as I neared the large cairn at the crest of that exhausting trudge: The sun spilled over the saddle for the first time, and I saw human life! I am all about solitude and truly enjoyed it for those dark hours of the morning, when it was just me and the Milky Way, but after spending hours by myself in the dark and shadows, it was a shot of motivation to meet some fellow hikers.

I made the final push up the summit ridge in the company of several kind gentlemen (hometowns, I believe, being Colorado Springs, Omaha, and Albuquerque) and hauled myself to the top of the Sangre de Cristos sometime between 10:30 and 11:00.

A few notes: ~~ I’m fairly certain that a day hike of Blanca is tougher than that of Whitney. Of course, it could just be that I’ve got another ten years on my odometer. ~~ Lake Como Road sucks, especially on the trek down. ~~ That final summit push was fun and gets plenty airy and scrambly if you veer to the left! ~~ I chose to not trek over to Ellingwood, with that entire seven or eight mile hike down to the desert still ahead of me. Too, if there is a trail over to Ellingwood, I didn’t see it, and I sure as heck didn’t have the energy for that ridge…

Anyway, beautiful hike! And that road is all it’s cracked up to be… More photos below.