“Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also, was an ideal stage for the romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exaltation.”

--Robert Nash

“Wilderness and the American Mind”

This trip was quite some time ago...2010 to be exact. Amazing how time flies by! Anyway, I recently finished editing this for what I hope is a forthcoming book as long as I can find a publisher (Thank you to G. Roach and Alyson Kirk for a few pointers!). This contains a lot of narration and historical beta; and some changes I had to make specifically for this website since many here are already familiar with this mountain. THIS IS A LONG READ, SO BEWARE!!! And I'll gladly accept any tips or advice!

At 14,005’, Mt. of the Holy Cross is the third lowest of the Colorado Fourteeners. This religious and antiquated icon was officially named a Fourteener in 1964 and is the northernmost Fourteener in the massive Sawatch Mountain Range. It is Eagle County’s highest peak, located just outside the small railroad town of Minturn. The peak carries an impressive 2,100’ of prominence yet cannot be seen from I-70, Hwy 24 or even from Tigiwon Road (which means, ‘friend’ in the Ute language).
Mt. of the Holy Cross lays well hidden, deep within the confines of the Holy Cross Wilderness and is further protected from sight by neighboring Notch Mountain. Although Shrine Pass, so named for its views of the cross, does offer good vistas of the mountain.

The first reported and official sighting of the cross occurred on August 29th, 1869 during the Josiah D. Whitney (a Harvard man) expedition, the purpose of which was to measure the altitudes of certain peaks and mountains within Central Colorado. To give that some historical perspective, only four years prior, the Civil War had ended, and Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. The country was going through the Reconstruction Period and Andrew Johnson was president. The expedition’s second in command, a Mr. William Brewer (a Yale professor-Whitney and Brewer were good friends if anyone was wondering concerning their respective university affiliations) reported seeing a cross of snow from atop the summit of another Fourteener, Gray’s Peak. While atop Grays Peak, Brewer wrote, “The Mount of the Holy Cross was forty miles away, with its’ cross of pure white, a mile high, suspended against its side.”
Undoubtedly, there have been sightings previous to this and one popular legend (since discredited) goes that two Spanish monks, close to death and hopelessly lost in a massive blizzard were ready to just give up and die, freezing to death. Suddenly, the clouds momentarily opened revealing a cross of snow thus saving the priests from death. Due to the renewed sense of direction, the two priests were able to continue on their way to Santa Fe de Nuevo Mexico territory (early 1700’s).

The fabled cross of snow has always been part of Colorado’s early lore. Snippets and ramblings by early prospectors and Native Americans told of a cross of snow but always failed to give the exact whereabouts and what was relayed tended to be confused and hard to follow. For a short while, there was even a jinx associated with the cross as to whoever was unfortunate enough to sight the cross, death and tragedy would soon follow the unlucky prospector.

Regarding mining, the Northern Sawatch has seen its fair share of diggings and ghost towns; think of towns Redcliff, Battle Mountain, Leadville & Holy Cross City. For its time, Gold Park boasted a population of 400 residents by 1881. Holy Cross City featured an assay office, boarding house and justice of the peace. Holy Cross City also hosted a community school, the Timberline Hotel and almost 300 residents. However, due to too many negative factors, one of which was the brutal winters (the town was a full 2,000ft higher in elevation), Holy Cross City saw its’ end by 1883. Nearby towns and mining encampments such as Redcliff, Missouri Camp, Bell’s Camp, Clinton and Battle Mountain all eventually came to the same conclusion with the exception of Gilman which was closed by the EPA and Redcliff which was saved by the railroad.

The first recorded climb of the peak occurred in 1873 on the famous Hayden Surveys. Ferdinand V. Hayden and popular photographer, William H. Jackson scaled the mountain in the pursuit of cartography. The Hayden Party was assisted by the Ute Indian Chief, Ouray and his scouting party into the Holy Cross Wilderness.

The first winter ascent of Holy Cross was accomplished in 1943 by Russell Keene and Howard Freeman, both 10th Mountain Division Solders stationed at Camp Hale and the Cross Couloir, the namesake of the mountain and the surrounding wilderness was first skied in 1977 by two Vail locals, Tom and Mike Carr and has seen ski descents yearly ever since.
During the early 1920’s, there were a handful of religious pilgrimages made to the mountain but nothing that bordered on the fantastic not until that is, when father John Carrigan of Glenwood Springs initiated a series of ‘faith healings’ and ‘miracle medical cure’ pilgrimages. This attracted hundreds of people later segueing into the thousands. A few years later in 1928, hot on the success by Father Carrigan, Dr. O.W. Randall of Eagle County led about a dozen boy and girl scouts to the summit. Later that same year, the Denver Post joined Dr. Randall and sponsored a trip to the mountain that included an unthinkable 300 hopeful people.

It is because of Dr. Randall and the efforts of the Denver Post that the Tigiwon Road exists. The late 1920’s was an exciting and active time for Mt. of the Holy Cross. A trend that started, probably from riding the coattails of Dr. Randall and Father Carrigan was the odd practice of something called, “Handkerchief Healing”. Started by a Denver area religious healer, he urged the faithful too ill to make the trek to mail him their personal cloths. He would in turn, bless them upon the summit and mail them back, for a nominal fee of course.
The inception for this came from a passage found in Acts 19:12,
“So that from his body were brought onto the sick handkerchiefs and aprons, and the diseases departed from them, and the evil spirits went out of them.”

Only about 100 people responded and participated the first year but what was hard to ignore were the astounding and unbelievable results. By 1932, the pastor was receiving almost 2,000 handkerchiefs by almost half the states and from places as far away as Alaska and Mexico. During this four-to-seven-year stretch, reported cures from these summit-top blessings remained unexplainably high. Was this phenomenon the power of Christ or the power of suggestion? Of all my trips to this fantastic mountain, all I’ve ever taken away were memories, sore feet and mosquito bites. Perhaps I should have invested in a handkerchief.

On May 11th, 1929, Herbert Hoover along with the assistance of William Jackson’s famous 1873 photograph of a ‘touched’ cross, which initially brought the peak to national attention, declared the mountain a national monument. Four years later, the peak and its’ surrounding wilderness were transferred into the hands of the National Park Service but ultimately in 1949-1950, this iconic mountain had lost the public’s interest, diminished in popularity and on August 3rd 1950, HR #73339 deprived Holy Cross of its national monument status. This, regulated it back into the hands of the Forest Service where it has since remained.

Because of the peak’s popularity, a large cabin was eventually constructed. The Tigiwon Community House was built in the 1930’s by the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) as a refuge to the multitude of hikers making their pilgrimage to the mountain.
Another historical icon surrounding Mt. of the Holy Cross is the shelter that still sits atop Notch Mountain less than a mile to the east. The shelter was erected in 1924 as a special project commandeered by the Forest Service to accommodate the swelling numbers of visitors to Notch Mountain to witness the cross of snow. The cabin, though certainly not forgotten still exists pretty much as it was. The Forest Service maintains the upkeep of this historic cabin of stone and provides weary hikers a great place to take shelter from the elements. It is currently listed on the National Register of Historical Places.

From its religious popularity and early rise to fame, Mt. of the Holy Cross has always figured prominently into the Colorado Mountaineering Community. In many ways, the mountain’s adoration is backwards if not a trifle anachronistic. It is the only mountain in Colorado that I can think of or find that wasn’t initially ‘claimed’ for the sake of mountaineering. Considering the double reputation of exceeding the 14,000’ mark and word of mouth infamy of its ceaseless and ‘Tolkeinesque’ beauty, it becomes that much more amazing that the climbing community wasn’t able to wrestle it from the pious or out of the public’s conscience.

All the religious overtones and epiphanies sadly, have since been replaced by indifference and empiricism. This ‘changing of the guard’, as it were, is something that I view as a kind of coup te grâce. With the evitable rise of secularism, the religious mythos surrounding this mountain kind of gets pushed into the shadows of history. The spiritual beacon that initially pulled people to the summit of Notch Mountain to witness what was thought of as a literal icon of God as marked upon nature, has in subsequent years, fractured, withered and has aged like a coffee stain…a decaying corollary of an impermanent symbol that for however brief, united a small percentage of the nation in hope, joy and God’s power of raw, natural beauty.

I cannot come up with a logical reason as to why I would find Holy Cross more enticing and intriguing than other peaks. Should not something grander pique my interest? A mountain like Everest, Gasherbrum I, Denali, or even Sanjay commands infinitely more respect whether or not one has any skill or hope in ascending it. But no, some peak in Central Colorado that needs a booster seat to see over the table has garnered my affection and focus.

I suppose there’s no getting around it. Some peaks just capture our attention for no other reason except that they lie on a list. This is where the mind calls the shots because there isn’t anything heartfelt about list ticking. But then occasionally, the heart sees something that the mind initially misses because it’s too busy pouring over statistics and numbers. Surely there must be something analytically beneficial about Mountain-A or Mountain-B. And this is when, upon a second or third sojourn that both heart & mind stand up straight, metaphorical heads tilted back slightly, and a mutual smile explodes like something that only the Grinch can manage.
My obsession with Mt. of the Holy Cross started along lines similar to this. After my first successful summit, my conscience kept tugging at me, suggesting that there was more to this mountain than just a checkmark on some ambiguous list.
Something I’ve noticed of late that wasn’t prevalent 10 years ago is a sort of mysterious reputation the mountain has seemed to develop. I have suspicions that the Internet is partially to blame for this due to greater exposure and increasing popularity of the Fourteener’s.

Mt. of the Holy Cross is considered one of the easier Fourteeners to hike. Because of this, less experienced people attempt the mountain with a lack of preparation, perhaps indifference and ignorance of their surroundings. It almost feels as if people approach this mountain with the same gentle ease and carefree attitude that the ‘Sawatch Tortoises’ command (IE: Mt. Bross, Mt. Yale, Mt. Shavano etc.).

Another reason lies in what hikers themselves do. Some of us have a tendency to erect cairns along paths and sometimes off route in accordance with what ‘they’ feel is an easier alternative through the talus. As one can imagine, this creates a confusing network of satellite paths that does not necessarily lead to the same place along a ridge. Once the North Ridge has been attained, things get a little confusing anyway as that the terrain doesn’t look very ‘ridge-like’. I believe Holy Cross’ North Ridge is more of a slope with ridge-like properties. So that alone can lead hikers into false and early descents.
In testament to this, in August of 2009, two middle-aged men from Michigan became lost and Search & Rescue had to be called in (whom consequently, rescued two unrelated but injured hikers). Another hiker became lost and disorientated and thus, spent two nights lost in Cross Creek back in August of 1997. More recently, a solo hiker had to be rescued from the cliffs just north (climbers right) of the Angelica Couloir due to bad judgment on the terrain.

Even day-hikes in the summer to the Bowl of Tears or Lake Patricia involves a moderate understanding of route finding and, in my opinion, a matured skill in reading the terrain. The trail to both these lakes is hard to follow and primitive in sections. Not having the proficiency in route finding in terrain that demands it can harvest negative consequences, injury or worse, especially in the case of Michelle Vanak, who became lost on a descent back in 2005 and is still permanently missing.
These issues and instances create a situation that I refer to as a “Leonard Nimoy” effect (think of the old 1970’s TV show, “…In search of”). Because in my mind, there is no clear or concise point of how or why these disappearances happen. There is no definitive time frame of when these occurrences started and due to the increased popularity and frequent report’s, a loose fabric of mystery has been woven from seemingly, out of nothing.

My long-standing relationship with Mt. of the Holy Cross has been bittersweet. I first hiked it solo on no sleep driving from Fort Collins gaining a speeding ticket along the way. On the way home, my partner (who turned around) veered too far off the shoulder and crashed my car while I slept. We sat in a booth at the now defunct restaurant, Kings Derby in Idaho Springs waiting for a ride. She was too shaken up to eat let alone drink anything but water. I tried to reassure her while I devoured some spaghetti that everything was ok. I honestly didn’t care one iota about the car and tried telling her, it was only a vehicle and that we were fortunately, ok. I don’t think she ever did anything outdoors again after that.

Then I had a long spell of attempts that proved fruitless over the next few years. I’ve attempted Mt. of the Holy Cross eight times over the years (doubtless, there will be more) and have only set foot on its flat plateau on three occasions.
Mt. of the Holy Cross and its’ surrounding wilderness I’ve learned, is a rugged place. The sheer randomness of the terrain reads like a topographic map suffering from A.D.D. It is both impressive and chaotically beautiful. The usual suspects: streams, forest, cliffs, talus fields and meadow follow no prearranged pattern typically set forth by altitude and soil. The areas crenellations are wholly unique. Unlike most places in Colorado where one can rely on certain features to be present at certain and expected elevations, the terrain surrounding Mt. of the Holy Cross has basically been thrown into a Yahtzee cup, shaken vigorously and thrown back out. Perhaps this is a partial explanation as to why people go missing on its flanks? One can only speculate.

From all this agitated and jumbled confusion, Mt. of the Holy Cross rises like a scrappy gladiator. The mountain towers over Lake Patricia hiding this small basin from easy view. The pageant of mountains seen from its summit is solidly one of the best in the Sawatch.
The Holy Cross Wilderness Area contains about 165 miles of trail and under 123,000 acres of protected land. Many of the peaks are difficult to access due to long approaches and primitive trails. This area has also been under constant struggle between Eagle County and the cities of Colorado Springs and Aurora over water rights. Chapter 27 (pgs. 197-204) in Mark Pierson’s book, “Colorado’s Wilderness Areas” highlights this ongoing fight for water; a natural resource that the Holy Cross Wilderness seems to have been blessed in excess with…just be mindful of the mosquitoes!

My views of the Holy Cross Wilderness have changed. I initially dismissed the area as being no different than say, the Sangre de Cristo’s, La Sal or Elk Mountains. It has turned me into a believer as to its beauty, ruggedness and the fact that each wilderness area is completely different from one another. In the ten-year hiatus between successful summits, I’ve made treks to locales like: Holy Cross City, West Tennessee Creek, Savage Peak, I’ve lived in a log cabin at the base of Homestake Peak Grouse Mountain, Cross Creek and Homestake Reservoir. The Fall Creek Trail which grants access to the Notch Mountain Shelter is without doubt one of the highlights of this wonderful area, resplendent with wildflowers, waterfalls and dense vegetation.
I have thought about Holy Cross for a long time and how this mountain has shaped me. Due to an episode regarding a failed winter attempt in March of 2008, the opinions heaped upon me like stones made me step back and critique my whole decision-making process.

My mistake was not thinking a hazardous situation through. It’s not enough to accept that a situation can be potentially dangerous; one must understand the ramifications, and that was my fault in not realizing what the outcome could be. It’s like hearing but not listening. Gradually, the axioms that attend snap judgments were replaced by analysis and judiciousness.
I concluded that to be a proficient mountaineer, one must concurrently follow two separate but parallel paths: listening to advice and reading printed literature and more importantly, direct experience in the field. I’ve learned that guidebooks and topographical maps don’t always translate well into the field. The contour intervals are not always neat, clean and indicative.

On that winter trip, Glen Maxson and I were traversing the West Face of Notch Mountain looking for a relatively safe way down into East Cross Creek. From the Topo map we had, the contour intervals along the west face looked reasonably spaced (standard 40’ deviations) and from what we could gleam from Dawson’s and Roach’s guidebooks, nothing came across as ‘doom & gloom’. However, once we were out on the slope, it was anything but safe. The grade was prime avalanche territory.
We reached a point where I cleared off a rock to sit down and refused to traverse any further. Glen continued for another 10 minutes or so before he turned around and reported that the face cleared out into gully after gully. While we were discussing our options over some hot tea, we spied what looked like a rockfall on the west shoulder of Notch Mountain. It distinctly stood out from the surrounding cliffs.
Our summit attempt had morphed into a reconnaissance trip. Getting there would take some doing but it was worth having a look. We set off following our tracks and left them on a westerly course linking groves of pine and exposed rock. We reached the bottom of East Cross Creek after a sinuous descent and rested in a small grove of slumbering aspen. I thought the spot would have made for a phenomenal camping site.

Between our initial route-finding mistakes, a longer than expected descent and our failure to render the topographic maps into actual terrain, we had passed our agreed upon turnaround time. It was roughly 4:00 pm with about an hour and a half of daylight left. The avalanche potential on Notch Mountain’s West Face was higher than what either of us was willing to accept and neither one of us wanted to ascend what we just descended in the dark. And let’s face it, when anyone ventures into the backcountry in winter, there is an automatic higher level of risk one involuntarily accepts. Risk mitigation is part of being proficient.

We didn’t summit that March 18th and I spent what is still the most miserable and uncomfortable night ever camping in winter. My clothes wouldn’t dry out due to the cold temperatures, the inside of the tent was damp and my sleeping bag which, wasn’t suited for single digits, didn’t keep me warm. I excoriated myself that night for what turned out to be a cascade of mistakes that not only cost Glen and I the summit but also risked hypothermia. In winter, due to the shortened hours of daylight and a magnified physical commitment, complacency is failure. It was a hard elixir to drink but I took my medicine.

I find it interesting that my affairs with Crestone Needle, Capitol Peak and Syncline Dome (my first experience with hyponatremia in Utah), couldn’t divulge this lesson but that the slow and steady persistence of a singular mountain over the course of years has yielded this syrupy answer. Anyone in their right mind can’t expect to be proficient in what they do without making mistakes and thinking on their experience. Sometimes, you must extend yourself beyond what’s comfortable and enter questionable terrain. I believe it’s prudent to head out into the storm, push your rock skills a tenth or two higher and intentionally leave the trail. Become lost and hone those route-finding abilities. I guarantee, the first time one becomes lost or takes a fall and has to use their axe for self-arrest will never be forgotten. Until one experiences for themselves, all the words in the world are still, only words.

Most of what I know and have learned through the years (mountain related) has been on my own terms and by doing the things that probably shouldn’t have been done. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but I haven’t let my fear overwhelm my curiosity and passion. I’ve turned a deaf ear to all the ‘armchair climbers’ who point their fingers and say, ‘you should be with someone’ or ‘that was a stupid idea’ just so that they can build the wilderness into something more ‘Disney’ friendly.
The secret to confidence is NOT in numbers. Confidence and self-assurance can truly only come from one place, from within. Passion doesn’t require approval. It requires only an outlet. The key is to take charge and become dynamic about one’s backcountry scholarship, to engage it and embrace it.

My first successful summit of Holy Cross was in August of 1999. Back then, I was sporting some mad Andre Agassi locks. I hadn’t slept the previous day and once I got off work (I worked overnights stocking shelves at a large grocery store in Loveland), my climbing partner and I drove down that morning. So, when I showed back up at the car after summiting, I needed the girl I was with to drive us back to Fort Collins. As she and I sat across from each other at the King’s Derby in Idaho Springs waiting for the tow truck and my parents to arrive (she was the one who crashed my car), I sat there greedily eating pasta thinking to myself, ‘you’ll never get another date from her again, pal’.

On another attempt in April 2008 with good friends, Brian Miller, Shawn Strauss and Pete Castricone, though it wasn’t technically winter, the conditions we faced were still solidly winter. On this trip, I don’t think anyone was really focused or driven in reaching the summit. The camaraderie between all of us was unusually high and simply venturing into the Holy Cross Wilderness this early in the year was a treat. We had a great but physically exhausting time spending two nights at the Tigiwon Community House and though we never made the summit, we still found reason to laugh at our attempt at the end of the day. If you run with a pack of clowns, don’t be surprised if a circus breaks out!

However, one of the most exciting attempts I’ve made involved my friends Stephanie Lynn and Chase Lindell. We wanted to climb the Cross Couloir. However, instead of taking the normal entry point for this sliver of snow which, is almost half-way up the couloir, we opted for the direct start at the bottom. Since neither Stephanie nor I could lead it, Chase gladly took the helm. This meant one short pitch of face-climbing on 4th class rock, a second pitch of loose mid-5th and a third pitch that contained a single crux move of an off-width fist crack that flirted with 5.8-ish. We didn’t summit due to the difficulties of the move and Chase didn’t have large enough cams to protect it. Even if Chase could have powered through the crux, I’m not sure I could have cleared it. The lower 4th class wall was tough enough in mountaineering boots (I forgot my rock shoes back in Stephanie’s Jeep). Chase set a repel anchor off three hex nuts, equalized the webbing and we repelled 50’-60’ down to the couloir.

This defeat, as exciting as it was, wasn’t the reason why this trip stands out so well among the others. Neither one of us wanted to down climb the large 20’ cliff that was blocking the width of the couloir. So at the top of the first constriction, not finding a way down that didn’t require a jump or a possible fall into a ‘moat’, I scrambled back up the talus and set an anchor around a large boulder and walked myself back down to where Stephanie and Chase were waiting. The problem was I didn’t trust any of the boulders located directly above us enough to set all my weight on. The rope was almost at a 30° angle to our position, NOT what I would call ideal. I traversed climber’s right to lessen the angle and slowly started to lower myself over the garbage truck-sized rock we were sitting on. The rock face was wet in spots due to splash back from a small nearby waterfall. I was looking up at a waterfall much higher on the cliff where we stopped at the off-width crack basically not paying attention then… I lost my footing!

The next 10 seconds were as scary and exciting as you can possibly get. I swung like a pendulum to the right across the rock face towards the small but flowing waterfall. After a couple seconds of realizing that I wasn’t going to be able to stop my momentum, I allowed myself to swing across the rock face and through the water. I let the rope go slack to allow myself some freedom to land on a small snow lip located just inside a small alcove right behind the waterfall! When I was sure my footing was secure, I started to laugh and yell excitedly! I could hear Stephanie and Chase, but I couldn’t decipher what they were saying over the din of the water and the dampening effects of the alcove I was in. I was looking out through the waterfall, and I could follow the path of the water down as it disappeared underneath the snow into a dark cavernous tunnel.
I jumped across the dark gap, back through the water and onto the snow. I walked myself down coming back into view and untied at a small pile of talus that had partially filled in a side moat. I yelled up to Chase & Stephanie, “Off rope!” and waited for them to repel down to my location. They might have done it with more grace and finesse, but I guarantee I had more fun! It was without doubt, one of the most unique moments I’ve had in the mountains.

I’ve had some good trips into the Holy Cross Wilderness. It’s a place where one doesn’t have to go to explicitly attempt to summit something. The wilderness is truly beautiful and wild. It seems come summer, water is quite literally everywhere. Which of course, so are the wildflowers. You can hike in a few miles and feel you are utterly alone. On a personal level, I am glad this area has the extra designation of wilderness and not just National Forest. Considering only a few miles away is one of Colorado’s busiest tourist towns and destinations (Vail), this is especially appreciated.
But I have to say, it was our monstrous push in January of 2010 that serves as the most memorial trip I’ve ever had into this part of the state and thus far, one of the hardest earned summits under my belt. Only three other summits have given me as much elation as Holy Cross in winter; Denali, Capitol Peak in winter (just a couple weeks after Holy Cross) and Snowmass Mountain which, was also accomplished in winter and my 14er finisher.

On this trip, the team consisted of: Ben Conners (benners), John Williams (TakeMeToYourSummit), Ryan Scollard, Stephanie Lynn (Ridge Runner) and Zion (Stephanie’s dog). Since this was my 6th walk up Tigiwon Road, I advised everyone to crank up their tunes and tune out. In the wintertime, the road closure for Holy Cross is next to Hwy 24 just outside of Minturn. That leaves eight miles of road that must be walked, snowmobiled or skied. In this case, like previous attempts, we walked it, except for Ben who had skis.
There’s some debate in the hiking and mountaineering community about using mechanical means to access trailheads in winter. Purists hold onto the belief that it’s cheating; that come winter, any and all objectives should only be achieved under manual (human) power. Since I used to be in that camp, I don’t have a problem with this philosophy.

And of course, there are varying degrees of those who range from these fundamentalists all the way left to those who capitalize any means possible for access. These days, I think I fall somewhere just right of center. I would definitely use a snowmobile if permissible and accessible. However, I prefer snowshoes or skis (mostly for the full experience) or even boot-packing if possible. Either way, I’m fairly certain the temperatures are still going to be cold, the winds are still going to howl and the amount of available daylight is going to be the same. The intrinsic difficulties and challenges aren’t changing just because one’s means of transportation may or may not be faster or more expedient.

Roughly five miles or so up the road, we took the obligatory stop at the Community House for cider and hot chocolate. We warmed up and I filled my thermos with boiling water to enjoy that night. While we were there, a group of snowmobilers came riding up and dismounted at the cabin. A couple of the guides who run snowmobile tours for NOVA (based out of Camp Hale) to tourists had gotten used to seeing me, so it was nice to talk with them again. I chatted with Tom, one of the guides who works for NOVA whom I recognized from Paddy’s in Eagle-Vail. We chatted briefly with some tourists answering and asking questions while their kids played with Zion.

We packed up and continued on our way thoroughly refreshed. We still had another three miles to go just to reach the summer trailhead! I enjoy talking with tourists. Because those situations always remind me how special and beautiful the place, I call home is. It may seem a bit commonplace to us locals, but having a conversation in the forest at 10,600’ during winter with someone from say, Chicago or Miami, the situation can seem a bit surreal (for the tourist).

After another two hours, the outhouse at the trailhead came within sight which signals the end of the road. Our attitudes picked up because at this point, we were only another 1.6 miles from Halfmoon Pass. Thankfully, most of the distance already had a good trench laid down from my effort the previous week with Kevin Hayne. Sadly, as I was climbing a mixed route on Mt. Meeker called, Dreamweaver on June 6th, 2010, I learned later that afternoon that Kevin had died in a fall on Little Bear Peak. Kevin was a young kid full of positivity. His absence is sorely missed.
Even with the fresh snowfall, the packed snow held wonderfully. When Glen and I had been in this area two years previous during a heavy snow year, we camped at the summer trailhead. We had dug out a pit until the top of our tent was completely below snowline and we still hadn’t hit dirt. The snow line had covered the three Forest Signs (placards) to within a few inches of their tops. You needed an avalanche beacon and probe just to access the outhouse!
We all took turns taking the lead and made steady progress up the trail. Two months previous on a trip that Stephanie and I took up Notch Mountain, I had marked the summer trail with blue ribbons to expedite route finding later. Instead of camping at the pass, which was the original plan, we decided to use Kevin’s and mine camping spot from the previous weekend. It was well protected from avalanches off Notch Mountain and heavily forested as to provide a respite from the winds. Plus, by the time we reached our old camping spot, everyone was tired. We set camp about 6:30 pm Sunday night.
I hadn’t slept since early Friday afternoon, so I stayed behind to help set up camp while Stephanie continued up the trail a little further with Zion to re-break the trench. I stayed up longer than I wanted. Ryan had created a great fire and in the bitter cold of a winter’s night; the warmth was hard to say no to. John had retired for the night being completely spent by the 9.5-mile walk in. Some dinner, hot drinks and 45 minutes later, it was lights out for Stephanie and I. As soon as my head hit the sleeping bag, I was gone. I slept like the dead, not moving so much as a muscle for at least 6 hours. It was a good, deep sleep, the kind of sleep where even your toenails feel rested.

Stephanie and I woke naturally to the sound of Ryan and Ben’s voices in the tent next to ours. We woke to a ‘North Face’ ballroom of heavy frost. This was one of the few times where I woke up in single digits excited to be awake and ready to go. When it is still pitch black and 7° outside, motivation is a hard sell. John decided to stay in camp and pack out later that morning. Sunday had really taken a toll on him. Ryan and Ben were preparing, so Stephanie and I left camp at 5:50 am, an hour behind schedule. We trenched up to Halfmoon Pass, taking turns and admiring the dark and steeled views to the east.

The lowland valleys: Fall Creek, Peterson, Homestake and beyond were held prisoner by cold and dark clouds. Standing in the dark at Halfmoon Pass, my hood created an illusion of even deeper isolation. I envisioned ancient and broken canals of smoke and stone, cracked and weakened by century old tendrils of dark pine like evil seeps of moss. The weak and ghastly light of approaching dawn and a waning gibbous moon lent illusion to an image of a sick and sinister land.
Having been buffeted by a weak and emphysemic breeze for long enough, Stephanie, Zion and I sought shelter in a rock-well. We waited for Ryan and Ben to arrive. It was unfortunate that John couldn’t be with us this morning. But forcing someone onward in winter is selfish and dangerous when so far in the backcountry. I didn’t push the issue or try to coerce him. After Ben and Ryan took a few minutes rest after joining us, we made haste for the dubious traverse around Notch Mountain.
I led the way winding through trees on a gentle but descending traverse hoping to pick up the summer trail. In the short time that we left Halfmoon Pass to a broken clearing before Notch Mountain, the morning had seized the night and ripped it to shreds like wind-tattered prayer flags.

The views that were now afforded to us, gazing across the lower slopes towards Mt. Jackson were sublime and transcendent. All the gothic underpinnings of the pre-dawn had evaporated. Fear and doubt were replaced by wonder and confidence. For the moment, standing on the edge of the slope unaware of the dangers that lurked underneath, the four of us shared a silent communion of color. It’s not often that the new day is parleyed by pink and lavender.

This cold wilderness, however, was not without its’ dangers. Notch Mountain’s NW Slopes are notorious for sliding. It sits there like a bear-trap, acres and acres full of potential energy awaiting release. We switched our avalanche beacons on, and I started out first across the slope of quicksand on a slow and deliberate pace. Ryan, Stephanie and Ben watched me like owls. Zion rolled around and played in the snow. I trenched horizontally about 40’ to a pair of small evergreens when I think I heard Stephanie shout. I looked up slope but didn’t see anything. However, in front of me and slightly uphill at a 3:00 pm position, a crack had materialized that I didn’t remember seeing.

The others had started to ascend and take a high traverse. The snow quality was poor with undulating pockets of dry sugar, powder and poorly frozen, weak upper layers. It unnerved me enough to stomp the evergreens out and rest. I was nervous and didn’t care much for my position. I started to climb straight uphill linking small and exposed rocks. Near the top of the slope, I crossed over the crack. It was almost an inch wide and looked to be 2”-3” deep. I don’t know how I missed the whoompf. I’m shocked that the slope didn’t slide. Sometimes, I think snow and avalanche forecasting is nothing more than skilled dartboard science.
At Ryan’s lead, we followed like a slow, kinetic inchworm across the almond bark slope linking talus until we had safely traversed and dropped down to Notch Mountains more stable NW Shoulder near treeline. We admired our destination as we could now finally see our snowy goal. As the crow flies, the summit was only a mile or so. I left the others and proceeded through the thigh-deep powder back down to treeline. I stopped at a clearing and stomped out a small area in which to rest. Ryan came walking up followed by Ben, Stephanie and Zion. We discussed our options in terms of the descent and our path across the ravine. Traversing across the west face of Notch Mountain would be suicide. Heading straight down and trying to follow the summer trail would be an exercise in futility.
Ryan took the lead again and continued our slow path further down the shoulder. Stephanie eventually took over at the actual descent and brought us down into a short but steep gully and out the other side to the same rockfall that Glen and I had used two years prior. I took back over and switch-backed the remainder of the way down until we were in East Cross Creek proper.

Again, I stomped out a small area in which to sit. Our first crux was now over and done with. We had successfully navigated Notch Mountain and reached the bottom of the basin without incident. But now we had the second crux to deal with. This one demanded fortitude and Herculean stamina. Things were about to get slower and uglier now. It was reassuring to have strong partners along for this segment. East Cross Creek in winter can be both a beautiful and amazingly lonely place. Ben took over and led across the glade and back into the forest. Honestly, I didn’t think the descent into East Cross Creek was that bad. The key is to switchback frequently to provide extra holds on the way down.
The snow depth wasn’t relenting. It felt like we were making progress but at the same time, it was maddening because we were moving so slowly. In the words of Jim Morrison, “It was soft driven, slow and mad. Like some new language.” Moving any faster simply wasn’t an option. We would end up burning ourselves out in half the time. Compared to the snow levels in the rest of the Sawatch for this time of the year, Holy Cross was a huge, white anomalous marshmallow. The mountain was holding more snow then any of us thought.

The further into the forest we moved, the snow depth increased. There was still no consolidation or layering and a few times as Ryan and Stephanie took their turn breaking trail, snowline came up to stomach-level. It was wrongfully funny watching them! Ben and I being taller had an easier time with it. We had regressed to taking 100-200 steps per turn before we recycled to the back of the line to rest. The ascent through the forest on the lower North Slope turned out to be the hardest section of the whole ascent. The teeth on the bottom of our snowshoes weren’t biting or gripping. We crawled through this area like ants in a puddle of water, cursing with every step (at least I was). All I could think of was reaching treeline.

Eventually, as Ben was leading the line on a SW ascending traverse, breaks in the trees had started to show a barren slope up ahead. That was enough to give everyone a fresh start of energy and soon we cleared the trees and arrived on the lower talus slopes of the North Ridge sometime around 3:00 pm. Getting to this point was positively grueling. Once we reached the tundra, the summit still required a fair amount of work, but at least there would be no more trenching or wallowing.
Ben led most of the way up the North Ridge. I eventually caught up with him and chatted for a short while as we walked. I took over lead and kept up a steady but slow pace. I weaved and switch-backed up the final slope, passing the exit for the Angelica Couloir without a look. The sky out west was surreal. It was as if Western Colorado and the whole state of Utah was on fire! The sky was clear with temperatures in the single digits. The winds were whipping up some mean spindrift off the western peaks reminding me of an iconic photograph of Ed Viesturs climbing Lhotse with a wind-blasted Everest in the background. These are the moments you wait for as a mountaineer; moments that speak directly to your soul. To give voice to such moments only cheapens them.

The summit of Holy Cross was a barren and stark place. It was a solid snowcap that resembled a Himalayan peak. With the red and orange-colored spindrift on the western horizon, the sunset looked like the Aurora Borealis had been mercilessly tied to the bumper of ZZ Top’s 1933 Ford Coupe and dragged all over the horizon by some renegade seraphim. I walked back to the edge and saw Ben stroll up. Ryan came up a few minutes later followed by Stephanie and Zion. We summited at 6:10 pm. It took us just over 12 hours to hike/snowshoe 4.5 miles! I hope that gives some impression at how hard the trenching was.
I had found my ‘second wind’ on the summit and despite the dropping temperature and wind; I was absolutely elated and excited to be standing there. Ben too it seemed had found an inner source of new energy. Ben was just as elated as I was. Zion was no longer black. He was wearing a nice patina of white from the spindrift. Zion was on the verge of changing into a yeti!
We turned around and made haste since the temperature was dropping. Mountaineering in the winter is hard enough but when the sun goes down, darkness can drain your confidence like a sickness. Having a trench or even old snowshoe tracks to follow on the way out means the world. We ran out of water on the descent. Everything had frozen or turned to slush despite our best efforts to keep bottles insulated. Even my spare Nalgene, which was back at camp wrapped up in an extra shirt and stuffed inside my -5° sleeping bag had iced up.

Ryan and Stephanie had hit their physical limit on the descent. Ben and I started to worry because we still had a long way to hike out before we reached camp, which unfortunately included having to regain almost 1,000’ to reach Halfmoon Pass. Having no liquids with increasingly colder temperatures, the seriousness of the situation was well known to everyone. All I had left was thick, frozen, apple-cider slush. I was breaking icicles off rocks and letting them melt in my mouth for liquid water.
The climb out of East Cross Creek was not as bad as I was expecting. However, I’m sure Stephanie and Ryan would beg to differ. Ben and I took the front to further pack down the trench to provide easier traveling for Ryan and Stephanie. Ryan kept lagging further and further behind. Ben and I figured it was just exhaustion and slowed our pace so we wouldn’t be too far ahead. While Ben and I were stopped on the NW Shoulder of Notch Mountain, Stephanie came walking up to us and reported that Ryan was in bad shape. Ben decided to wait for Ryan while I walked up trail a little further to stomp out a resting platform on the leeward side of some trees hoping it would provide a natural windbreak.

I waited for everyone else to arrive and then we all took a good, long, well-deserved break. Ryan was languid and out of breath. He was experiencing the same symptoms he came down with in South America on Aconcagua. The pink froth Ryan was spitting up belied the Pulmonary Edema that forced his retreat down the Argentinian mountain. Ryan was physically exhausted, cold and more than likely, dehydrated. Getting back to camp as quickly as we could was now tantamount to Ryan’s safety. We retraced our steps across Notch Mountain; I dug out a small tree-well and waited for the others to catch up. We then discussed our options.
I would go ahead and trek back to camp and break out Ben’s stove and boil some water so everyone would have fluids once they returned. Stephanie and Ben stayed with Ryan for the remaining short traverse up to Halfmoon Pass and for the descent back to camp.
They arrived shortly after midnight. Ryan dropped all gear and crawled into his sleeping bag to warm up. Stephanie crawled into our tent to equally warm up with Zion. We were thinking of staying & sleeping for 3-4 hours so everyone could get some rest and warm up before we broke camp. While I was in Ben’s tent boiling water, the stove ran out of gas. I had only filled one liter!

Since Ben and Stephanie’s remaining fluids had frozen solid, having no fuel forced our hand. In hindsight, this was a drastic mistake on my part by not bringing a stove, regardless of personal limits. I admonishingly reminded myself of that climber’s mantra.
As much as we didn’t want to, we forced Ryan to get back up and accompany Stephanie for the second half of our retreat. They would pack out ahead of Ben and I. I took Ryan’s pack and I gave him mine since it was the lightest. Ben and I finished packing up camp then made our way out following them. For the urgency of the situation, we were strangely feeling calm. Ben and I connected strongly on this trip, which consequently, was our first meeting after multiple e-mails via the Internet (14ers.com). We caught up with them at the trailhead. Ryan and Stephanie had made impressive progress down the trail.

Ryan was looking better but not feeling any better. Ryan knew what was happening and instead of languishing in doubt and worry, he did the smartest thing he could, he kept a positive outlook. On the walk out, I took my pack from him and shouldered it on my front side locking it in place by widening my arms. At least this way, Ryan could move quicker and be bereft of additional weight. Because of the additional weight I was now carrying, I had to keep moving at my own pace and soon out distanced everyone else. I walked the gentle uphill of Tigiwon Road to a wide clearing about a mile or so away from the trailhead and dropped both packs. It felt good to sit unencumbered. Ben came strolling up soon afterward followed by Stephanie and Ryan. Since Ben had skis with him, he would take my pack and do the same thing and ski down the road back to the Community House, which is where we were planning on stopping for the night, a full 750’ lower than camp.

We figured this way, by the time the rest of us showed up, Ben would have the fire going and water boiling in the pots that NOVA leaves at the house. Ryan had collapsed on the snow in a half-sleep. He mentioned “every 10 steps felt like a marathon.”
We three started walking the last ~2 miles back to the Community House. Our pace was slower than what my body could generate in terms of heat to counteract the temperatures, which I think had dropped to somewhere close to zero. So, with about a mile to go, I took off at a quicker pace and Stephanie and Zion stayed behind with Ryan. Stephanie was still focused, just physically spent. I arrived at the Community House and dropped my pack, shed some layers and sat in front of the fire that Ben had started with a cup of hot cider. About 15-20 minutes later, Stephanie, Zion and Ryan came in. We handed them cups of cider and stoked the fire even higher. The plan was to sleep for a few hours in the house in warmth then get Ryan a snowmobile ride down in the morning.

I couldn’t get John on his cell phone that night and hoped he was still at the bottom of the road as opposed to driving back home. I left a few voice messages and texts on his phone. After drinking multiple cups of cider and hot water, Stephanie and Ryan laid their sleeping bags in front of the fire while Ben and I slept on a wooden platform in the corner of the cabin. We stoked the fire as hot and big as we could get it. We finally called it quits at 4:00 am. It was a marathon, 22-hr day. As soon as I closed my eyes, I dropped into sleep like an anchor cut from its' ship, irretrievably lost to the murky tides. At those depths, even dreams don’t follow.
I woke to Ben calling my name sometime around 7:45 am. I rolled out of my bag in a deep, groggy state to a very cold cabin. My voice had dropped at least an octave and I sounded gravely. I could have sung a duet with Tom Waits. Stephanie and Ryan were in a half-sleep. Stephanie was doing considerably better. Ryan, sadly, exhibited no change.

To our surprise, John had left two texts and left a voice message! He was still parked at the bottom of the road waiting for us! We can’t thank John enough for weathering out the night. John was the reason we were able to get Ryan off the mountain promptly. Through conveying messages and information, one of the NOVA guides had let John suit up and take one of the snowmobiles up to the cabin to take Ryan down. John arrived around 8:30 am and took Ryan back down with Ben following on skis. Stephanie and I cleaned things up at the cabin, shouldered our packs and left.
Stephanie and I were about three miles from the gate when Tom, one of the guides came up and stopped. He knew what was happening and reported that Ben and Ryan were back in Vail. They were waiting for one of Ryan’s friends to arrive from Denver to drive him back to a Denver area hospital. John was still at the bottom waiting for us. Tom was on his way to deliver supplies to the cabin and would stop on the way back down and pick us up.

Fortunately, the trip ended successfully and safely. There is just no knowing when emergency will strike. The trip to Holy Cross served to unite us in a way that’s hard to come by in the wilderness. We all reached some kind of personal conquest, were pushed to our physical limitations or connected with each other by deep channels of forced collaboration and togetherness.
I learned that even though one packs for themselves, when trekking in a group, you’re not really packing for only yourself. Contingencies need to be accounted for and packing a little extra for your mates is always a good idea.
I personally found out that, ‘Having and not needing and needing but not having’ is 120% true. Because the mistake on my part by not bringing extra fuel affected all of us.
Mount of the Holy Cross remains one of the toughest winter 14ers I’ve done to date. Do not underestimate this mountain.