TR: The Great Pikes Peak Debacle
mount...@goplay.com
(Some names may have been changed to save face for some
participants. Boy, I call people that do things like this
idiots now.)
(Disclaimer: I was young and stupid. I knew what I could
and couldn't do, and my training had included enough
winter training, from school and mountain warfare, that I
could more-or-less safely take care of myself; I did not then
have the experience to know what I was in-part responsible
for getting other people into. I apologize for my
indiscretion, although none of those people are likely to
ever read this, and hope that my subsequent experiences
and current readers will judge fairly the story – for this is
that, just a story. A true one. I hope others may take some
of my experiences and benefit from them. Experience is a
harsh mistress.)
Back in 1995, I was still playing army games at Fort
Carson. I'd been fortunate enough to receive my first
choice in assignments (Infantry and the mountains), and
was assigned as a young platoon leader with a mechanized
company (small tanks). Being in a young, mostly hard-
charging, mostly in-good-shape unit, we kept wanting to up
the ante of what we could (and what the commanders
would let us) do. Another platoon leader and I were of a
mind to take our company on an off-base trip to climb over
Cheyenne Mountain (over NORAD), and we eventually
talked our commander, Johnny G., into letting us take a day
for a reconnaissance. The trip we'd envisioned was a bust,
as most of the mountain is claimed as private property by a
number of business entities around Colorado Springs (most
vehemently, by the Broadmoor); it was a long, 14-hour
hike and bushwhack through some town history that not
many people have heard about or know. We succeeded in
completely traversing the mountain, but the difficulties in
putting roughly a hundred people through what we'd done
told us to work for something different.
Well, Pikes Peak sits just a few miles west of town and
fairly dominates the skyline from most of the region; we
thought, heck, that sounds like fun, too, not having any real
idea of what we were getting ourselves into. The other PL
and I did another recon on a weekend shortly after the
Cheyenne Mountain trip, and hiked up to about 11000' to
see how it would go. I don't want to bore anyone with the
details, but it was long and hot in the sun, and ended in big
snowfields that we hadn't brought any gear to get through.
We didn't make it to treeline at the A-Frame, but came
close enough to think that it was somewhat feasible. Back
at Barr Camp, we spoke with the proprietors and they told
us that no one had yet made the summit that year, due
largely to the deep snowpack from the winter.
94-95 was a heavy winter in Colorado (one of the last good
ones, to date). As my first winter here, it hadn't impressed
upon me too well what that much snow really meant.
There was a solid 15' of settled pack on the entire east face
of Pikes (which we haven't seen since – it's been more like
6" that melts the next day), all the way to treeline, and
deeper down into the forest where Barr Trail runs.
Apparently the commanders who had to approve of our
plans didn't realize the situation either, because after some
gentle cajoling they approved the plan. Everyone thought
that two, young, smart, way-in-shape LTs would have the
wherewithal to decide whether our slightly less-in-shape
comrades would be able to do whatever we could (mistake
one). We decided to take the whole company of young,
studly tankers and ground-pounders up in a long line, and
to do it on a working weekday. It was kind of a reward
(adventure training) for having spent most of the past year
in the field playing wargames and being away from home.
Now, the army being what it is, we had to follow some
(silly from a climbing perspective) rules (mistake two).
The most bizarre was probably the packing list that we
were supposed to carry. In heavy cotton uniforms
(camouflage BDUs) and issue combat boots (which
absolutely suck in snow and ice conditions, and aren't even
much good if the pavement's wet), we were to carry 2
quarts of water and our issue ALICE packs (something I
don't even want to get into). Each person was to carry dry
socks and a t-shirt, and a wet-weather rain jacket (the
Gumby suit top); for each 2 people, we'd split a single
sleeping bag and a poncho. This was the contingency
equipment. We figured we'd resupply water at Barr Camp,
where they had a filtered source. The commander decided
we'd travel as a single large group, with the company
standard at the head; no one was to pass the standard, and
we'd travel at the rate of the slowest soldier. We'd leave
the trailhead around 8 (after all, it'd unfair to ask anyone to
show up to work – at work – before 0630), and take a bus
to the trailhead; and we'd have a bus pick us up at the
summit that afternoon (!!! proper 2nd vehicle planning
neglected). None of us had (surprisingly, considering our
location and the number of people involved) ever climbed
anything big before, and frankly didn't even know that
there were these things called 'guide books.' So, all in all,
we had no clue what we were doing (mistake three).
Okay, enough background: Time for The Story. We'd
only left behind a couple of guys (the current gimps, with x
or y medical problem or broken leg), and the rest of us got
to the trailhead around 0730. Organizing everyone,
checking with squad leaders to make sure everyone had
everything they were supposed to, and all the army
rigmarole took up the first half hour, and by the time we'd
started it was a hot, sunny day and quite a warm climb up
the east slopes zigzagging up to the top of the Incline.
Quite a bit of water was drunk by the time we'd made 1500
vertical feet (of the total 7000). Since we were in more-or-
less single file by platoons, I was actually pretty close to
the front. We lost 4 or 5 guys in the first hour, due to poor
physical conditioning; the First Sergeant had waited at the
bottom to pick up returnees, so we didn't worry too much
about it. A third lieutenant (of the 4 of us), who was
supposed to be in much better shape and a role model, was
one of these. By the time (about 1300) we'd reached Barr
Camp (actually still on our schedule, as foolish as it was),
we'd lost around a dozen.
My Platoon Sergeant (best I ever had) was not looking
kindly on the mess we'd already gotten into. He wasn't
happy about the dropouts, and (more realistically than I)
thought there was no way we could do the summit that day.
The people at Barr Camp agreed. Still no one had
summitted that year. The commander reached an
agreement with the senior NCOs, and they gathered those
not in 'good shape' or that thought that it wouldn't be a
good idea to try more 'hard' hiking to reach the summit.
We ended up with about 38 (the exact number escapes me,
but 54 or so turned around) that wanted to continue. The
next bad decision was for those turning back to take the
heavy articles (ie, sleeping bags & ponchos) from those
continuing (mistake four). Foolishly, I had no doubts that
we could succeed on such a perfect day.
Our remaining party, about a third of those who'd started,
mainly consisted of those of us who were either in
incredibly good shape, or who had been coerced (one LT
included) into continuing. We met the snowline head-on
about half a mile past Barr Camp, and progress quickly
slowed. I had carried my old, surplus army snowshoes
(made of magnesium, in case one needed to start a fire
without tinder), and took point; the rest of the company had
to slog in punched-in steps we made. The next mile
through the unconsolidated snow was not fun for the troop;
a long rest break ensued at the A-Frame with several people
wishing they had the gear I had. The party was in high
spirits and well-fed and –hydrated, but none knew what
would happen in the next, hardest 3000 feet.
As we continued on up, the party began to spread out, with
some taking longer rest breaks and others continuing more
quickly up the directissma (instead of the very-snow-
covered Barr Trail). A group of perhaps 10 of us had
passed the command group to punch in a path in the
consolidated, sunbaked snow above treeline; although deep,
it appeared most stable, and avies were the last thing I had
to worry about. The slope, away from the NE ridge,
wouldn't sustain much more than a sluff anyway. We
continued on for a couple of hours, and eventually were
strung out over about a mile of 'trail.'
Well, 4 o'clock runs about, and our group at the top
(around 13000') could finally see the sky outside of the east
bowl. I saw over the ridge dark clouds gathering on the
Rampart Range, and they were just getting blacker and
blacker. I hastened the others in our loose-knit forward
party onward, and tried to yell back down to the others:
"Get moving! There are dark clouds coming this way!" I
got the big wave-off by groups sitting taking looooong rest
breaks in the few rocks that poked through the snow. The
best I felt I could do at that point was to pick up the close
'stragglers' and take them up with me.
Around 5 it was getting pretty dark; spring storms on the
Front Range can get ugly quickly, and this was shaping up
to be one of those. One SSG and I were again at the front,
punching in steps across a 50deg traverse that led to the
summit block (we'd wandered too close to the NE ridge,
under the cog railway terminus). By this time it was
raining with some light hail, and the winds were blowing
around 40mph, even across the somewhat-protected east
bowl. Kicking steps was extremely important for those
following us, so they'd have some idea of where to put
their hands and feet to follow our trail. The SSG reached
the summit about 200m ahead of me, and lo! no bus.
Here's where mistake three took it's first hit at us. Without
checking (or a physical recon of the road above Glen Cove)
we'd assumed that a bus could get to the summit. Well, the
road is unpaved above 11000' on the N side, and busses are
stopped there. The mountain rangers found out about our
plan during that day (mistake five, insufficient prior
coordination), and had one with a Suburban on top to see it
we'd show. We'd made the silly assumption that the
summit house would be open and everything. I showed up
shortly thereafter, and discovered the beginning of the
problems we were to have.
Shortly before we hit the top, lightning started around us
(not actually on the peak or NE ridge, but well within
eyesight, thankfully), the precip turned to snow, the wind
picked up, and the temperature really started to drop. I was
(in all cotton, remember) soaked, so I took out the extras
I'd carried: dry socks, a 5-button wool sweater, and wool
glove liners. It was getting downright chilly, and it'd only
get worse as the night approached. After changing in a
windy alcove behind the summit house, I put my pack in
the back of the Suburban and told the ranger of my new
plan.
I would walk back down and start grabbing people, bring
them to the truck, and repeat, ad infinitum. He told the
base ranger station of the situation, and they dispatched the
other two trucks to assist. Unbeknownst to me, they also
put in a call to the summit house manager and told him
what was going on. And so the adventure portion of the
story begins.
By 7 it was pitch black with the storm, and the wind chill
was into the negative range. I climbed down to the NE
ridge a dozen or twenty times, each time bringing one or
two soldiers up with me; sometimes leading, sometimes
dragging by the shirt, sometimes with them leaning on me,
sometimes almost carrying. My obvious first concern for
the wet guys in the cold temperatures (with their cotton
garb) was hypothermia (we escaped that bullet); as I'd drag
them over the rail tracks and to the truck, I invariably heard
things like 'I can't feel my (hands, feet, or other
variations).' I'd open the door to the truck, toss the body
in, and tell whoever was already in (with the heater
cranking) to lift his shirt and put this guy's appendages on
it. There wasn't much complaining on that end. And off
I'd go again.
Around 9, I'd almost run out of people. I had 35 on top and
headed down (one LT stayed up top for control, switching
vehicles as they drove the guys down), but couldn't find
anyone else within the top 400 feet or so (well below the
steep section we'd kicked in below). The second LT
managed, barely, to raise the commander on the radio, and
he said that he and two privates were digging in; one
couldn't walk anymore (too tired) and the other's knees
ached. We couldn't get him to figure out exactly where he
was on the slope from the visual cues, but from his
description we deciphered his location to within about 200
feet (100 vertically). Mistake four plays significantly here.
They, between the three of them, had their dry clothes and
a poncho. Johnny very intelligently dug them a snow
trench, built a roof, and they began to huddle. Of course, I
had no idea of this at the time.
I went back on top, knowing very well the count of those
still somewhere below. I was about completely frozen; it
was –25F with wind chill, and I'd been out in it in a (now
wet) wool sweater and wool glove liners, under nothing but
an icy cotton set of BDUs. As I got into the last Suburban
with the other LT and a ranger, the ranger asked if I'd like
to call in SAR. I knew where the guys were, but couldn't
get to them in my condition (the other LT was just out of
steam). I took responsibility and made the call, making
sure they knew it was me making the call. Maybe five
minutes later, the owner/operator of the summit house
made it up the road (apparently things like this happen
every year or two), and opened up the doors for us. We
moved into the new base of operations, hoping that Johnny
and the privates would be okay. We used the cell phone we
had (carried by one of the command group privates) to call
back to the staff duty officer on Fort Carson, and told him
what was up. I won't attempt to relate the interesting
occurrences down there in this story, but will say that lots
of people got woken up that night.
SAR was unexpectedly quick in showing up, and arrived
only about two hours after we'd called them. In the
meantime, the house operator plied us a gratis with much-
appreciated liquid and food. I can't say enough about how
he took care of us, nor of how much we appreciated it. I
hope I can pass the marker along fully someday. The SAR
guys, although much better equipped than we, had no idea
how to read a map. We marked out a point we'd worked
out to the bivy site (which turned out to be dead-on), and
they ended up on the north side of the NE ridge, working
the Bottomless Pit. One couldn't proceed with the mission
from a bad case of AMS – neither a good sign from SAR in
Colorado. Well, in any case, they didn't find the guys and
returned around 0300. We spoke again with home base in
Fort Carson, and they decided to set up a rescue with a
Chinook; it couldn't fly in the storm (which was still
raging), and they picked a time and LZ (about a thousand
feet below the bivy) the next morning. I had a fairly
significant headache by this point as well, and as nothing
further could be accomplished with the equipment we had,
I took a nap.
There's not much to this story beyond this until the
aftermath. We got a ride down to the bus, which had
waited until 0600 at the highway front gate, and went back
to Carson. The battalion commander and executive officer
were waiting for us, none too happy, and the guys flown
out without incident or injury the next morning were taken
to the hospital for observation, but released within hours.
Almost unbelievably, there were no injuries or altitude/cold
induced problems. We made the Washington Post. Now,
almost no one (except those involved, of course) even
remembers the incident or the details. It's important to
keep track of these kinds of things, though, because they
show us what kinds of trouble we can get ourselves into if
we're not really ready to get into the situations.
This story is used extensively in Carson's Risk
Management courses by Big Jim, the base safety officer,
and my first name (but not my last) and rank is used
extensively in talking about risk management, even to this
day. The men we did get to the top had the biggest
bragging story around for months, even after privately
admitting (within the company) that it was the hardest thing
they'd ever done (mine was and remains my first marathon,
without training).
The only good things that came of the mission were more
careful planning and oversight for some army operations,
particularly involving 'adventure training,' and my
addiction to climbing (in a much more safe and calculated
manner). We learned so much the hard way. I'm just
happy that it wasn't any a harder way than it was already.
In my new pastime/semi-career climbing and guiding, this
is really something I'd rather forget; but five years and
hundreds of harder, more desperate situations and climbs,
and five years of experience in dealing with them (much,
much) more safely makes me look back on this with not
much more than regret for getting other people into the
situation. I hope that this puts some of those demons that I
push aside to rest.
kelly
mountaineer@(nospam)goplay.com
http://mypage.goplay.com/mountaineer