Category Archives: Speed Record

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

I am used to climbing the Grand in June’s longer days, and have never felt the need to do any but the trail parts in the dark. However the late season and my arbitrary deadline forced me to climb the entire route in the dark. This caused me more trouble than I had expected, as I wasted some time in the boulder-field, and more in the Moraine. I passed my first headlamp folk on the switchbacks below Garnet, and some more around the Caves. The latter nearly caught me thanks to the time I wasted going too high in the Moraine, but I stayed ahead of them, and had little trouble finding the summer route to the Lower Saddle, with its bright hand-line.

I passed a few guided groups above the saddle, then made my usual mess of the route to the Upper Saddle. I seem to do this slightly differently every time, but I had never done it by headlamp, which further hurt my route-finding. I passed a couple enjoying the first light of dawn at the saddle, then continued up the familiar route on the upper mountain. There was some snow and ice in the chimneys and on a few ledges, but nothing that could not be easily avoided or dealt with. I had debated whether or not to bring my down jacket, and was glad I did, as it allowed me to hang out on the breezy summit for a few minutes, watching the horizon lighten and the lakes come into view below.

I stopped to speak to the couple as we awkwardly climbed past each other in the double chimney. It was her first time in the Tetons, but she seemed to be handling the dark, chilly scramble easily. We exchanged names before we parted, and the guy actually recognized me, or at least my nom de plume. I passed perhaps a dozen more climbers between the upper and lower saddles, wearing the usual varied quality and quantity of gear. I had no need to hurry, merely fast-walking the switchbacks above the Meadows, but put in an effort to jog past the tourists below Garnet, and even tried to finish at a legitimate run. My much-abused body said “no” to that, but I at least managed to walk to the sign by 9:00, for a finishing time of 8 days and 23 hours. After some time to eat and reflect, I headed over to the Ranch to see who was around. There turned out to be more familiar faces than I had expected, so it was well into the afternoon before I got around to taking a shower. It was closing weekend, and I needed some time to recover, so I happily volunteered to spend a few days helping prepare the place for the winter.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

On what was likely to be my last day in the northern Winds, I woke in an unusually positive mood, which persisted as I packed up and climbed the talus-chute to the plateau just south of Rampart’s summit. Fitting that mood, I listened to Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations — the older, manic, live recording, not the tiresome one from 1981. I circled around the back side of Rampart, one of many bumps on the northern Winds’ plateau that rises above 13,000 feet but lacks the prominence to be considered a separate peak. Map in hand, I was able to identify Bastion, the first bump that counted, and was grateful that the highpoint of a jagged ridge to its east was slightly lower.

From Bastion, I dropped down a tedious mix of loose talus, rock-hard old snow, and new powder to a plateau, then climbed again to the next ridge north, dropping my pack to tag Flagstone Southeast. Continuing north, I stopped for some water, then put on crampons to climb the small glacier to Flagstone’s northeast shoulder. Again dropping my pack, I made the cold, windy, but easy hike to the summit. Its name seems at least somewhat apt, as the rock is fractured in giant plates, much larger than actual flagstones.

After returning to my pack, I went left around another bump on my way north, then dropped my pack near another flat piece of ice for the longer side-trip to Klondike. I was interested to note the changing form of the glaciers as I headed north. Those in the Gannett area are more typical mountain glaciers, with steep accumulation zones on the high slopes connected to flatter ablation zones below. Farther north, the ice transitions to small, nearly-flat sheets lying on a plain above 12,000 feet, growing and diminishing with very little movement. Perhaps the Winds once supported a single northern icefield with exit glaciers, like the Columbia up in Canada. They currently fail to support these smaller ice sheets, or glaciers in general, and many will likely be gone within my lifetime.

Klondike’s summit used to be the highpoint of one such small ice-cap, but the piles of rock at its corners are now somewhat higher. I tagged a couple of these and walked over the highpoint of the ice, then made the mile-long walk back to my pack. Fortunately the ice-saddle separating the summit from the plateau was fairly flat, because I had not bothered to bring crampons. From there I had several miles’ rolling walk to reach the next peak, Downs South. After some meandering on a plateau, I made a long descent to a saddle near two large lakes, one clear, the other turquoise and filled with icebergs from the glacier on Klondike’s north slope.

Humping my overnight pack across the tundra was not fun, and the last eight days’ efforts were taking their toll, but at least I had substantially eaten down my load, and had no need to ration what I had left. I crossed the unmemorable South Downs, and promised myself my remaining half a pepperoni after I reached Downs. The summit is one of several humps, unfortunately not the one with the cool southeast-facing icefield, but the one to its east. With the peak-bagging difficulties behind me, I was thinking mostly of how I would return to the trailhead. I had originally plotted out a line north and west from Downs to Hunters Hump, then on from there toward Clear Creek. However it looked like I could reach the high plateau west of the crest more directly via the drainage south of the summit. I therefore dropped my pack (and sausage) at a saddle, boulder-hopped up to the highpoint, and spent a few minutes clowning around on this, my final Wyoming 13er. Granted, I still had to get back to my car, and to climb the Grand Teton the next day for the sake of the speed record, but I was still ridiculously pleased with myself.

I returned to my pack, chowed down on pepperoni, then got to work. The divide at this point is a high, rolling talus plateau between 12,000 and 13,000 feet, separated from another plateau to the west around 11,000 by cliffs. This lower plateau is in turn separated from the Green River by narrow canyons and more steep drops. Kelsey has little to say about crossing the divide this far north, and even less about routes on the lower plateau (“some places are best kept wild”). Thankfully the USGS has done its job, and we have accurate topo maps of the area, so I was able to piece together a likely route to Faler Lake, from which it is supposedly possible to reach the trail along Clear Creek.

Starting down the valley southwest of Downs, I was struck that it is probably only sometimes a practical way off the high plateau. Late in the season as I was, I was able to descend to one side of the stream, and it is probably covered by snow earlier, but mid-season it is likely a raging torrent blocking the narrow parts of the valley. Emerging to one side of a cascade, I found myself in a rolling landscape reminiscent of the Sierra, with clean granite slabs and faces, lush grass, and many lakes, even the large turquoise one ahead of me unnamed. There were no use trails or footprints, and I only saw a few large animal tracks, either sheep or elk.

I made my way west and slightly north, aiming to intersect my planned descent route from Hunters Hump. Once on track, I traversed high above Bear Lake on a bench, then aimed for a gully leading to Faler Lake. This turned into a choke of large talus that had tumbled from either side, but was not too difficult. I even found a cairn here, and faint bits of use trail leading down to Faler’s outlet. Other than an ancient and long-disused windbreak near one of the lakes higher up, this was the only sign of human presence I had seen since Downs’ summit.

I was briefly encouraged by a good trail leading along the stream down from Faler, but this soon faded and disappeared, likely just a continuation of the much longer route reaching Faler from the northwest. I found bits of game trail on the steep slope down to Clear Lake, but was glad to be headed down and with a light pack. Starting in this direction would have been miserable. Unfortunately things became dramatically worse at Clear Lake. Sometimes I would find a bit of game trail in the woods; sometimes, I could walk along the narrow, rocky beach; twice I had to climb well away from the lake when cliffs came straight down to the water.

Finally reaching the outlet, I found a couple of old fire rings, giving me hope that fishermen had maintained, or at least beaten in, the old trail leading down to Clear Creek Arch. Unfortunately this was not the case: I found one set of boot-prints from this season, and occasional trail, but progress was slow and miserable. A fire had left many downed trees and some nasty brush, making it easiest to climb away from the creek and cross talus-fields where possible. In the woods, I was forced to constantly step over or balance along fallen logs. Kelsey’s description of it as “the worst bushwhack in the Winds” may be an exaggeration, but even to someone who has spent significant time in the North Cascades, this was rough going. I continued making steady progress, but abandoned my hopes of stopping in Jackson to download some new listening material. As long as I could reach the maintained trail by headlamp time, I would be satisfied.

As it turned out, I managed to (barely) reach the car without a headlamp. I minimally unpacked my pack, threw stuff in the roof box, and took off for Lupine Meadows. Between the rough Green River Road and the lower night-time speed limits, I reached the trailhead around 11:00 PM. Having started Francs Peak just after 10:00 AM, I wanted to finish the Grand before that time to stay under the next round day. To guarantee that, I allowed myself seven hours to go up and down the Owen-Spalding. I shoved food and water in my daypack, set my alarm for 2:30, and passed out.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

During the previous day’s evening headlamp time, I had come up with a sketch of a plan to tag the Gannett-area peaks. I figured that the upper Dinwoody Glacier would be lower-angle and have better snow cover, so I could use it to get from Woodrow Wilson to Pinnacle Ridge and Glacier Pass. The pass is close to the current FKT route on Gannett, via Wells or Tourist Creek, so I could probably climb Gannett from there. And I knew that I could get back up to the crest from the saddle between Desolation and Rampart. Hopefully Koven would take care of itself. To make this work, I had to backpack over Woodrow Wilson, going up the west chute and down the north ridge/face. Thus I would climb the Sphinx Glacier again, making my earlier climb of the Sphinx a total waste (though it did not cost me a day).

Not having pre-made my breakfast the night before, I got off to a slightly slow start, leaving my boulder home to hike up Titcomb Basin. Partway up I ran into two friendly guys headed over Indian Pass on a backpack. We talked for awhile, and I learned that one of the men, Mark, was an expat and guidebook author living in Ecuador. One nice thing about doing speed records measured in days instead of hours is that taking time to talk to people or enjoy the view does not actually slow you down. Twenty minutes chatting simply meant that I would have twenty fewer minutes to lie in my bivy and fail to sleep that evening.

After some pleasant cross-country travel up out of Titcomb, I climbed the familiar boulder-field to the Sphinx Glacier, then put on crampons to make the easy climb to its top. From the upper left side, I crossed the ridge south of Wilson, where the west couloir became obvious. Unsurprisingly, it no longer held any snow. I made my way up the rubble in the chute and the rock to either side, awkward and slow with my overnight pack pulling me backward and bumping into things. The final scramble from the top of the couloir would have been easy and fun with a daypack, but was somewhat more thought-provoking with my heavy load. I took some time on the summit to repack, shoving my bedroll into the pack and strapping my daypack below the topper. I had eaten enough of my food for it to fit, and this streamlined the load and distributed the weight slightly better.

While it looks like an easy walk down a plateau from Wilson to the upper Dinwoody Glacier, there is a steep notch that forces one into a class 3-4 gully to the left. This was made a bit trickier by the snow, but still quite a bit easier than the way I had come up. As I had hoped, the upper glacier was not too steep, and had decent snow-cover. However, there was a tricky crevasse across much of the slope below Wilson, and a steep band of ice and rock leading up to the part below Pinnacle Ridge. I made my way down the right side of the Wilson lobe, then crossed the big crevasse on what looked like the best of several snow bridges. From there, I crossed a flat section to the rock/ice band, which I surmounted with a little easy mixed climbing, sometimes wedging a foot in the crack between rock and ice, and even getting a few solid tool sticks.

Back on low-angle snow, I dropped my pack and set off up the gully north of the highest Pinnacle with only my crampons and axe. This was badly melted out, and involved more hijinks in the ice/rock interface on the right side. I eventually reached bare debris, where I stashed my axe and crampons and carefully made my way to the ridge. From there, moderate climbing on the west side led to a notch just below the top, where a few steeper moves got me to the top of the summit block. I admired the view of Wilson, sketched my way back to my pack, then had an easy walk along the upper glacier to below Glacier Pass, which was of course a miserable loose talus-chute on both sides.

Here I again dropped my pack, drinking some water and shoving a bag of trail mix in my pocket before heading north toward Gannett. I worked my way around the right side of the next subpeak, finding a bit of horribly rotten class 4-5 climbing across a gully, but otherwise moderate terrain, and even an old sling from someone else who had come this way. I found a cairn at the saddle past the subpeak, where I apparently joined the Wells Creek route, and soon merged with the standard Gooseneck route from the Dinwoody side. I had been hoping to run into others, thinking it would be amusing to greet them with no pack and just trail runners, but I had the peak to myself, though I saw a well-used boot-pack below the Gooseneck bergschrund. I posed for a bit on the Wyoming highpoint, then retraced my route to Glacier Pass.

The other side of the pass mostly sucked, with only a few stripes of skiable scree amid the unstable talus. I contoured around the bottom of the pass, then climbed north to a notch in the ridge at the top of the Minor Glacier. The glacier itself was easy going, flat and gritty enough that I did not bother with crampons. Unfortunately it has badly retreated, leaving behind a maze of steep, gritty slabs encircling the terminal lake below. I found some of the day’s sketchiest climbing as I made my way down and right, eyeing Koven and trying to decide how to climb it. My original plan had been to traverse from Rampart to its north, but the descent from Rampart looked hard, and Sarah had found some 5.7 climbing on its north ridge. The south side was supposedly easier, and it looked like I could reach the col at its base from this side.

This would be a longer excursion, so I packed my daypack and left my big pack on a boulder. Fortunately I took a waypoint at its location, because I almost immediately lost it in the chaotic talus around the lake. I meandered up a mixture of grass and slabs toward the col, then followed a rotten black gully almost to Sachem Peak before cutting back left to reach the ridge. I had to do some backtracking and a bit of low fifth class, but there were no serious difficulties. Looking over the other side, I saw that the Gannett Glacier came close to the ridge, and that the other side was ledge-y and easy. The route was as described in the old Bonney guide, mostly easier with a bit of low fifth class following ledges east of the serrated ridge crest. I finally climbed a rib next to a dirt chute to reach the crest, finding an old rap anchor. From there, I stayed mostly on or left of the ridge to the summit, passing another gully and a rap anchor above a short fifth class slab below the summit. I enjoyed the view of a seldom-seen side of Gannett and its broad, flat upper glacier, relieved to be done with the technical unknowns of my route.

I stupidly wasted time cliffing out trying to find a better way down, then retreated to the known path down the chossy black gully. Shouldering my pack, I continued to the base of the valley, then up easy talus to the saddle between Desolation and Redoubt. It was getting late, but Desolation rises less than 1000 feet from the saddle, and Eric mentioned that its east ridge was enjoyable fourth class. I found a wonderful flat spot to camp, dumped my pack, and took off up the ridge unladen. It delivered on the promise of fun, moderate scrambling, making it a nice cool-down after the day’s more challenging and adventurous climbing. The ridge is generally narrow and favors staying on the crest, and ends at the high end of the summit plateau. I tagged the summit at sunset, then hurried back down to have a hot meal and settle in for the night. As long as the mystery de-approach from Downs west to Clear Creek worked, I was in a good position to finish the northern Winds in only six days, one less than I had hoped and two less than I had feared.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

There remained eight ranked 13ers east of Titcomb Basin and Dinwoody Creek. Four of them — Fremont, Sacagawea, Helen, and Spearhead Pinnacle — form the eastern wall of Titcomb Basin, while the others — Warren, Turret, Sunbeam, and Febbas — form a line south and east of the Dinwoody drainage. I had originally planned to do the two groups separately, but it seemed possible to link them all with a long effort and a bit of luck. This would require linking the first four peaks along their east sides, which are glaciated and seldom-visited.

I hopped off my perch and started back up toward Indian Pass at first light, headed for the standard southwest slope of Fremont Peak. I left the trail at an arbitrary, convenient-looking place and made my way up gentle grassy slopes, aiming for the faint saddle where the south ridge separating Indian and Titcomb Basins merges into the peak’s face. I occasionally found bits of trail, which turned into a cairned route once the going became steeper on the slope. There was the occasional third class move, but most of it was easy walking and boulder-hopping. It was also uncomfortably cold, with the sun still hidden behind the mountain and a steady wind from the west, and I climbed in my heavy gloves and down jacket, with the hood pulled around my face.

Reaching the summit ridge, I found a cairn and register at the highpoint, and paused on its sheltered and sunny side to recover and prepare for the day’s first unknown. If I could descend to the Upper Fremont Glacier, I could quickly reach Sacagawea without losing much elevation. Otherwise, I would be forced to retrace most of my route, drop to Mistake Lake, and reascend Titcomb Basin’s east wall between Sacagawea and Helen. Kelsey describes a route up one of the couloirs on Fremont’s northeast side, but I was not sure it would be feasible so late in the season with running-shoe crampons.

I set off along the ridge northwest, peering over the right side, and eventually reached the second major couloir, which looked like it might work. Putting on crampons and taking out my axe, I carefully kicked my way down one side, but found the snow too hard and steep to be comfortable. I returned to the notch and hiked back to the summit, thinking along the way. Looking at the map, it seemed that if I could make my way along the peak’s east ridge and the rock separating the Upper Fremont and Bull Lake Glaciers, I could reach the flat section of the former. The ridge looked serrated, but not impassable, and an exploratory scramble over the first gendarme was encouraging.

The ridge’s north side was snowy and sheer, and the crest too crenellated, but the right side looked broken enough to be passable. I began traversing, trying not to stray too far below the ridge, and soon found a band of black rock that offered mostly easy passage with the occasional fourth class section to cross a gully. Not only was I making progress, but I was warm and happy to be discovering a “new” route. The traverse led nicely below the ridge’s difficulties, and I scrambled back around to the glacier near 13,000 feet, where I could easily cross the flat snow and ice. I skipped joyfully across the gentle plateau of snow and ice, feeling like I was the only person to have done so in a long time. Looking back at Fremont’s imposing northeast face, I saw that the couloir I had tried ended in a gaping bergschrund, so I was lucky to have abandoned it quickly.

Sacagawea is a minor peak from this side, a talus-pile leading to a final, tricky scramble over a couple of false summits. I had been enjoying my time on the leeward side of the crest, so the scramble along the summit ridge, either on the snowy northern side or exposed to the southwest wind, was an unwelcome change. After a few clear days, the wind was also bringing in smoke from perpetually-burning California. I signed the unexpected Ecuadoran register, then retreated to the back side, where I had to descend quite a ways east to get around cliffs on the peak’s north side.

The normal route on Helen climbs its southeast glacier and face, but the former looked too steep and icy for my gear, with possible moat problems getting to the latter, so I dropped farther and climbed the easy class 2-3 east ridge. I found only a bit of route-finding and fourth class scrambling near the summit, which had an excellent view of Warren and Turret, and an unclear view of my next objective, Spearhead Pinnacle, a lesser peak hidden in the confusion of pinnacles south and west of Warren. Now I just had to figure out how to reach it.

Helen can be climbed from Titcomb Basin via a col to the north and one of a few couloirs on its north side, and skied via the giant couloir leading from near its summit all the way down into the basin. I made my way down a chossy couloir to the saddle, then scrambled along the west side of the ridge to eventually reach the saddle south of Forked Tongue and Spearhead Pinnacles. From there I crossed the small and somewhat crevassed glacier to their east, surprisingly finding some boot-prints likely from within the past week. The snow was all melted out from the couloir north of Spearhead, so I had to battle loose dirt and rock on my way to the col.

I was apprehensive about Spearhead, since it is supposed to have the hardest mandatory climbing of the 13ers (5.4), and Eric and Matt brought a rope. Climbing along the north ridge, I was also periodically buffeted by the wind. I found most of the climbing to be class 3-4, either on or left of the crest. The crux was a short, steep return to the crest; I sort-of chimneyed behind a large detached flake on my way up, and found an easier way farther right on the way down. Beyond the crux, there was a fun hand traverse, then easier ground leading to an exposed but surprisingly comfortable summit. I once again kicked myself for not bringing a pen to sign the register, and not having any conveniently-bleeding cuts on my hands. Once back below the crux I relaxed, figuring that the rest of the day was a simple matter of endurance. I had plenty of daylight to climb Warren, Turret, Sunbeam, and Febbas, putting me a day ahead of my original plan.

Warren was a straightforward climb from the debris-field to its south, via either chossy gullies or the more solid ribs in between them. Looking behind me, I was grateful that Doublet, Dinwoody, and their neighboring spires do not have enough prominence to qualify as peaks, as they look extremely difficult. Kelsey describes a route up Warren from Elsie Col, which separates it from Turret, that works around a step in the ridge via a “chimney” on the south. I looked for something like that, crossing a sloping plateau and descending a chute leading to the south side, then doing some fourth class scrambling to exit the chute and return to the crest. Perhaps this was what he meant, but in any case it worked and got me to the col.

Turret supposedly has a couple of routes from this side, a “southwest ridge” that is actually mostly in couloirs, and a couloir used on the first ascent. I started up what I thought was the “southwest ridge” couloir, but apparently missed the side-chute one takes to gain the actual ridge. Instead, I topped out at a notch, then made a sketchy downclimb into the main couloir, which I followed until it topped out between two of the summits. From the top, I had some tricky downclimbing getting down the north ridge to Backpackers Pass, as several sections were slabby and covered in snow. I generally stayed left of the crest, in a sort of face/bowl, before crossing where the ridge turns to downclimb some sketchy slabs, then descend easier talus to the saddle.

Sunbeam was short, quick, and not particularly memorable after the rest of my day. It also seems more popular than any peak since Fremont, as it is an easy hike from Blaurock Pass. My descent to the pass was made more pleasant by some patches of snow covering the talus. From there, it was a quick side-trip to Febbas, the highpoint of Horse Ridge, a huge tilted plateau on the east side of the range. Its summit has an impressive view of the glaciated side of the Divide, from Gannett to Jackson.

Pleased with my work, I returned to Blaurock Pass, where I picked up a faint trail that faded into and out of existence on the long descent to Dinwoody Creek. It was getting toward evening, and I met two campers at a lake near the junction with the official Glacier Trail, though they were not in a conversational mood. I found a dry crossing of Dinwoody Creek, then picked up the trail near where it reaches the moraine and disintegrates into multiple cairned paths. This part of the day was unpleasant and depressing. The big Dinwoody Glacier has retreated a half-mile or more, leaving behind a mess of dirty lakes, loose sand, and piled boulders. Slogging through this wasteland toward the shrunken, separate lobes of what was once a single glacier, I decided that I would prefer to avoid coming this way.

I eventually reached the glacier, and put on crampons for the climb up to Bonney Pass. Looking at the upper glacier on my way by, I saw that the lobe extending from Wilson and Pinnacle Ridge was bare and badly crevassed, making my route to those peaks from this side likely difficult or impassable. I reached the pass around sunset, and fortunately made it down the other side before headlamp time. The steep, loose descent on a faint trail gave me yet another reason not to climb the Gannett-area peaks from the east. I had plenty of headlamp time to come up with another plan as I walked down the endless head of Titcomb Basin, then past the two large lakes, disturbing a man in a tent along the way. Too tired to cook, I crawled up on my rock and into my bivy, then ate half a pepperoni before falling asleep.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

My failure to grind out evening trail miles the day before incurred a morning pack plod, from Shannon Pass down to the approach trail from Elkhart Park, then up to the Indian Pass trail junction. Knowing I had a big day ahead, I managed to get started toward the tail end of headlamp time. This kind of mindlessness, some of it forested and uninteresting, required me to dig deep into my podcast reserve to pass the time. The one that stuck in my mind was an interview on the FKT podcast with a guy who seemed seldom to travel without a “crew” on all his FKTs, including at least pacers, aid station workers, and a social media person; sometimes there was also a videographer. This engendered dark thoughts of professionalization, commercialization, and the all-consuming cancer of social media, where micro-influencers (i.e. sharecroppers) eke out a bit of free stuff promoting and leveraging their “brands,” so that soulless engineers can be paid well into the six figures and Mark Zuckerberg can buy private islands and politicians. But then my mood brightened: I was out in a beautiful and remote place, using my abilities as I chose, and accountable only to myself. If I turned around and headed back to the trailhead, no one else’s time would be wasted, and only a few friends would be the wiser.

I began seeing more people after joining the standard Titcomb approach from Elkhart Park, perhaps a dozen before I reached the Indian Pass junction. I found a giant flat-topped boulder nearby, an adequate “durable surface” to camp, and eagerly dropped the big pack to prepare for the day. Not knowing what to expect, I brought crampons and ice axe in addition to my ration of two Clif bars, two packs of pop-tarts, and a quantity of wasabi almonds. The day was already well advanced, and I had four peaks to climb, but I was still on the right side of the equinox and could count on clear skies.

First up was Ellingwood Peak, so named in the 1930s, then officially rechristened “Harrower” in honor of a ranger and Pinedale mayor in 1968. Both men have legitimate ties to the peak, and Harrower has a cooler last name, but I am a climber, so I prefer to call it “Ellingwood.” As I hiked toward the unnamed lake at its base, hopping from rock to rock in the low stream, I debated which route to take. The easiest way would be to circle around to the saddle with neighboring Elephant Head and scramble the class 3-4 ridge up the “back.” But the north arete is a 5.6 Kelsey claims is “the best in the Titcomb area,” which has been on my to-do list for many years. Remote, long, and utterly committing, it would be the technical crux of my whole outing. I had not done any scrambling at that grade in awhile, and was somewhat tired and on a deadline, but the arete would be much more engaging than the standard route, and I was not sure when I could next motivate myself to either dayhike it or backpack in for it.

I vacillated as I skirted the lake’s south shore, and began heading toward the easier standard route, but then some switch flipped in my mind. I was here for adventure, and ready to apply myself. My indecision had put me awkwardly high for the approach, so I had to side-hill across some talus-fans and couloirs, doing a bit of fourth class to get out of one. I skirted up and around some ice in another, and ended up on a grassy ledge at the base of what I thought was the arete. I retreated a bit to climb a step on the right side, then started up a dihedral with a crack. Though I did not feel comfortable and backed off, I saw a large stuck nut, suggesting that I was in the right area. I tried another dihedral to its right, felt better, and found an ancient spinning hanger attached to the rock by a skinny, rusty bolt. Now confident that I was on-route, I got to work.

While there are plenty of ledges on which to rest, the north arete’s climbing is sustained. Much of the first part is stemming up slanting dihedrals left of the indistinct ridge, which feel secure on the route’s solid, grippy rock. Higher up, I also found some short, easy liebacks and a heady section of steep face climbing on knobs to return to the crest. It is heads-up climbing requiring good route-finding, and there are no possibilities for escape, but nothing felt harder than the first pitch. I took a couple of photos, but was mostly focused on the climbing, paying no attention to time as I climbed higher and the ridge became more pronounced. Though it is north-facing, most of the route was fortunately snow-free. This changed near the top, where a slabby headwall held patches of snow and ice. This forced me to the right, where I had to carefully climb some featured but worse, lichen-covered rock that did not require friction climbing.

Finally at the summit, I found some kind of giant milk jug for a register canister, which contained the register and an explanation of the peak’s official name, but alas no writing implement. I basked in the sun and my success for awhile, then set about finding my way down. The peak’s standard southwest ridge route was tricky near the top, with a bypass to the west where many people seem to rappel, but soon eases off to ledge-walking on the east side. As the ridge nears a saddle, I headed east, aiming to cross the deglaciated bowl beneath the peak’s south face. This would probably be an easy walk with snow, but was instead a mix of talus and benches, with several slab-sided gullies requiring a bit of route-finding to cross. I meandered up and down while staying fairly high, then climbed to the saddle southwest of Knife Point. Though it looks impressive from some angles, and shelters a substantial glacier on its northeast side, the peak is mostly an easy scramble when wrapping around its south side, and its east face is a boulder-field. I stood on the summit block, noted the bighorn skull someone had placed nearby, then took off across the endless talus to Bete Noir, a.k.a. Brown Cliffs North, an unimpressive plateau well east of the other 13ers.

Bete Noir’s summit is one of several bumps on the plateau, most looking like giant brownish-gray cow turds. I tagged the one with the cairn, plus another pile of talus to its northeast that looked just as high, then headed back the way I had come, following a convenient ledge around the steep talus-slope on the col above Alpine Lakes. This is probably part of some backpacking route, because I found a bit of a trail leading down into the disaster once covered by the lower Knife Point Glacier. I crossed this wasteland of loose talus, glacially-pulverized grit, melt-streams, and brown ponds, then crossed the remaining glacier on my way to Indian Pass. I could have avoided it entirely, or stuck to low-angle parts, but I had not yet used the crampons I had brought, so I decided to give them some exercise.

Reaching the wooden post at the pass, I picked up a decent trail heading back toward camp, which I followed only a short distance. The standard route on Jackson is described as a ramp leading up from the first lake below the pass, but I saw a higher chute leading to Jackson’s long summit plateau, and decided to take that instead. It was the loose garbage-chute I expected, but turned out to be an easy and efficient route through the cliffs. From the top, I climbed a shallow valley to the crest, then turned left to boulder-hop toward the summit. A couple sections of snow made travel easier, but it was mostly bare.

From Jackson’s summit, it was clear why it is not normally linked with nearby Fremont: its north face down to the glacier is sheer, and Fremont’s southeast ridge up from it looks difficult. I enjoyed the late-afternoon views of Ellingwood and Island Lake, then returned to the shallow valley. Figuring the standard route might be better than what I had found, I followed some cairns heading left from the bottom of the valley. They led into a bowling alley and disappeared, leaving me to pick my way down loose terrain and gritty slabs that felt harder than what I had climbed.

Once back on the trail, I made an earnest effort to jog and walk quickly to beat the sunset. However the trail is braided and confusing in places, and the evening light on Ellingwood’s north face compelled me to stop for frequent photos. Less than a mile from camp, I came upon a line of kids with running vests, one even hipster-ed out in skinny pants, a checked shirt, and chunky glasses. They were coming back from Fremont, headed to a camp somewhere below Island Lake. I passed them after chatting for a minute, then watched them hike by in the fading light as I performed my evening camp routine. I had big, uncertain plans for the next day, and wanted to get as much sleep as I could on my not-quite-flat pedestal.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

I had thirty peaks to climb in eight days before I ran out of food, and hoped to do them in seven. That meant I had to average just over four a day, and my single peak the day before was dragging down my average. It was time to fix that. There are six 13ers surrounding the cirque above Peak Lake, with Bow, Henderson, and American Legion on one side of Knapsack Pass, and the Twins, Split, and Whitecap on the other. While one cannon simply traverse along a ridge from one to the next, they seemed to form a natural link-up. Looking at them up close, it seemed easier to tag Bow by itself (and I had had extra time the day before), leaving the other five and giving myself time to add Sphinx in the hope of simplifying my route later on.

I left my camp in place at Shannon Pass shortly after first light, hiking down the trail a ways before heading off cross-country before Upper Jean Lake toward the lake at the base of Henderson’s east face. I knew that Eric had used the north ridge, and Kelsey said the face was class 3 or 4, so I could use whichever seemed most convenient. I filled up on water at the lake’s inlet, looked at the long talus-slog leading to the col with American Legion, and decided to climb the face. There are many possible paths, following a mixture of talus and ramps, and I picked what felt best as I made my way to the ridge just north of the summit. The ridge itself is a bit of a block maze, so I dodged back and forth, eventually taking the west side to reach the summit. Here I had a mostly-unobstructed view of the Titcomb Basin peaks in morning light, showing their most intimidating faces. The ridge south to two unnamed 12ers looked hard, but American Legion seemed to be a simple boulder-hop from the col. The register was an old gem from the 1940s, left by the Wasatch Mountain Club before the peak had a name.

Getting down to the col was a bit trickier than I had expected, in part because I had to contend with snow lingering in places on the north-facing ridge. The ridge crest remained intermittently blocky, so while I could sometimes follow it, I often bypassed it to one side or the other. American Legion was mostly as easy as it looked, with only a bit of scrambling near the summit. Befitting the peak’s name, the register was a well-kept book in a sturdy ammo can decorated with military pins. Unlike Henderson, this peak sees a fair amount of traffic, including the authors of a documentary about the death of the Colorado River, at the start of the longest route water can take to reach the Gulf of California.

After adding my name, I faced the day’s first big question mark. Kelsey says that he reached Knapsack Col from American Legion with a rappel to the glacier, and that someone mentions climbing the north ridge in the register, suggesting that it goes. However this is not a normal route, and there is also annoying little Winifred Peak standing in the way. Though it looked like I might be able to pick my way east down the face to the glacier, my life would be much easier if I could descend the ridge, so I headed off to give it a try. A number of towers and drops made this difficult and time-consuming. While I preferred to bypass them on the sunny east side, I was often forced to the shady and snowy northwest, where I encountered the day’s sketchiest climbing getting down and around a notch and ravine. The route would have been easier when dry, but still apparently low fifth class.

Finally at the col, I was relieved to make an easy boulder-hop up Winifred, then descend some loose scree and talus to Knapsack Col, finding a faint use trail along the way. The south ridge of West Twin looked difficult, so I descended around the right side to reach the col between the two Twins via the southeast glacier. Having done Bow the previous day, I had some extra time, and decided to tag Sphinx and possibly Warren. If I tagged the former, I could climb the latter from the Dinwoody side, avoiding another trip up from Titcomb toward Knapsack Col in another few days.

Dropping around the East Twin’s slabby south ridge, I crossed some annoyingly hard ice to try to stay high, then climbed a talus-field to the Sphinx Glacier. This was crevassed on the left, but easy in running shoe crampons to the center and right. I followed a snow ridge above a deep wind-carved swale below Sphinx’s west face, then was stopped just before the Sphinx-Wilson col by an annoying bergschrund. It looked possible to climb out the other side on the right, but tricky to climb in, so I traversed to the far left where it met the rock, then sketched my way back across the icy remnant above the ‘schrund to the rock below the col.

Stashing my crampons, I started up the northwest ridge, cruising some class 3 climbing on dry rock. Unfortunately the ridge steepened and forced me to the left, where snow on outward-sloping ledges made for careful climbing. I wandered quite a ways from the ridge, then climbed straight back up to the crest beyond the difficulties, where easier and drier ground led to the summit. Sphinx has magnificent views in both directions, with the Titcomb Lakes on one side and the much-shrunken Dinwoody Glacier on the other. I studied what I could see of Woodrow Wilson: the south chute looked unpleasantly loose at least, and possibly impassable with a large, exposed chockstone; the high glacier lobe to its northeast looked more promising. My hopes of adding Wilson to the day were dashed, but at least the Dinwoody route looked promising.

I tried to get clever and stay closer to the ridge on the descent, but this proved ineffective, and I wasted time cliffing out on slabs before returning to the slow but tried-and-true route on the snowy side. Relieved to at last be past the ‘schrund, I skipped down the glacier, then ground out the talus slog back toward the Twins, dropping lower rather than fighting the steep ice. As it turned out, this side-trip was a waste of effort, though it did not cost me any time in the overall speed record.

Reaching the Twins col was slightly tricky, with steep-ish bare ice giving way to loose garbage on top this late in the season. East Twin was an easy boulder-hop, while West required a bit more scrambling, once again made trickier by lingering north-side snow. Looking toward Split from both, it was clear that it made no sense to traverse the serrated ridge from West Twin. A traverse down and around via the Mammoth Glacier only drops to about 12,000 feet, and Split is an easy boulder-hop from the saddle to its west. Reaching the lower Mammoth required a bit of path-planning, as the upper part had several long crevasses partly hidden by snow. However nothing desperate was required, and I was soon traversing under Split’s sheer northeast side and zig-zagging up a glacier tongue to the saddle. I was getting tired, so the talus-grind to the summit was slow but mercifully short.

From the summit, I had a magnificent view of the upper Mammoth Glacier in some worryingly late-feeling afternoon light. I took some time to contemplate the day’s second and third big question marks. The slope down from Whitecap to above Peak Lake looked easy, but the ridge to it from Split looked intimidating. Kelsey does not mention the ridge at all, and says of the unnamed intervening peak more or less “there is no reason to climb this slag-heap.” Eric had dropped all the way around and down to almost 11,000 feet when linking these two peaks, but that sounded miserable, so I resolved to try the ridge, trusting in my ability to usually make things work.

Peak 12,845′ was unremarkable, but nowhere near as bad as Kelsey’s description had suggested. The ridge itself, while perhaps little faster than going around, took less energy and was much more fun, cheering me toward the end of a long day. The best route tended to stay on the crest or to its left (dry) side, with only one tricky low fifth class bypass on the snowy right. My hopes of boasting a coveted First Ascent in the Winds were dashed when I found a cairn at a convenient notch bypass, and again when I found that some kind of decent-sized animal, whether bear or cat, had climbed to just below the snowy-side crux. No matter: it was all uncharted territory to me, and I enjoyed just as much uncertainty and problem-solving as if I had in fact been the first mammal to touch these rocks.

Whitecap, named for a permanent summit snowfield, is bare now, and I found no register in a quick search of the summit cairn. It felt late, and Shannon Pass still looked far away. I roughly followed the route I had picked out on the south side, aiming for the valley north of a rib descending southeast to the stream above Peak Lake. However, many lines are possible on this side of the peak, and no doubt others have climbed it on their way over Knapsack Col. I picked up a decent trail at the valley bottom, and was surprised to meet a group of two couples hiking one way or the other. After seeing no one all day, it felt almost crowded. The trail makes its way around Peak Lake’s north shore before joining the Shannon Pass trail. I made it back to camp before dark, and probably should have put in another hour of hiking, but decided that this was enough. I believed (incorrectly) that I had taken care of the most uncertain part of my trip, had snagged Sphinx as a bonus, and felt well on track to make it out in seven days.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

I woke to rain. Pounding, drenching rain starting around 2:00 AM and continuing until dawn. It felt like a repeat of the storm that had scuttled Renee’s big plans earlier by dumping several inches of fresh snow on the high country, making the talus treacherous and quick travel impossible. I lay half-awake in my car until it stopped, then emerged as it cleared to see how bad things looked. There was fresh snow on the peaks on either side of the Green River, but it did not look too deep, and I was already well into my record attempt. Sometimes sunk costs are a useful motivator. I stuffed more things in my pack, ticking them off on a checklist on my phone, the only way I could hope to pack effectively in my groggy state. I shoved my sleeping bag into my bivy with my pad, rolled the whole thing up, and strapped it under the topper, then started up the Highline Trail around 7:00. A mile or so up, I fortunately realized I had forgotten my down jacket. Dropping my pack, I muttered and jogged my way back to the car, where I grabbed the jacket and shoved another couple handfuls of trail mix in my mouth. It was the last food I would eat without carrying it on my back for… eight days? I was not sure.

This part of the journey was a big question mark. The thirty 13ers of the northern Winds, stretching from Ellingwood/Harrower in the south to Downs in the north, are connected by a network of ridges. Many have only a couple of known moderate routes, which are often highly condition-dependent. I had some link-ups in mind, but none was certain. All of the approaches are long, ranging from fifteen to over twenty miles. The shortest is from Elkhart Park, well south of all the peaks. Of the other two, from Trail Lakes and Green River Lakes, the latter is overall closest to the peaks, but requires a twenty-mile trail slog to reach the southern end, and a mysterious cross-country route via Clear Creek to reach the northern. I assumed that I could figure out Clear Creek on the return with a lighter pack, and could grind out the slog south along the Highline Trail with a full load.

The Green River Lakes, and Squaretop beyond them, are built on an inhuman scale, so the first part of the hike feels endless. It does not help that the trail follows a rolling path nearer and farther from the water. The trailhead parking lot had been packed, so I was not surprised to meet a horse-packer and several backpacking parties on their way out. These hearty folk seemed in good cheer despite having endured a vicious soaking only hours before. I was already hating my load by the time I crossed the bridge and started up the switchbacks leading to Trail Creek Park, which bypass an impassably narrow part of the Green River gorge. I refilled from a rivulet where the trail levels off, then made a further climb to Vista Pass, where I stopped to eat some pop-tarts and admire my first view of a 13er, Whitecap Peak, across the Green.

From here, the trail descends slightly as it returns to the Green, then climbs through talus to Cube Rock Pass. This was once apparently a built-up stock trail, but has decayed in places to a line of cairns. Shoulders sore from the unaccustomed weight, I descended toward Peak Lake and dropped my pack to look for a spot to camp, despite its only being mid-afternoon. Fortunately frustration at a lack of flat sites, plus time without a heavy load, caused me to remember my mission. I put the pack back on, hauled it south over Shannon Pass, then dropped it at a flat spot to tag Bow Peak. This would save me some time the next day, and make use of the unexpectedly pleasant evening weather.

From the pass, I trended up and right on grass, then talus and slabs, finding nothing harder than class 2. I stayed right of the crest along the sloping summit plateau, only approaching the northwest ridge as I neared the top. The steep north sides of Bow, Arrowhead, and American Legion Peaks held some recent snow, and behind them rose the higher Titcomb and Dinwoody peaks in craggy, snowy glory. At last I felt I was in the mountains where I belong, and I reveled in the view, forgetting the day’s grind and the uncertainty ahead. Surprisingly, I also had cell service — the northern Winds are narrow enough that one often has line-of-sight to a Pinedale or Dubois tower — so I messaged a couple of people to share the views and my excitement before returning to camp.

My evening routine was reasonably efficient. First, roll out my bivy with pad and bag already in it, and inflate the pad. Second, boil a pot of water while putting breakfast in my thermos: half a cup of whole powdered milk, half a cup of oats, and a quarter-cup of trail mix. Third, add some of the boiling water to the thermos and use the rest for dinner: four ounces of pepperoni, a half-cup of grits, and a generous pour of olive oil. Finally, rinse the pot, brush my teeth, stuff most of my clothes into the inflater sack for a pillow, and wriggle into my bag for the night. I rarely sleep well while backpacking, and there was almost no moon, so I had plenty of time to admire the Milky Way and brilliant stars so high and far from civilization. Tomorrow the serious peak-bagging would begin.

[This is part of a multi-part trip report of my Wyoming 13er speed record.]

Wind River Peak is an outlier among the Winds’ 13ers, being farther south, gentler, and less glaciated. I had recently run it from the east starting at Worthen Reservoir when Renee was visiting, but this time decided to come in from the south via Little Sandy. There are two trailheads from which to do this, Block and Tackle Hill and Sweetwater Gap, with the former being shorter if you have a bike. Since I do, I chose to do that. Unfortunately, a major wind event over Labor Day of 2020 massacred much of the forest from just north of the Hill to the north end of Little Sandy Lake, leaving much of the trail littered with downed trees. So while this route was about eight miles shorter than coming in from Worthen, it was probably no faster. On the other hand much of it was new to me, so I was introduced to more of this relatively unfamiliar range.

Though the road started off smooth past the Forest boundary, it soon turned impassable to anything other than an ATV or possibly souped-up Jeep. I was able to ride some, but quite a bit was hike-a-bike as it became too steep, loose, and/or rocky. Near the top of the hill I kept seeing a light in the sky to my left, which was too orange to be Venus, too bright to be Mars, and too small to be the moon. I soon learned what it was: a light on top of a wooden flagpole flying the US and Wyoming flags. Perhaps it was solar-powered, as there were certainly no power lines in the area. I had to be cautious on the downhills past the flagpole, as my headlamp and puny clip-on light were no match for a decent modern bike light. I briefly got off-track and was stymied by a creek ford, then retraced my steps to find the correct route, riding between walls of dimly-seen sawn logs on a road that was, as befitting the area, a little sandy. It was too cold to be riding so early, and I had to stop several times to warm my hands.

Finally nearing where the Wilderness boundary was drawn on my map, I saw a big canvas tent with a light inside. Clearly the occupant was awake but, figuring I would slip by without disturbing his morning, I swung my headlamp around looking for some sort of trailhead sign and a place to lock my bike. This, of course, was not exactly stealthy, and the man and his dog came out to greet me. As expected, he was dressed in camouflage, and somewhere between groggy and grumpy to have been disturbed in the middle of his morning routine. He asked me where I was going, and when I told him “Block and Tackle,” he confirmed that this was it.

Dawn being peak elk-hunting hour, he asked me to wait a minute so that we could walk together as far as his nearby hunting-grounds in the marshy, grassy area where the Little Sandy meandered nearby. We talked a bit as he finished his coffee, and he warned me that while the trail had been cleared as far as a nearby field where a friend from Farson’s ashes had been spread, it was a mess of downed trees beyond that. I assured him that I was used to such things. As the light slowly arrived, I saw that he also had a side-by-side 4×4, a target and basic compound bow (not one of those fancy ones with pulleys), and American and Wyoming flags flying from a snag. Done with his coffee, he tied up his dog, took a couple of well-aimed practice shots, and we set off up the valley. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but he seemed happy to talk in low voices and not particularly careful in how he placed his feet. He confirmed my understanding that bow-hunters have to be very close to take a shot — 25 to 30 yards — so perhaps he intended to later hide and call the elk to him.

We parted ways in a field, he to look for the source of the bugling and me to hurdle and thrash through logs. I spooked a couple of cow elk, and heard a bull screaming occasionally to my right, but hopefully did not hurt his prospects. The downed trees made travel slow, but at least they gave me plenty of log bridge options at the first creek crossing. I picked up the trail-bed on the other side and, with the help of both my map and my eyes, had little trouble following it as it wound its way north and gradually climbed. There was a pile of rocks at the faint junction where the other trail came in from Sweetwater Gap, and I also found occasional cairns and faint boot-prints. Though it likely no longer sees maintenance, the Little Sandy has not been entirely forgotten by backpackers.

Before Little Sandy Lake, I found a ridiculous sign in the middle of the devastation pointing to Big and Little Sandies, and headed toward the former. This took me away from Little Sandy Lake and up a side-valley to get around a constriction, and involved some of the worst deadfall and hardest trail-finding. Animals and humans alike had created multiple routes through the chaos, none particularly fast. Finally, at a broad meadow above the lake, the trail descended out of the woods and became clear once more. I admired the towering granite walls to either side as I hiked and jogged upstream toward the semi-obvious chute or ramp leading up to Coon Lake.

Leaving the trail, I managed to dunk one foot crossing the braided river, which annoyed me but did no real harm, and made it to the chute with almost no thrashing. Climbing up the chute, a mixture of semi-stable talus, hard-packed dirt, and spiny currants, was tedious but efficient. Emerging at the top, I found myself just above Coon Lake, where I picked up a faint fisherman’s trail leading around the near side. Somewhat to my surprise, I also found a fisherman, sitting placidly on a rock and failing to catch fish. I talked to the solitary older man for awhile, and he told me he was retired, and sometimes worked on the trails to pass the time. He was only moderately surprised that I was out for just a day carrying so little gear. I felt somewhat out-of-place, an outsider running around these mountains setting some silly “FKT” while these older men enjoyed and took care of their backyard wilderness.

I crossed the lake’s outlet, then made a slightly annoying cross-country traverse to shortcut the indirect trail down the valley and back up toward Tayo Lake. Once on the Tayo Lake trail, I was on familiar ground from my recent run. I passed the lake and made my way up more or less the same route to the summit, though with much less jogging. I had the top to myself this time, and it was colder, but I spent the time to take a few photos and send a couple of texts before retracing my steps. The forecast had called for possible afternoon showers, and by the time I returned to the Little Sandy, clouds had built over the mountains with shocking speed. However, I only felt a few drops of rain as I made my way southward and downward to the trailhead.

I greeted the hunter, John, and he emerged from his tent in a better mood and much more talkative now that he was fully awake and not trying to surprise an elk. I learned that he had been coming to this spot to hunt for decades, and that the peak of the rut was not for another few weeks. He planned to stay up there for that entire time, or at least until he got his kill — like many hunters, he seemed to do it for the quiet escape to nature at least as much as for the meat. He also told me that the area’s trails had been put in by the CCC, who had named Block and Tackle Hill for having to use blocks and tackle to ratchet their wagons up the steep slope. Reluctantly departing, I rode back to the trail, glad to have a bike despite having to walk it down some of the steep, loose, rocky sections of the hill. Back at the car, I quickly put my stuff away, then returned to the Lander Cutoff, continuing on the network of good dirt roads to pavement at Boulder, then driving on through Pinedale before taking the wretchedly-washboarded dirt road to Green River Lakes. I packed as much as I could in my overnight pack, including 16 pounds of food, then got to sleep around dusk, slightly nervous before the start of the serious and uncertain part of my journey.