Crestone's Ellingwood Ledges
Climbed 2024-08-14
My first of 50 classics
Climbed 2024-08-14
My first of 50 classics
Ever since my completion of the Crestone Traverse in 2021, the Ellingwood Ledges route has sat in the forefront of my mind, and I was ecstatic to take in on in August of 2024. My first of the 50 classics, another to my collection of roped 14er ascents, and a test of all my accumulated skills - it really felt like my next big step. Big as it was, I had planned to film much of the preparation and ascent - I packed a gopro, a drone, and spent weeks filming b-reel and envisioning the mountain scenes I would capture. Naturally, the reality of video editing set in, and I returned to college, so my aspirations went by the wayside. Now, months later, I return to my usual medium to share the comical and foolish mistakes that went into this ascent, and how Bryan and I overcame them to cement this achievement.
This route took its spot in climbing history when, in 1925, Albert Ellingwood and Eleanor Davis ascended the route with pitons and a hemp rope. Now, almost a hundred years later, we followed in their footsteps. The route follows the dramatic “arete” on Crestone Needle’s Northeast Face. It involves over a thousand feet of technical climbing, starting just above the South Colony Lakes and ending just yards away from the summit.
Lacking a 4WD vehicle, Bryan and I faced a brutal approach - almost 9 miles to the lake with packs filled with food and gear. To lighten our loads, we decided not to bring tents and sleeping bags, planning to make the ascent car to car with a brief layover at South Colony Lake. To further speed this along, we would bike up the 4WD sections of road. I had been workshopping this “bike-mo” style all summer, and this was the perfect opportunity to put it to the test.
Bryan loads up the bikes
“workshopping bike-mo” A very grumpy Bryan earlier that summer, moments before saying hell no on the Barr trail
We arrived in fleeting rain, greeted by a rainbow across the east plains. Briefly, we considered spending some more time in the car, to wait out the rain and decrease our lake layover. Neither of us being patient people, we instead hopped on our bikes and began the speedy ascent up the 4WD rode. For about 20 feet. Then the reality of biking up a steep road with heavy packs set in, and we resigned ourselves to dragging the bikes up alongside us, hunched over and miserable. Only the glorious image of flying back down that trail tomorrow kept us pushing.
We arrived at the 4WD trailhead well after dark, and dragged our bikes in a further 2 miles to the old signage, hiding them in the bushes. Here, it started drizzling again, and it suddenly dawned on us. We were way ahead of schedule, and it was going to be a loooooong night without shelter.
Nevertheless, we pushed on, arriving at South Colony Lake around 23:00, 5 hours before we could start climbing. To make matters worse, a harsh, incessant wind began whipping through the valley. Actively trying to convince ourselves that this would be “fun” and “adventurous,” Bryan and I snuggled into a little nook under a boulder, using our emptied packs as a ground pad. Then, donning all of our layers, we cuddled up under a single space blanket.
Bryan in his marshmallow man suit. Smiles would soon fade
I quickly drifted off to sleep, but within 20 minutes, a rush of wind ripped the blanket out from us, and the reality of our next 4 hours and 40 minutes set in. Cuddled together for warmth, holding the blanket on either side of us, we waited. And waited. Sleep came and went in small waves, each time violently ripped away as the wind tore at us and our blanket, tearing holes into our only shelter. Each time, I was a little colder and a little wetter. All the while, the wind raged overhead.
Bryan seemed especially to be suffering, and at one point he ceased trying to hold the blanket over himself. At first, not thinking, I gleefully decided that he must be warmer than me! I wrapped myself up in the tatters of the blanket, warm for the first time in hours. But then, realization flooded me - he was too cold to move anymore. He’d just given up on holding the blanket down. Immediately, I wrapped him in the blanket, threw the ropes on him for more warmth, and laid on top of him, doing all I could to keep him from slipping into hypothermia. All the while, I worried that we would need to turn back, and I whispered encouragement, as much to myself as to him. “Just a little longer,” I kept saying. “The sun is going to change everything, man. Just stick it out.”
Around 03:30, having maybe slept an hour, we needed to get moving. We weren’t going to get any more rest, and our only shot at staying warm was to climb or turn around. I “awoke” Bryan and for a tense moment, I prepared myself for him to say he’d had enough of my terrible plan. To my surprise though, he agreed to carry on.
I think about this night a lot. It was, without a doubt, one of the most foolish things I’ve ever done. While we were never in real danger (I would have started moving back to the car if serious hypothermia seemed likely), it was an obvious mistake. I could have done many things to avoid it:
Thankfully, we immediately felt better when we started moving, spurred on by the promise of sunlight. Within the hour, we stood below the first pitch, racking up.
The first pitch of the route was an absolute nightmare - one of the most mentally challenging leads of my career. It goes at an easy 5.4, but a number of factors served to bump this grade up. Because of last night’s weather, water poured down the crack and over the bulbous rock. Every move on slippery slopers threatened to throw me off. To make matters worse, about halfway up, my feet went completely numb from the cold. I couldn’t feel if my feet were actually on the holds - I only had visual feedback to tell if it would stick. I crawled along the wall, slower than I’ve ever climbed. As a final kick in the ass, the entire pitch was a no fall zone. I couldn’t find a placement for 40ft and when I finally did get a piece in, it was a weak cam placed in a flaring wet crack - no more than mental pro. This grueling lead took 45 minutes.
When Bryan arrived at the belay, he was very reasonably concerned that we were moving too slow for a safe ascent. If every pitch took that long, we’d get caught in weather or trapped on the wall for another freezing night. I agreed, but begged to push for one more pitch. I hadn’t endured that night at the lake to turn back now - the sun was rising and everything was about to change.
We were rewarded for pushing on, running clean leads and simuls up the ledges. Past the second pitch, we unroped and enjoyed some of the best scrambling Colorado has to offer. Bryan moved slow through the moves, understandably after his rough night, but I was proud to see how far my friend had come since Sneffels.
We reached red knob, and he insisted that we rope back up. It was an easy 5.0-5.2 pitch, but the exposure essentially doubled, with the cliffs folding away on either side of the arete. Then, at last, we were at the good stuff. Everything we had done before this was optional and could have been replaced by a 3rd class ledge ascent. Past this point though, we had 3 pitches of serious roped climbing.
I set a couple of pitons to anchor the first pitch, which went at 5.6, while Bryan napped and snacked. Then, we were off, and the stoke was high. This first pitch brought us beneath the crux, where we had a couple of options
When the route was first climbed, Ellingwood ascended something called the headcrack (so named because he was able to cam his head into the crack). There is much debate over where this crack actually is, but nowadays, there are two standard options. The first goes at 5.9, ascending directly up a shallow chimney. If I lead this, it would be my hardest alpine lead.
The other goes at an easier 5.7. However, there was some question of how good the gear was, and that mental pressure can easily make a 5.7 feel like a 5.10.
I did some soul searching at the belay ledge, checked the weather, and set off. I could ultimately decide later on the climb which route to take, but I knew immediately that I had to try the 9. I was never going to send the Diamond if I balked at this. And without a doubt, it was the hardest alpine lead of my life. I placed an absurd amount of gear, and ran completely out of runners by the last couple of pieces, forced to improvise with bits and pieces of cord, my prussik, and chained carabiners. At the top, I whooped with joy, having sent the onsight.
Bryan followed up, and we started on our last pitch. A mere 5.7, the likes of which a climber of my caliber would sneeze at. Easiest thing I would do all day.
Three pieces in, shaking with fear and bricked up like a teenager on summer break, I had to hangdog the rope. Even more embarrassingly, the pitch was basically sport, since someone left half a rack of DMMs on the wall.
Nevertheless, I pulled through, and we had only a short 3rd/4th class scramble to the top. I charged on, whooping and dancing at the top, and immediately breaking out my summit cigarette.
We made our summit phone calls, snacked, and then began the long descent down the standard route. Beyond this, most of the day is a blur. We were both totally cooked, and my brain stopped recording until we reached our bikes. But here, at last, our investment paid off. We made the return trip in under an hour, flying 6 miles down the trail with little to no effort. And with that, after 21 hours, we were finished with my greatest accomplishment yet.
The memory of this climb gives a strange vibe. Unlike my other posts, it took me months to write about this experience. I simply became so busy, and so much of my life changed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but many of the relationships involved in this victory would end shortly after, leaving a bittersweet stain on the experience.
This would ultimately prove to be Bryan’s last climb. I’m sure this is no surprise to anyone who has read my posts - I’ve really put him through it. But he is very unlikely to return to the alpine again after this one. Furthermore, many of the people who helped me prepare for this climb, the people who celebrated my victory - they’re no longer around, but this memory has been forever paired with them.
There is nothing so fine as a night out in the mountains, no matter how cold and miserable. There is nothing so challenging as giving your all in desolate, apathetic cliffs. And there is nothing so fulfilling as making it to the top and back again. But then you’re back. And the rest of your life goes on. Be it mountains or people, these experiences are temporary, only to be relived in memory. If I could go back and relieve that 21 hours over and over again, I would. But of course, there is only the next climb. The next experience. I think many mountaineers understand this yearning to return, and it keeps us chasing new heights. As Gaston Rebuffat said, “Ambition, to me, has always seemed preferable to memories.”