Big mistakes lead to crucial lessons learned on Colorado fourteeners

It's no secret that Colorado offers a seemingly endless number of outdoor recreation opportunities, and some of those opportunities can come with big risks.

Today, I'm sharing two of many scary experiences I've had in the backcountry in hopes that you can learn from my mistakes.

1. Scary moments on Pikes Peak

The year was 2013 – I didn't live in Colorado yet, but was visiting a friend and had recently been starting to dip my toes into outdoor recreation – basically, in the form of a short bike ride here and there. Staying in Colorado Springs for a portion of my trip, Pikes Peak loomed above, posing the ultimate opportunity for adventure.

My buddy had lived in the city for a couple years, but also had not climbed the peak yet, so we made it our mission to reach the top.

Neither of us were familiar with high-elevation mountain travel at the time, but either way, we woke up one morning and decided we wanted to answer the call to reach the top.

By the time we were fully caffeinated and had found the right trailhead – the start of the Crags route on the backside of the mountain, we left the vehicle behind at about 8:30 a.m. sometime in mid-July. Seasoned fourteener climbers can probably already tell where this is going.

Over the course of many hours, we trudged our way to the top. I was plagued by some gastrointestinal issues along the way, but in general, we both felt mostly fine as we reached the cushy building on the summit and lingered while we stocked up on snacks and grabbed a few of the mountain's famous donuts.

As we started to head back down the peak, we noticed the sky suddenly started to darken. Storm clouds moved in and thunder rolled in the distance, as our tired bodies made it down the class two stretch of the route with the notorious 'Devil's Playground' area of the mountain in sight. I remembered a sign I had seen on the way up, cautioning about lightning and how it had a tendency to bounce between all of the rock outcroppings as storms rolled through.

As if on cue, a flash cracked through the sky that was a bit too close for comfort, with our location still miles from the nearest treeline.

Without much of a second thought, we started to high-tail it down the route, following suit with those around us who we assumed had more alpine hiking experience.

After what seemed like an hour or so – storm above us the entire time – we made it back to a point of the mountain where we started to quickly lose elevation, tree coverage in sight.

Thankfully, there's no tragic ending to this story. We both made it off the mountain safely, but many lessons were learned.

We had started to late. We failed to pay close attention to the forecast and changing skies above. We took too long at the summit as hazards loomed.

Despite a stretch of terror that I felt as I thought I might literally die on that mountain via electrocution, I suddenly saw the appeal in the adventure that a 14,000-foot mountain could offer. I was hooked.

I've climbed many more peaks since then, but now I always check the forecast. Mountain-Forecast.com has become my go-to as a trusted source.

2. Underprepared for the Crestones

Another key learning experience I've had in Colorado's high-elevation terrain came on the Crestones – the Peak and Needle, two 14,000-foot summits known for resulting in a high rate of rescues among climbers.

It was 2020, deep into the pandemic and when I was just starting to venture into Class 3 terrain.

I woke up at about two or three in the morning and headed to Westcliffe, with plans to leave my tiny sedan at the two-wheel-drive trailhead, mountain biking up a three-ish-mile road that proved to be rougher than I thought it would be and into the basin that holds the South Colony Lakes. While my hiking route for the day would mean traveling about 16 miles if I wanted to reach each peak without crossing a Class Five traverse amid strong winds, I assumed I'd be fine on time, leaving my car behind at sunrise and with clear skies in the forecast.

And I did make good time as I reached the bottom of Broken Hand Pass, moving on to ascend the steep snow covered slope with fewer traction tools than I'd like to admit. I reached the top of Crestone Peak and returned to Broken Hand Pass, then moving on to reach the summit of Crestone Needle – and that's when things started to go wrong.

From the top of Crestone Needle, it can be extremely difficult to follow the route back down the mountain. Everything looks the same and options are a-plenty, though most of those options mean getting cliffed-out in a way where return is difficult, and if return is possible, it often means facing off with the same route-finding decision that resulted in getting cliffed-out the first time around.

As I struggled to find my route back down the mountain, I bumped into a few other hikers experiencing the same difficulties. Our parties linked up, assuming more heads were better than one. But that's when one of the members of the other party started to experience some pretty severe symptoms of altitude sickness – still at about 13,500 feet of elevation and in some serious class three terrain. And to top it off, the sunset was rolling it – and albeit beautiful, it meant we would be descending an icy Broken Hand Pass in the darkness.

Over the course of several hours, we inched our way down the mountainside, inadvertently off-route at times, without cell phone connection, and with a person who could barely keep their feet moving. To top it off, none of us had done much in terms of preparing to spend the night on the mountain, and even if we had, the consequences could have been dire for our ailing friend should we opt to stay at elevation for an extended period of time.

Deep into the night and after several moments that were riskier than I'd like to admit, we made it back to my bike at the bottom of the peak. With my new friend's symptoms of altitude sickness fading at the lower elevation, I bid farewell and hopped on my bike, making it down the rough road as I followed the glow of a bouncing and dying headlamp beam. I was back to my car around midnight – about six hours later than I had planned for.

Another 'alls well that ends well' experience, this adventure on the Crestones taught me several important things when it comes to mountain climbing.

First, always maintain a means of communication with the outside world. I had told my friends where I was headed and when I'd be back, but had totally failed to follow my timeline due to the various complications we encountered. As a result, I was met with multiple 'should we call search and rescue?' texts once I finally got connection on the drive home. A GPS-based emergency communication device like the Garmin inReach could have made that problem a non-factor, and I've carried one with me on every adventure since.

Second, I learned that the jump from Class Two to Class Three terrain is no joke. I had been teased by a few 'Class Three' moves on routes prior that gave me an inflated sense of confidence when it came to entering prolonged class three terrain where route-finding – or lack of – can quickly become a life-or-death situation. And I'd even done quite a bit of research prior to taking on the climb, with images of landmarks in my pocket and the correct route nearly memorized. But even still, route-finding was extremely difficult.

Third – traction. I had some spikes I could put on my boots and a hiking pole, but nothing that could have been used to self-arrest on a fall down the icy Broken Hand Pass. And I had incorrectly assumed the pass would be mostly clear of snow and ice as it was deep into summer – it was not. Thankfully, I didn't take a fall, but there were several slippery gun-wrenching moments. Nowadays, I always bring an axe along – just in case.

And fourth, I saw the real effects of altitude sickness for the first time. And trust me, it's not something you want anyone in your group to experience. Thankfully, we had good weather and a relatively warm summer night while we were self-rescuing our friend – had we not, we could have risked hypothermia or worse. I finally saw why it's so crucial to plan to spend a night on the mountain in inclement weather any time you're entering dangerous terrain by packing extra layers and supplies.

In closing

The punchline that comes with these stories is that mountain climbing is a learning experience where skills evolve over time. The best thing a new hiker can do is understand that mistakes will be made, but also that it's crucial to do everything you can ahead of time to prevent those mistakes from taking place. No one starts out as an expert. Give yourself time to grow your skills and be realistic about your abilities and experience prior to leaving the trailhead behind.

If you're interested in supporting Colorado's volunteer-powered search and rescue operation, one way to do so is through the purchase of a CORSAR card. It's cheap, at only $3 per year.