Base of the North Face of Longs Peak, just above Chasm View. The cables on the North Face were installed in the mid-1920s and removed in the early 1970s. Photo by Hull Cook

Hull Cook worked as a climbing guide at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at 12,750 feet on Longs Peak, during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

Everyone at Boulderfield felt a serious responsibility toward all persons who came up trail, although we were in no way required to do so. For everyone who went beyond the cabin we made a mark on a paper tacked to the door of the phone box. Then, as people straggled back, we would mark them off. If at the end of the day there were uncanceled marks remaining, one of us boys would scout the peak, ascending the North Face, going over the top, and returning by the Keyhole route. We would often find victims in various stages of exhaustion and fright, perhaps unable to move without assistance.

Of course occasionally climbers would descend by way of Wild Basin or Glacier Gorge rather than returning to the cabin, in which case the would-be rescuer would find no one and [would] shrug off his effort as a recreational climb.

Not infrequently someone would arrive breathlessly at our cabin-hotel with news that an injured or exhausted climber needed rescuing. The messenger would request, often demand, that a rescue party be organized at once. A couple of Boulderfield boys would perhaps toss a coin to determine which one should go. This casual inability to appreciate the gravity of the emergency was apt to infuriate the messenger. “You don’t understand. This person cannot walk! We need a rescue party.”

“How many people need help?” we would ask.

“Why, just one. But he cannot even stand up!”

“OK. Just tell me where he is.”

One of us would then hasten to the spot, usually finding the person surrounded by sympathetic friends. If the person were conscious, he (or hopefully she) would be hoisted onto the rescuer’s shoulders. If it happened to be my mission, I would say, “Just hang on to my head and keep your fingers out of my eyes.” I would then stride off, usually leaving the rest of the party well behind. Our motivation was not entirely compassion. I must admit we were enjoying a chance to show off a bit too, but I am sure the people we carried had scant criticism for our making an ego trip out of their rescue. And this one-on-one method of rescue was not just a macho exhibition stunt. We found that having the victim sitting on our shoulders made for a far easier carry than trying to use a littler. Managing a litter over a jumble of large rocks is no easy task.

But for the victim, the one-on-one rescue could be terrifying. Where previously he had been anxiously creeping and holding onto every projection he could reach, he was now high in the air, completely detached from all reassuring contact with the mountain, and entirely dependent upon the surefootedness of an unknown rescuer. It was interesting.

During the first year that the Boulderfield Hotel was operating Bill Ware, with the aid of a rope, pulled three fellows back up top who were trying to descend the East Face, and brought them down the North Face. And little Mick Maguire rescued two big football players, each twice his size. I have not seen mention of either of these incidents in print, but most of our rescues went unreported anyway. They were probably too frequent to sustain public interest.

I recall a premium climb, one where my only client was an 18-year-old girl. Her mother remained at the cabin while I took Janet up the North Face and down via the Keyhole. Janet was not slender. She admitted to 170 pounds, and by the time that we reached the Keyhole on our descent her legs gave out. I suggested that I carry her the remaining half mile to the cabin. She thought that I was joking, but I finally convinced her of the practicality of the idea, and hoisted her onto my shoulders. My trusty hob nails and edging nails enabled me to negotiate the mass of rough rocks with comparative ease.

When about halfway to the cabin we met her mother, who had decided to meet us on the last stretch. On observing our approach she began laughing almost hysterically. “I never thought I’d see this,” she exclaimed. “Her father couldn’t even carry her across the room, and here you are jumping with her over these awful rocks!”

Another carry was far less amusing. It was tragic. It occurred following a disaster at Chasm View, where my party of four were admiring the view across the East Face. Robert Fulton Smith had been asking about the hazards associated with making rescues, and he made a comment (his last) that soon assumed gruesome significance. He said, “I’d rather be a live coward than a dead hero.”

At that moment I was aware of a flash of something just above his head, and I was horrified to see his brains splash out. I jerked off my pack and quickly laid it over his head to spare his wife the gruesome sight, and I tried to conceal the larger fragments of brains by standing on them.

Shocked into a state of numbness, and terribly distressed, the wife asked, “Can we get a doctor?” To this pitiful request I had to reply, “Mrs. Smith, I am afraid no doctor can help him. I am the closest thing there is to a doctor around here, and I know for certain that he is dead.”

As we all stood there dazed, George Greely came panting up from a position nearby on the ridge leading to Mt. Lady Washington. He said, “I heard a falling rock, and looked up and saw it headed your way. I couldn’t see your group, but when the rock took a final long bounce, and I didn’t hear it hit rock I was worried.”

Mrs. Smith was solid. She did not rant or scream. She did not heap abuse on me. She was one superb lady.

George escorted my people, including Mrs. Smith, back to the cabin, while I remained to carry down the body. Ev Long met me halfway to help. When we checked Mr. Smith’s injury we noted that the scalp, with hair intact, was resting on the tentorium, the smooth bony floor under the brain. All of the skull above the eyebrows was sheared off. The rock had been only slightly smaller than a man’s head. It had been dislodged or rolled by some boys who were above the cable. When they came down we showed them what their rock had done. They soon went on down trail, seemingly showing less remorse than we expected. From the cabin Mr. Smith’s body was packed out on horseback.

Only a few days after Mr. Smith’s grisly death I received a letter from Mrs. Smith. Her character shines through better than I could describe it, so I shall quote her verbatim.

August 3, 1932

Mr. Cook, Guide

Boulderfield Cabin

Dear Mr. Cook:

I want to thank you for your kindness to me at the time of the recent accident to my beloved husband. I shall never forget your thoughtfulness of me, although I must have taxed you greatly. The shock has been almost too much, but I shall never be quite satisfied until I make that trip again. Would it be asking too much if I should want you to go with me?

Circumstances evidently prevented her returning. But what a lady!

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin
Pack Burros
Youth
The Power of Love
An Unforgettable Rescue

Hull Cook at Chasm View, where his most dramatic rescue on Longs Peak began. Photo by H.P. Ziedema

Hull Cook worked as a climbing guide at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at 12,750 feet on Longs Peak, during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

Fatalities on the peak were depressing, even though they were beyond our realm of responsibility. One day some frightened youths rushed into the cabin with the unwelcome news that one of their group had fallen. They indicated that he had apparently mistaken the Transom, or False Keyhole, for the real Keyhole. When they saw him fall, they had backed off and regained the usual route.

I hastened to the spot where I expected the body to lodge, the long ledge about 100 feet below the Transom that slopes down to the Agnes Vaile shelter hut. Here, indeed, was the crumpled body of a youth in his late teens. I wondered why he had fallen. The descent from the Transom is not technically difficult. Then I noticed a large box camera nearby. Perhaps it had hampered his descent.

As soon as I had determined there was no doubt about his being dead, I hoisted him up on my shoulder for the half-mile carry back to the cabin. A step away from where his body had lodged the ledge is very narrow, and as I swung around to head downward, the boy’s big climbing boots struck the rock wall, pushing me outward. Off balance, I stared down the near-vertical cliff at the rocks over 300 feet below, and I thought, “I’m going to have to throw him overboard to regain my balance, or we’ll both go over.” Thoughts come fast at such a time. I remembered then that his face was undamaged. What a pity it would be to smash it on those rocks. I teetered apprehensively, straining every muscle to regain stability while the debate—“to toss or not to toss” raged in my head. Moments that seemed like minutes passed until I finally rocked back to a safer stance, and could begin the sad trek down to the cabin.

The boy’s name was Grey Secor. His father soon came up from Longmont to the Hewes-Kirkwood Inn to learn what I could tell him of the accident. I was especially moved because I imagined my own father in that role should I become too careless.

One evening after dinner I thought I heard a most unwelcome sound, the yodeling signal which we used as a call for help. I rushed outside, hoping that I was mistaken, but there it was again. Gilly was at Chasm View, descending with a small group and avoiding the longer descent via the Keyhole to escape the onset of darkness. And Gilly was telling me that he needed help.

Brochure for the Boulderfield hotel. Lodging for one night: $2. A guide for the north face of Longs Peak: $2.50.

I quickly assembled first-aid kit, warm jacket, flashlight, and our longest rope, and set out for Chasm View at a trot. The trot lasted until the ascent became steeper, forcing a slight slowing of pace, but I was still pushing myself to the limit. About this time my stomach rebelled and said in effect, “You cannot expect me to digest that gluttonous meal while you are shunting all the blood to your lungs and legs. I quit!” And with a great whoosh, up came the dinner. Oddly enough, I felt no nausea, just the need to abruptly unload my dinner, and I was moving again.

When I met Gilly’s people on their descent from Chasm View to Boulderfield cabin, they advised me that he was waiting for my help in rescuing an injured climber who was lying on Broadway Ledge, calling for help. From Gilly’s vantage point at Chasm View, looking down and across the Diamond, the approaching darkness made it difficult to even see the victim. Gilly and I decided at once that he could be reached more quickly from above rather than having to go clear around Mt. Lady Washington, past Chasm Lake, and up from there. Accordingly, we climbed to the top of the peak, or nearly so, crossed southward above the Diamond, and descended to Broadway. Gilly remained about our rope’s length above Broadway to belay me with the injured climber up the first pitch. I found the injured man huddled on a rather narrow section of Broadway, babbling incoherently about falling. A cursory examination by flashlight revealed no deforming injuries, and as I talked to him he became more lucid.

He had evidently tried to climb the north side of the Notch Couloir. Just before slipping he had changed from hob-nailed boots to hemp soles, putting the boots in his pack. Where then was his pack? He had somehow fallen out of it, and when he hit the narrow ledge, the pack had gone on over and enjoyed the full thousand-foot drop to the waiting rocks below, a close call for him. After securing the rope around his middle, I called up to Gilly to take up the slack. Then, after explaining the shoulder carry to him, I hoisted him into position. We were not far from the spot where we had to leave Broadway and start our vertical ascent near the left side of the Diamond, but between us and that spot was a bulging corner of rock which we had to work around. Here the ledge underfoot was especially narrow and rather smooth, and it sloped alarmingly toward the black abyss behind us. I told my passenger to tuck his toes behind my back so that his shoes would not push us out into space.

As you start around this bulging corner it is necessary to plant one foot on the sloping ledge and commit weight on it while groping around the corner for a hand hold that you cannot see, but which you know from past experience to be there. When Gilly tightened the rope it provided the reassurance that if I slipped the man would be saved by the rope. He would no longer be my responsibility; he would become Gilly’s problem. Holding a flashlight in clenched teeth made it necessary for me to keep my head turned to the side. My fingers were really tingling as I flattened myself against the cliff!

After successfully negotiating that scary corner, I felt that we were home-free as I began the nearly vertical climb up the Kiener route to Gilly’s position. Hand and foot holds here were comfortingly adequate. Gilly moved on up for another belay, and we continued in like manner to the top of the peak, crossing above the Diamond and rounding over to the top of the North Face.

As we descended the cables, Gilly again belayed our injured climber, whom I can now call Leonard, since we had learned that his name was Leonard Thomas. He was still riding on my shoulders—I had not bothered to set him down yet—and as we descended the cables he tired of tucking his feet behind my back. Instead, he kept dragging his toes on the rock in front of me, but here I had hold of the cable for security. However, twice his toes swung free as we passed over inverted ledges, and each time he apparently relived the terror associated with his fall, for each time he let out a shriek that would frighten a banshee.

At Chasm View I accepted Gilly’s offer to carry Leonard, which he did all the rest of the way on down to the cabin. By morning Leonard was quite rational and we were able to determine that beside scrapes and bruises his only injury was a broken collar bone. Of course there was the concussion, but when Leonard’s father interviewed me a couple of weeks later he made no mention of complications.

Leonard had evidently remembered enough of my carry to give his father an earful, because the senior Mr. Thomas brought with him a man from the Carnegie who was to determine whether I was entitled to a Carnegie medal. The man’s reaction was favorable until he learned that I was a professional guide. That killed the whole idea, even though my responsibility to Leonard was zero, except for purely humanitarian reasons. Mr. Thomas ended the interview by giving me $50 (at least $800 in today’s dollars). Later, my father said, “You should have taken that Carnegie fellow up there. He might have changed his mind.”

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin
Pack Burros
Youth
The Power of Love

By Rob Coppolillo

Initial reports indicated that La Sportiva—the Italian maker of boots and shoes whose North American HQ is in Boulder—had a new approach rig called the Gandalf, presumably named after the king-honch sorcerer in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. By the time I spied a look at ’em, they’d been renamed the Ganda, so we can reasonably assume a few lawyers made some dough and the folks at La Sportiva had to rename the shoe.

The good news is the Ganda is a work of art. We’ve grown to expect nothing less from La Sportiva’s Italian-crafted footwear: tight, regular stitching; supple leather; a stellar fit; an innovation or two; and plain-old kick-butt performance.

The Ganda’s downsides? Well, the euro hasn’t fully released its stranglehold on the dollar, and paying skilled craftsmen (and providing health care!) isn’t cheap, so the shoe ain’t either: $215 for a pair. The Ganda also feels a tad clunky (14.74 oz/418g) at first—but there’s a method to the design, and by the end of a week of thrashing around in them, I was sold on the construction.

(Full disclosure: La Sportiva provided me a pair of Gandas free of charge…and I pray I get to keep ’em.)

The artisans at La Sportiva build a couple shoes into one with the Ganda. The rear of the shoe is board-lasted (like a lightweight hiker), and there’s a substantial layer between the shock-absorption goo of the lower shoe and the upper. The forefoot is then slip-lasted (like sensitive climbing shoes), putting your foot in closer contact with the sole.

The result? The rear of the shoe feels like a well-supported hiking shoe (pronators and supinators need not worry), definitely a notch beefier than a lighter and softer approach shoe like a Cirque Pro, a La Sportiva model I’ve worn for the past five years. The Ganda has a deepish heel cup which affords zero heel-slip, and plenty of protection for hiking with a pack or rock-hopping, or both at the same time.

The lacing extends to the toe-box of the shoe, helping to hunker down the forefoot when you’re sketching on slabby terrain (consider cinching the laces before you’re run out on Satan’s Slab). The additional padding in the forefoot sole (a godsend while hiking) certainly sacrifices some sensitivity on the rock, though I noticed it mostly in terms of deformation. That is, there’s enough soft, cushiony material in the shoe that torquing the forefoot or edging to the side “gooshes” the upper toward the outside of the sole. The harder you climb in the shoe, the more you’ll notice it, but in general it’s a minor gripe.

I did a few pitches of up to 5.8 climbing and bouldered on harder terrain for a week while testing the Ganda. This was my first go-round with Vibram’s “dot” sole, and it’s certainly climbable. I’d be talking smack if I ranked it against 5.10’s version—not enough time climbing to render a verdict. But nothing about the rubber raised a skeptical eyebrow, durability- or performance-wise. The Gandas feel a lot like the ’80s-era Fires: tons of protection, a sacrifice in sensitivity, but not bad for a boot made for walking. Hand-cracks? Forget it: Toe in, cam over, and float upward. The Gandas smear well enough to keep your sanity on slabs, but tiptoeing along a finger crack might be a challenge. I also loaded a pack with a grade IV–worthy rack, and I felt I could’ve added another 15 pounds without any control or stability problems. What felt “clunky” out of the box makes a ton of sense on the trail—you could easily hike into the Grand or the Incredible Hulk with the Gandas.

As with all of La Sportiva’s hand-crafted models (the Asian-made stuff doesn’t show quite the quality of the Italian goods, in my opinion), the shoes offer impeccable construction. I’d expect several resoles out of a pair, and I’d be mightily surprised if I blew a stitch in the first few seasons.

La Sportiva ships the Ganda with a standard-issue, flimsy insole. The marketing stuff suggests hiking without it, then inserting the insole to take up some volume and improve sensitivity while climbing. I’m not sure I buy that shtick.

I used my custom orthotics, lovingly prepared by Chuck Bird, pedorthist and boot fitter at Neptune Mountaineering (birdman@earthnet.net). His insoles probably add a bit more material to the whole foot-midsole-sole sandwich, and that’s probably part of my “gooshing” problem mentioned above. It’s my foot, though, and I’m babying it how I like!

I fit my Gandas a bit snug in the forefoot (with said orthotic, not the OEM insole). I can’t stand too much play in the toe box of a shoe in which I’m climbing, but I also wonder if my feet wouldn’t suffer a bit on a Grand Teton day. For what it’s worth, I chose the exact size of my Nepal Extremes and Trangos, so La Sportiva’s sizing seems consistent through their line, as far as I can tell.

Bottom Line?

Those accustomed to a Cirque Pro, 5.10’s Daescent, or Scarpa’s Expresso, will find the Ganda one notch less sensitive, but if you’re doing alpine days or hiking to a bivy before ridge scrambling, the Ganda will vastly outperform lighter models…and probably last for years longer.

La Sportiva will also offer a higher-cut version, the Ganda Guide, starting this summer ($235). I haven’t handled a pair, but they appear to have a less climbing-friendly sole and a bit more heft (20.2 oz/572g)—think fourth-class ridges and maybe enough beef on which to strap a crampon.

Dorothy Collier resting inside the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin. Collier, who often managed the hut while her husband, Bob, was away, suffered lightning shocks and a concussion in the line of duty.

Hull Cook worked as a climbing guide at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at 12,750 feet on Longs Peak, during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

One time that I carried someone down the mountain remains vivid in my memory; it was more prolonged [than usual] yet not severely fatiguing because love was a factor in maintaining endurance.

In endeavoring to reach something on a high shelf, Dorothy Collier [co-proprietor of the Boulderfield hut] placed a foot on the edge of the stove, and to support herself grasped one of the metal tie rods overhead. Her hand was slippery from soapy dishwater, causing her to lose her grip. She fell backward, striking her head on the cement floor. She was dazed by the impact, but she soon got up and tried to pass it off as of no consequence. However, 20 minutes later she abruptly lost consciousness and again fell to the floor.

This delayed loss of consciousness alarmed me greatly, as I feared it indicated intracranial bleeding. I carried her over to the downstairs bed, placed a cold-water compress on her head, and, since her husband was in Chicago, I phoned her family doctor in Denver. He wanted her brought down, and was quite distressed when I explained the difficulties of transport. About this time she regained consciousness, so we decided on quiet observation as long as she appeared not to be deteriorating. Her main problem was a vicious vertigo that recurred every time that she sat up or attempted to stand.

I closed the curtain around the downstairs bed to conceal our injured lady from curious eyes, and hung a sign that read, “QUIET, please. Patient has concussion of the brain. This is not merely mountain sickness.” Most people were very considerate.

This situation went on for several days, creating a mild scandal in the Village [Estes Park] because we boys were providing nursing care. Dorothy could barely stand, even with help, and her vertigo rendered the long trek to the outdoor privy out of the question, so it was up to one of us boys to help her on and off the pot. When tourists were present this function was something of a production. Everyone was shooed outside so that she could enjoy a modicum of privacy. Then, as soon as she returned to bed, the helper would emerge with the thunder bucket, and as he passed through the crowd on his way to the privy he would grant permission for the people to reenter the building. Dorothy said that she preferred me for her attendant because I was in medical school. But she mentioned another reason for my handling the thunder bucket. She said, “George bangs the lid so! Like cymbals.” So from then on I was the nurse, a situation that lasted a week. By then Dorothy decided her head could withstand the bouncing six-mile trek out on a stretcher.

Somewhere during this week a lady do-gooder, an Englishwoman from India, heard of Dorothy’s plight and was horrified that she was being cared for by young men. She determined to climb the peak, and incidentally check the situation out. She phoned us for reservations, mentioning on the phone both reasons for her coming. She evidently felt that Dorothy was in uncouth hands, so we boys felt that we should not disappoint her.

Hull Cook, left, and Clerin "Zumie" Zumwalt playing poker. The pistol on the table represented a bit of showmanship for the tourists.

After dinner we set up a poker game. Ev was down trail, leaving George, Zumie, and me for the card game. Zum and I pulled out our hunting knives and laid them on the table. At this George produced Bob’s .38 revolver, saying, “I’m gonna keep this game honest.”

The game was punctuated by a few threats and cuss words, but we soon tired of the charade and retired. Next morning the woman from India chose me for her climbing guide. Conversation lagged somewhat until we reached the cables [the steel cables that, until the 1970s, provided a hand rail for ascents of Longs’ north face]. Here I followed close behind her in case she should lose her grip on the cable. Too close, perhaps, because she kicked me in the nose with a heel. Immediately I had an impressive nose bleed. She was very contrite and apologetic, and also embarrassed that she had caused injury to her guide.

I grinned and said, “I guess that makes us even.”

Puzzled, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, last night we tried to frighten you into going back down trailk, so I guess I had this coming.” We enjoyed a good laugh…and for the rest of the climb our relationship was refreshingly cordial. After our return to the cabin she had a long visit with Dorothy, who convinced her that she was being well cared for, and the woman departed, perhaps surprised that no major moral overhaul was necessary.

The condition that prevented Dorothy’s going down trail on horseback was the miserable vertigo that was brought on by standing or sitting upright. As the vertigo was slow in clearing, we decided it was time to rig a stretcher and carry her out. We should have brought up a conventional stretcher, but instead we improvised. In a lumber pile in the stable we fund two ten-foot 2 x 4s for stringers, and separated them with two short lengths of the same material. For support under the toboggan mat used for padding, we wrapped climbing rope between the stringers. Our stretcher [was] a cumbersome thing of about 40 pounds.

I phoned ranger headquarters, requesting two husky rangers to trade off with two Boulderfield boys on the stretcher. I was advised, rather condescendingly, that such a project would require a much larger crew. They promised a group of CCC [Civilian Conservation Corps] boys, and in a few hours a crew of  22 arrived, plus ranger Harold Radcliffe, supervisor of the southern area of the Park. Dorothy did not like the idea of CCC boys carrying her stretcher. When they were doing shoulder work on the road to the Village, some of them called vulgar taunts when she drove by in her convertible. This had happened several times, and their boss had not silenced the insults. (That boss was not Harold. He would not have tolerated such behavior.)

So I said, “I’ll carry the front end of the stretcher.” Harold assigned two CCC boys to the back end, and we started. The two C-boys soon tired and were replaced. When we passed the first half-mile marker I thought, “This isn’t so bad. I can go another half mile.” I had the same thought at the next marker, and the next. The boys kept changing off every few hundred yards, and they resented my refusing to trade off. At one point I overheard the current pair plotting to show me up. One said, “Let’s run him down.” And they started going faster and faster, thinking that I would have to give in. Soon we were almost running, leaving the crowd behind. Before long the ranger noticed our pace and roared loudly, “For God’s sake, where’s the fire?” So we slowed down.

I had several unfair advantages over the guys on the back end. I was in superb physical condition; my edging nails made me sure-footed; I was walking in the trail while they had to struggle up and down over rocks on either side of the trail; I could see more clearly where to place my feet; and for a clincher my effort was a labor of love for the woman on that stretcher. At three miles, I thought, “That’s halfway. I can do that much again.”

And I did. Six miles without setting it down, and the only discomfort I felt was caused by blisters from the rough 2 x 4s. I should have worn gloves. From base camp Dorothy was taken to Denver and hospitalized. If this account sounds like offensive bragging, I simply say that it is true. And I state again that anything which we Boulderfield boys did can be exceeded by any determined athlete. We merely did what needed doing as a matter of course.

In two weeks Dorothy was back on the mountain. Her personality and unusual experiences attracted the attention of The American Magazine which, in the ’30s, was running a series called “Interesting People.” In each issue the magazine featured four people from throughout the country, with a picture of each, and a little commentary mentioning just why each was of interest. Dorothy appeared in the issue of November 1933.

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin
Pack Burros
Youth

Hull Cook (left) and Clerin Zumwalt horsing around on the cabin walls. Each morning the guides used to shout, "Indian's a-comin'!" as they spotted the first hikers at the edge of the Boulderfield.

Hull Cook worked as a climbing guide at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at 12,750 feet on Longs Peak, during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

Bathing facilities at Boulderfield were limited. Usually we stood with one foot in each of two wash pans of warm, soapy water, with a third wash pan between the other two to help catch run-off, an arrangement that would have been less efficient in the case of a female bather. A kettle of clean water was placed nearby for rinsing off the soap. Bathing was sometimes interrupted by the unexpected arrival of tourists, who usually barged right in without knocking, thereby creating an entertaining scramble for cover.

After the brief but heavy afternoon rain showers that are frequent in the mountains, we would often reach the cabin drenched, and wish to change into dry clothes, only to find the place crowded with tourists seeking shelter. My wife believes that this is where I lost my modesty, because we boys changed to dry clothes, crowds or not. We would step to a corner of the room, and while facing away from the people, we would peel down to the bare facts and dry off. Women showed surprise, shock, and embarrassment until, seemingly reassured by our confident composure, their discomfort was usually converted to amusement.

When no overnight guests were present, Zumie [Clerin Zumwalt, another guide] often enjoyed starting the day by flinging open the heavy front door, stepping outside, and shouting as loudly as he could, “Hello, world!” And for this brief ritual Zum felt that the appropriate attire was complete nudity.

One morning, as Zum hailed the world in his usual manner, he failed to notice a small group of early-morning climbers lounging nearby, before roaring out his challenging greeting. Of course his loud cry commanded the attention of the group, both male and female, and while Zum was coming to grips with the realization that he was playing to a live audience they were entertained by the sight of a very surprised and very naked young man who suddenly wished for oblivion, or at least a G-string. A bit later, the act of serving this group breakfast did little to minimize his embarrassment.

We Boulderfield boys enjoyed a level of physical fitness that most people are not privileged to experience. Some act such as carrying people off the mountain, which might look like a stunt, was merely everyday living. Or if someone down at Hewes-Kirkwood Inn advised by phone that one of us had received a letter on the incoming mail, the recipient would eagerly jog the six and a half miles down trail to get it, and of course regain the 3,700 feet of altitude on the long trek back up again. Carrying people on rescues seemed almost a casual routine.

I recall one evening when I had a date to attend a dance in the Village [Estes Park] at around nine o’clock. I planned to leave the cabin as soon as supper cleanup was accomplished. I could jog down trail, take a three-pan bath, and make it on time.

Among our dinner guests that evening was a couple who had straggled in after having climbed the peak. They had hoped to go down trail after eating, but were so tired that we advised them to stay over. It promised to be a very dark night, heavily overcast, and without a light they feared getting lost, so they agreed to spend the night.

As soon as our guests had eaten, one of my fellow guides asked how soon I was going down trail. On hearing this, the tired woman brightened up and asked, “Oh, are you going down tonight? We can go with you! You know the way.”

“Lord save me,” I thought. I knew that these people could not maintain a pace that would get me down in time. They had no idea how fast I was planning to travel. Yet what could I say that would not sound selfish and inhospitable? “Yes,” I replied resignedly, “I’m going down trail right away.” On hearing this the couple assumed that I would guide them down. They arose eagerly from the table, trying to appear rested and ready for action.

Boulderfield guides Hull Cook, Ev Long, and Clerin Zumwalt (l to r). "I don't know what it is to feel tired."

And so we set out. I let them go ahead to set the pace while I provided direction with the beam of a flashlight. In 40 minutes we reached the far edge of the Boulderfield, a distance of one half mile. Our miserably slow progress prompted a bit of mental arithmetic. Eleven more half miles…over seven hours! Something had to be done. I knew that they would be crushed by the idea of returning to the cabin, yet my position deserved consideration also.

I said to the man, “You seem more tired than your wife. I’ll carry you. She can walk behind and flash the light ahead of me.” He objected, of course, not realizing how often we carried people. But with a firmness that he hesitated to contest I said, “That’s how we are going to do it.” So I hoisted him up on my shoulders, gave the light to the wife, and we took off again. Carrying someone in that position is not particularly fatiguing because your breathing is not restricted. We soon left the trail and followed the phone line, a very rough and rocky course, but shorter than the trail.

Before long the wife was having a pitiful struggle with exhaustion, so I said to the man, “Looks like it’s your turn to walk.” I set him down and picked up his wife, saying, “Give him the light.”

This method of alternately carrying first one, then the other, enabled us to make fairly good time. Before we reached Jim’s Grove we had switched back and forth several times, and the couple had accepted this intermittent riding as the way to go.

Below the Alpine Brook bridge, where the cutoff rejoins the main trail and becomes easy to follow, I set the current passenger down and said, “You cannot get lost from here. I’ll have to hurry on. I have an appointment in the Village. Just leave the flashlight in front of the cabin at the parking lot.”

I ran the rest of the way to base camp, managed the customary three-pan bath (but with cold water), and was only a half-hour late for my date in the Village. After dancing till nearly 3 a.m., I drove back to the base camp cabin, swallowed four raw eggs, and headed back up trail, arriving in plenty of time to take an early guide party up the peak. Any fatigue we Boulderfield boys felt from this kind of foolishness would be almost completely relieved by 10 or 15 minutes’ rest. I remember a comment made by John Cross after he had worked all summer on a trail crew. He said, “I don’t know what it is to feel tired.” Youth is wonderful.

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin
Pack Burros

The pack burro Jake on an early-summer trip up trail.

Hull Cook worked at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin on Longs Peak during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

The Boulderfield Hotel, or shelter, or cabin, whatever you may call it, was constructed in 1926 and 1927 by the National Park Service, and was operated during its 10-year existence by the Colliers. The construction was not an easy task. Everything but the actual rock had to be laboriously packed in on horses or mules over a very rough and rocky six-mile trail at high altitude. I believe Jack Moomaw, an early park ranger and guide, supervised the construction of the trail across the Boulderfield to the hotel site, which enabled pack mules and horses to negotiate this jumble of rocks without suffering broken legs. The workmen stayed at Timberline Cabin, so a good part of their day was spent in hiking the three miles each way to and from Boulderfield.

Problems, of course, arose later, some of which were quite unexpected. For example, one would not expect a small, rugged granite building to be easily pulled apart. Yet a little of that happened each year. Cracks up to a half-inch in width in walls and floor would open up, necessitating a caulking job every spring. To account for this instability, I believe that there must be an underground, glacier-like ice flow that is constantly replenished by seepage from the Dove snowfield.

Wind was another problem, its effects having been underestimated. The first winter was educational. The whole roof went off, smashed, dismembered, and scattered for miles. The cabin became a large solid block of hard-packed snow enclosed in granite walls, a rather discouraging spring discovery. To avoid a repetition of this disaster, the new roof was reinforced with small logs laid horizontally on the gabled roof, and held down with a row of head-sized boulders above each log.

The stable had a single-slant roof covered with sheets of corrugated iron roofing. When some of these iron sheets were found as far away as three miles, it was decided to bolt them in position in such a way that they could be removed each fall and stored in a rock-weighted stack, there to await reassembly the following spring when winds were less severe. However, a generous sprinkling of large rocks was necessary here also.

Pack train on the Boulderfield.

To fulfill the need for a base camp, Bob Collier, at his own expense, built a small house at the Longs Peak trailhead. Here supplies could be stored awaiting transport up trail on the pack burros or donkeys. The first burros were Jack and Cootie, but they were too small to handle the volume of freight, so they were replaced the next year by the larger burros, Jake and Dammit. Whoever was on packing duty often spent the night at base camp, resting the burros overnight if they had just come down trail. The packer may have brought down a big load of dirty sheets destined for the Estes Park Laundry, where they would be exchanged for clean. While in town he would purchase whatever supplies were needed, and then return to base camp, usually enjoying the trill of driving Dorothy’s car, a sleek Chevy convertible that to Bob was the “pneumonia buggy.”

He would also pick up mail at the Hewes-Kirkwood Inn (now a music camp.) A visit with Charlie Hewes, hospitable owner of the inn, would frequently ensue, followed by an invitation from Julia Morrissey, Charlie’s cook of many years, to stay for dinner, a welcome invitation that we boys never refused. It beat batching at the base camp.

Following the pack burros the six miles up trail was usually three hours of plodding drudgery, except for the pleasure derived from the cool, fresh air and the inspiring scenery, although it was not unusual to have the view obscured by rain, sleet, and low-lying clouds. On the trail a burro may occasionally rebel and grunt in burro language, “To Hell with all this!” and lie down. And if his load is heavy it will have to be unloaded before the animal can get up. Then, during the time it takes to accomplish the repacking, one or more of your other animals may decide to lie down too, thus compounding the problem.

Getting a recalcitrant burro back on his feet may require ingenuity. “Tailing him up,” such as one might do with a cow, is of no help because horses and burros get up front end first. Beating is usually ineffective, and seems cruel. For the less fastidious, twisting a rock in the burro’s anus will work, although this method always seemed to me a bit uncouth. Pouring a little water in an ear works better. If I’m giving away professional secrets here I should add a word of caution: do not use very cold water. If the water is quite cold it may induce vertigo, and that will give the animal the “blind staggers,” making him incapacitated for an hour or more. We never bothered with carrying water on the six-mile trek to Boulderfield, so if the need arose to encourage a burro to get back up on his feet, I found it helpful to have a full bladder. If the aesthetically minded find this idea offensive, I defend it by assuring them that warm water is much more comfortable than cold.

Hull Cook in his nailed boots, 1933.

During the seasons when I worked at Boulderfield the care of the pack string was chiefly my responsibility. I had previous packing experience, and I had worked for a livery stable. Also, I volunteered to keep the burros shod to avoid the expense of bringing in a professional farrier. I was no expert, but I had the advantage of having received instruction in horseshoeing from an old blacksmith.

Jake would permit work being done on his front feet, but his hind feet were something else. He would kick viciously at anyone who was brash enough to touch a hind foot, and on our rough, rocky trail shoes were necessary to prevent hooves from wearing down to an incapacitating tenderness. In order to nail shoes on Jake’s hind feet I had to throw him down as a bulldogger throws a steer. Then, with someone sitting on his head, I could tie his upper front foot to the upper hind foot. A pole could then be slid across his ribs with its end placed under the tied feet, and with another helper sitting on the opposite end of the pole the feet would be pried up to where I could accomplish the shoeing. Hot shoeing provides a more tailor-made, professional job, but without forge or anvil I had to be content with cold shoeing, and it proved adequate.

We boys were pretty much iron-shod too. We wore heavy shoes with thick, built-up soles and heels, fashioned to accommodate Swiss edging nails on which we depended for sure footing on rough rock. Such a shoe made a track that has been copied by today’s “waffle stompers.” We loved those edging nails because we felt that they kept us alive on dangerous cliffs. In fact one climber to whom I had loaned my boots for an East Face ascent said, “There were places up there where those nails were worth five thousand dollars a nail!”

It was the low places that were dangerous, because that is where a falling body would get hurt. We boys admonished one another that in case of a fall to be sure to remember to enjoy the view on the way down.

More stories:
Introduction
The Cabin

The Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, at ca. 12,750 feet on Longs Peak. This European-style mountain hut served meals and housed guests from 1927 to 1936.

Hull Cook worked at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin on Longs Peak during the summers of 1932, 1933, and 1934. These are his stories.

“Hooray, the Boulderfield at last! Level ground for a change.” That was the average climber’s reaction as he topped the final rounded rise of ground, high above Granite Pass, and beheld the nearly square-mile basin of jumbled rock that was the Boulderfield. He could now enjoy an unobstructed view of the famous Keyhole and the entire North Face. He was more than 12,000 feet above sea level. But where was the hotel? Then someone would see the distant small cube of granite masonry that was the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin.

“Don’t tell me that’s the hotel! That cracker box surely can’t be a hotel!” But it was.

As hotels go, ours was tiny and Spartan. We called it “the cabin.” There was no electricity and no running water, unless you ran while carrying it from the spring. There was also almost no privacy. It was a two-story structure, the upper floor accessed by a ladder hinged to the ceiling of the ground-floor room. By Hilton standards it was indeed small, only 14 by 18 feet, so the space had to be efficiently utilized. Upstairs, springs and mattresses were placed directly on the floor, three on each side of the stair hole, and above the stair hole was a double-decker single bed. This arrangement could accommodate 14 people in relative comfort, unless someone had to go to the bathroom during the night, in which case comfort might be called into question. He or she would have to stumble over fellow sleepers, descend the ladder and seek relief outdoors, presumably making the effort to follow the dark rocky trail to the distant privy. No lights. Possession of matches or flashlight was desirable even to find the place, and to obviate the need for a somewhat unsanitary old-fashioned pot, and although canvas curtains could be drawn between the beds, there would have been few people with the callous temerity to use it in such a setting of crowded togetherness. If you rolled over you were apt to find yourself in bed with a stranger, possibly not all that bad if it happened to be someone of the opposite sex.

Inside the cabin. A wind-up Victrola provided music.

On the ground floor, in one corner, was a double-decker double bed that increased the overall sleeping capacity to 18. There was also the “bridle suite,” about 100 feet from the hotel building. It was part of the horse stable, a stone shed about 80 feet long that was completely open on one side, except for a small enclosed room at each end. The room at the far end was the privy; the near end was the bridle suite, containing horse gear and feed, and a double bed where two or three of the Boulderfield crew slept when the hotel building was full. When really pressed for sleeping space we could apologetically put three in each double bed upstairs and four in the double-decker single. Then, with three in the bridle suite and a crew member on each of the toboggan mats, plus six in the double-decker double, we were able to sleep a total of 34. On one occasion we housed (I’ll not say slept) 46 very wet and cold members of the Colorado Mountain Club, but several were lying on the floor and two on the dining table. Climbers and fishermen will jokingly endure phenomenal hardships in pursuit of their hobby, when at home they might act more like the princess who complained about the pea under a stack of mattresses.

On the ground floor in the corner opposite the double-decker double bed was a wood- and coal-burning cook stove, and to the right of it a small kerosene stove. To the left was an inadequate workbench for the preparation of food. A six-foot horizontal storage chest sat on each of three sides of that room, and each of these was covered with a toboggan mat so that it could double as a bench. During daytime hours the ladder for upstairs access was swung up and fastened to the ceiling to give the ground floor the illusion of spaciousness.

The privy at the far end of the stable was a four-holer, two and two, male and female, separated by a partition but serving a common pit that shared bouquet and sound impartially back and forth. Some spillage of urine evidently occurred on the seats, because marmots were attracted by the residual salt. They gnawed on the rims of the seats, rendering them splintery and most uncomfortable, so that at rather frequent intervals we had to “sand” them smooth. Lacking sandpaper, we used a piece of granite rock, a relatively satisfactory substitute. The main disadvantage here was that over time the combined actions of rockchuck and chunk-of-rock gradually increased the size of the hole to where a slender patron might conceivably become jammed to the elbows in a tightly doubled-up position, clutched in the teeth of the jagged maw from which extrication would require outside aid. I never was called upon to perform such a rescue, but the prospect was sobering.

Our unique hostelry was leased from the National Park Service by Bob and Dorothy Collier, who hired a few young men to do most of the work. I happened to be there during the seasons of 1932, 1933, and 1934. In addition to offering food and shelter to all climbers, the Colliers’ main interest was that of providing guide service (for a small fee) to those who desired a little professional supervision in climbing Longs Peak. Our typical client would come up trail in time for dinner (a feast), stay overnight, have a hearty breakfast, climb the peak, devour our sack lunch on top, return to the Bouderfield, and go back down trail in the afternoon. For all of this he would pay ten dollars. When Bob was there he would do his share of guiding and cooking, but much of the time he was off to Europe as a tour guide. If neither he nor Dorothy were present, it was all up to us boys. The Park Service was supposed to get a small percentage of the profits, but they apparently realized that the profit margin was too small for them to bother with demanding a share; hence they never checked on Bob’s rather creative bookkeeping.

When Dorothy (Mrs. Collier) was present she would take charge of the kitchen, and working in that cramped space did not curtail her ability to put out wonderful food. She taught us boys to cook so that we could take over when she was absent, as she frequently was. Cooking at high altitude differs from cooking at sea level. At Boulderfield water boiled at 189° Fahrenheit, as I recall, necessitating modification in some baking recipes and a drastic change in cooking times for boiled foods. Navy beans were still crunchy after boiling for 12 hours, so for most boiled foods we used a pressure cooker.

Proof of Dorothy’s ability to teach cooking was manifested by the many compliments we boys received on our preparations, although it could be argued that after struggling up that long trail to Boulderfield a person might be sufficiently famished to tackle the south end of a skunk. One of our favorite meals consisted of soup, Virginia-baked ham glazed with brown sugar and “hob-nailed” with whole cloves, this accompanied by sweet potatoes and some other vegetable, hot biscuits, canned fruit, home-made pie, and coffee or tea. When making pies I liked to use an empty .22 cartridge for punching vent holes in the top crust because they made such neat round holes. Nobody ever left our table hungry.

Our water supply was a seep hole about 150 feet away that derived its clear, cold water from the dove-shaped snow and ice field on the North Face. There was no wood nearby, as we were three miles from the nearest tree. Wood and coal, gasoline for the lamps, kerosene for the oil stove, laundry, food, and all other supplies (except what we might carry ourselves) were packed in to the hotel on our donkeys: Jake and Dammit. Dammit was so named to save breath when shouting orders.

Our hotel boasted a telephone, the old hand-cranked kind that required batteries. It was housed in a large wall cabinet, and clung tenuously to the upper end of a wire whose lower terminus, several miles below, connected us unreliably to civilization. During electrical storms, balls of lightning were occasionally seen zooming along this wire. When using the phone, we enjoyed the illusion of safety by standing on a small platform that had for supporting legs four large glass insulators that diminished the danger of grounding. However, during electrical storms no one touched the phone.

More stories:
Introduction

Hull Cook at Chasm View on Longs Peak. Photo by H.P. Ziedema

Starting next week, we’ve got a real treat in store for Colorado MoJo readers. During the late 1920s and early ’30s, a small hut stood at the Boulderfield on Longs Peak, at about 12,750 feet. Guests could hike or ride horseback to the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, spend the night in relative comfort with bunks and hot meals, and climb the 14,259-foot peak in the morning, usually by the north face, which was equipped in those days with steel cables for hand rails. For two or three years during the early ’30s, Hull Cook worked at the Boulderfield Shelter Cabin, and his feats as a guide and rescuer have become legendary. Now, thanks to his son, Hull “Cactus” Cook from Bellingham, Washington, we are able to bring you Cook’s first-person, never-published tales.

Cook was born in 1911 and grew up in Boulder, not far from the Flatirons. He worked at the Boulderfield during summer breaks from the University of Colorado School of Medicine, which he attended from 1931 through 1935. Cook and the other young climbers living at the Boulderfield were among the first professional mountain guides in the U.S. (He and Ev Long placed the first bolts on the famous east face of the Third Flatiron, hoping to establish a guiding route that never took off.) “My father led a full life after his time on Longs, including many years as a country physician in small-town Nebraska,” Cactus Cook said. “I have no doubt, however, that the acme of his lifetime was those summers spent scampering above timberline on Longs Peak. He, Zumie [Clerin Zumwalt], and my godfather, Ev Long, remained fast friends for life.”

In Hull Cook’s introduction to the stories he called The Boulderfield Hotel: My Recollections of a Legend, he writes, “Some of the events which I have described suggest egotistical bragging…. Maybe I am bragging, but I hasten to concede that everything that we Boulderfield boys did could be equaled or exceeded by almost any determined person who is in top-notch physical condition. Our climbs were actually far less technically difficult than many that are performed almost routinely today…. I make no claim to our being supermen. We were just a bunch of young fellows reveling in the strength and exuberance of youth.”

Many thanks to Cactus Cook for sharing his father’s wonderful tales. We’ll begin publishing chapters from the memoir next Wednesday, continuing each week through the spring.

Cold day at Hidden Valley, RMNP. Photo by Doug Schnitzspahn

By Dougald MacDonald

I’ve been wearing the Bombshell Jacket, the flagship waterproof-breathable shell from Backcountry.com’s new Stoic line, for much of this winter. And after months of backcountry skiing, mountaineering, and a bit of ice climbing, I’m definitely impressed.

At first, I wasn’t at all psyched with the jacket’s fit. At a trailhead in the Indian Peaks, as I pulled on the coat, my female skiing partner gave me that look I know oh-too-well from my wife—the look that says: “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” Don’t get me wrong: The jacket looks sharp. Mine is black with turquoise highlights, and the cut and detailing are fine. The problem is the super-trim fit around the waist, which would have looked great when I was a 145-pounder in college but looks and feels a bit snug as a 162-pounder (OK, 164-pounder).

I almost always wear a medium jacket, and the Bombshell fit me perfectly in the chest, shoulders, and arms; if I sized up, I think there would be too much fabric bunched around these areas. I grew to appreciate the trim cut on long ski tours and while climbing; the jacket fit great under a harness, for example. But it limits your options for layering. If you wear your jacket as a true shell, over multiple insulating layers, think about a larger size. If you wear the shell over light inner layers while moving and throw a puffy over the top when you stop, as I increasingly do, this fit might be perfect. If you’re just thinking about taking up ski touring to lose a few years of accumulated paunch, consider another coat.

Despite my quibbles about the fit, the Bombshell hits nearly every other note perfectly. The weight (about 1.5 pounds for the medium on my postage scale) is perfect for winter, providing a measure of insulation as well as full wind and water protection from the 3-layer, slightly stretchy fabric. Five clean and well-placed external pockets give ample storage options, without adding bulk, and there’s a slick media pocket inside. The jacket’s zips are super-smooth and easy to grab. The powder skirt zips out (which seems to help with the fit, by the way). The hood fits well over most helmets, with a short, stiff brim for visibility, and it has effective adjustments; it feels like there’s a bit too much extra fabric around the neck and chin when the hood is up and the front zip is down, but I appreciated the protection and comfort when I had to zip up completely while skinning into a ground blizzard in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Wrist gaiter.

The jacket seemed to breathe well, with mid-length pit zips; unfortunately, the Bombshell failed one of my standard shell-jacket tests, which is ease of use for pit zips. I like to be able to grab the zippers and open or shut the pit openings with gloves and pack on and with no yoga contortions; the Bombshell required too much stopping and fiddling to make adjustments—it seems like the zips are placed slightly too far toward the back. On the other hand, I loved the jacket’s elastic wrist gaiter / monkey paw thingambobs. Normally I feel like these just get in the way, but the Bombshell’s are so clean and unobtrusive that I slipped into the thumb hole and slid into my gloves more often than not, and they definitely kept my hands warmer and drier; when I wasn’t using the gaiters, they seemed to vanish. Thumbs up! (Or is that thumbs in?) Note that I have fairly small hands; guys with bigger mitts might find these cuffs constricting.

After a winter of fairly hard use, including several days of multiple close encounters with the pines on nearby ski hills, my final observation is that the jacket still looks like it just came out of the box. I suspect the Bombshell will last for years, and that makes the quite reasonable $259 retail price look even better. Plus, right now you can get the jacket in most sizes and colors for $181.30 (30 percent off) at Backcountry.com. That’s a steal.

Boulder-based uber-hiker Andrew Skurka has begun his 6.5-month, 4,720-mile journey around Alaska and the Yukon, by skis, foot, and pack raft, almost entirely off-trail, through some of North America’s most rugged wilderness. On Saturday, Skurka landed in Kotzebue, Alaska, north of the Arctic Circle, and yesterday he began skiing southward toward the Iditarod Trail. Forecast high: –15°F. If all goes well, he’ll return to Kotzebue around the end of September, having averaged more than 23 miles per day. Surely one of the most ambitious outdoor adventures ever conceived.

Buzz Burrell has posted a good story and short interview with Skurka at his Adventure Running blog. And you can follow The Man himself through updates at Twitter. What do you think? Can he do it?