This sure looks fun! Producer Barry Stevenson (Outside Adventure Media) made this short film of San Juan Airheads George Brewster, Matt Hepp, and Parker McAbery above 12,000 feet on McMillan Peak, above Red Mountain Pass.

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

Christy Mahon begins the exposed traverse off the summit of Capitol Peak. Fredrik Marsater/Fredrikmarmsater.com

With big storms blanketing the high peaks in early May, the last 10 days have seen several remarkable descents on Colorado 14ers:

• On May 9, Jarrett Luttrell climbed and snowboarded Capitol Peak, making the probable first snowboard descent, via the Secret Chute line on the east face. With him was Brittany Walker, who proceeded to complete the second ski descent of Capitol by a woman. (The first was by Pam Rice.) Walker now has only four peaks left on her list of 14ers to ski. Also with them were Matt Kamper and Jordan White, who became the second person to ski Capitol twice! This was also the first known time that Capitol has been skied in May.

The Secret Chute line on Capitol Peak's east face. Courtesy of 14erskiers.com

• One week later, on May 16, Christy Mahon skied Capitol and thus became the first woman to ski all of the Colorado 14ers from their summits. She skied with her husband, Ted, who also has completed all the 14ers on skis, along with Joey Giampaolo and Fred Marmsater. Mahon ticked Pyramid, another crux on the list, on May 7, a day on which at least five people skied the peak. This year she also has skied Holy Cross, Mt. Wilson, El Diente, Pikes, Little Bear, and San Luis. A strong finish!

• Also on May 16, Jarrett Luttrell headed to Longs Peak, the last 14er on his list. With the northern Front Range smothered in snow, the Keplingers Couloir route on the south face was nearly a foregone conclusion, and with this descent Luttrell became the first person to snowboard all the Colorado 14ers.

Congratulations to everyone!

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

Boulder-based photographer Fred Marmsater sent us this inspiring gallery of April skiing above Gothic, near Crested Butte, and on the west side of the Indian Peaks. Be sure to visit his website for more great images.

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

Beautiful views helped ease the pain of a punishing course. Photo by Kate Lapides

Randonee racer Bryan Wickenhauser reports on the first Five Peaks ski mountaineering race in the Ten Mile Range above Breckenridge—a monster course that gained 10,000 vertical feet. Thirty-five teams of two braved the challenge on April 10; see the Five Peaks website for full results and links to photos. Here’s Wick’s report:

The inaugural Five Peaks race lived up to its hype as North America’s longest ski mountaineering race, with 10,000 feet of vertical and five separate ascents behind and in the Breckenridge ski resort. My teammate for the race was my fellow Team Crested Butte member Jon Brown. We’ve both been racing in the COSMIC Series for the last four years, and we train all the time together—perfect partners!

The weather going into Friday night called for temps bottoming out at 20°F with light winds for Saturday and sunny skies. Really a perfect forecast for an April ski mountaineering event. The start was classic Alpine at 6 a.m., so we awoke at 4:30 a.m. to get our breakfast on and have time for a brief warm up at gear check.

The start was at the base of Peak 9 at about 9,600 feet, and our first summit would be Peak 10, about 4,000 feet higher! We skinned our way up some mellow groomed runs to the top of the ski area, where we continued though a backcountry gate. Now we began to get into more technical skinning, as we were above tree line and the winds had taken most of the loose snow and deposited it elsewhere (like hopefully on the descents).

Our climb up to the peak took us past some old mining cabins and onto a ridge where the first gusty winds of the day greeted us. Upon gaining the ridge. it was only a five-minute skin to the peak. Ninety minutes from the base area, we were at the top of Peak 10 at 13,643 feet, where some hardy volunteer offered us coffee and candy corn. We politely declined, ripped our skins, and dropped in on a techie entrance. With some nasty rocks to negotiate, we followed the prescribed line into the main open bowl and some really good spring powder. Until now we had been in first place, but on the downhill we were overtaken by Monique (Mona) Merrill (event co-director) and Mike Kloser. The battle was beginning to heat up!

Follow the green arrows.... About 10,000' of vertical in all.

Two of the beautiful aspects of this race, in my mind, were the long, demanding descents and the dramatic views. Above tree line for much of the day, we were exposed to the elements but were getting views that the skiers in the resort below only wished they could see!

The second climb was the shortest of the day, and Jon and I rallied up to the top of Peak 9 together with Team Kloser/Merrill. Thus we settled into a rhythm for the rest of the day:  We would catch them on the climbs, and they would pass us on the descents.

At the top of Peak 9 we skied back down into the upper section of Breckenridge Resort and were integrated with tourists. We all followed Mona, as it’s her local ski resort, down to the transition area.

On up to Peak 8 (Imperial Bowl), the skinning got techie again as refrozen, skied-off snow proved to be quite difficult for side-hilling. Jon and I regained contact with Mona and Mike at this point, and we passed them prior to getting to the lone boot pack of the day, up to the ridge of Peak 8. The boot pack was well-designed with a hand line for those in need. At the top of the ca. 400-foot booter, we slapped on our skis and skinned up the ridge past a number of chutes that led to Imperial Bowl.

Bryan Wickenhauser and Jon Brown, with team Merrill/Kloser in hot pursuit. The downhills would clinch it. Photo by Kate Lapides

From the summit, it was back into the resort with a high-speed descent though refrozen, slightly soft bumps and newer snow on Horseshoe Bowl. Mike and Mona again passed us and led us down through some technical traverses to the lower flanks of Cucumber Bowl and into the T-Bar lift line for our third transition. Race co-director Pete Swenson had warned us at the prerace meeting that this would be the “steepest skinning of the day,” and it sure was! For every racer I talked to afterward, this was the low point of the day. The combination of at least 2.5 hours of racing already completed, direct sun, no wind, and a steep, lengthy pitch made you want to trade imaginary spots with someone in Death Valley , because that might feel cooler.  Dripping sweat and moving a quarter mile an hour…ugh!

Luckily it wasn’t more than 15 minutes before we got above tree line again and caught a cool breeze. We topped out on Peak 8 for the second time just before Mike and Mona, and with no other teams really pressing us from behind the battle was among friends at this point.

Descending Peak 8 to the northeast, Mona again led the way down the Whales Tail to near the summit of Peak 7 Chair for the fourth and final uphill transition. From here it was up Art’s Bowl, with technical skinning on wind-hammered sastrugi to the top. There was nothing we could do to try and shake Mona and Mike on the climb; everyone was tapped from nearly four hours of racing. The writing was on the wall: They owned us on the downhills. Heading off Peak 7, Mona and Mike gained the separation and never looked back. We made our way down to claim second overall and first in the men’s category, two minutes behind the winners at 4:08.

Hats off to Pete Swenson for designing a truly European-style course that flowed as if it was meant to be. I know Pete and Monique are already excited for the second edition, and so am I!

Hallett Peak's east buttress, from the east ridge of Flattop, March 21. Photo by Dougald MacDonald

By Eli Helmuth, Climbing Life Guides

Tyndall Gorge has long been a favorite destination in Rocky Mountain National Park for high-quality backcountry skiing, ice testpieces such as the Squid, abundant bouldering, and classic big-wall cragging on Hallett’s north buttress. Easily accessed from the Bear Lake parking lot, the Tyndall is truly a mountain playground for all seasons and interests. But few climbers explore beyond the crowded classics. One of my favorite alpine play spots in the park is the east buttress of Hallett Peak—specifically the many little-known moderate mixed climbs on the north face of this couloir-striped buttress. And we’re just getting into prime season for these fun spring mixed routes.

Short rock step near the top of Left Gully Edge. Courtesy of Eli Helmuth

Located at a relatively low elevation—the base of this shaded buttress lies near 10,200 feet and the “summit” ridge crest is about 11,000 feet—the east buttress of Hallett is small and accessible enough to be climbed in a more relaxed manner than the typical alpine wall. Or you can do multiple morning laps while training for bigger terrain. One of my favorite aspects is that the east buttress has the shortest approach in RMNP for a significant alpine climb— just two miles from the Bear Lake trailhead at 9,540 feet. And with a well-traveled trail system to Emerald Lake, you don’t even need flotation during most weeks of the year, even though most of the trail will likely be snow-covered from November into mid-June.

Like the other spring routes in the park, the mixed climbs on the east buttress come into best shape from mid-April to late May or early June. Clear nights lead to frozen névé snow conditions. Still, very early starts are key for avoiding the problems associated with heat in the mountains: cornice collapses, avalanches, rockfall, deep snow climbing, and unconsolidated ice. Plus, the descent couloir to the west of the buttress, splitting the east buttress and the First Buttress on Hallett, is steep and avalanche-prone near the top, so be prepared to stay engaged until the parking lot is reached.

Of the half dozen or so lines on the right-most side of the buttress, the Cleft is the most dramatic one I’ve done to date. Be aware that the second pitch quickly becomes a funnel for sloughing avalanches when snow is falling. Other directissima lines on this wall beg to be explored. The rock quality deteriorates as one moves farther east, and so the right side is most recommended for routes where one can get in a few interesting mixed moves per pitch.

Courtesy of Eli Helmuth

The routes:

1. Left Gully Edge, 250m, M1 60°
2. Left of Cleft, 300m, M3-4 60°
3. The Cleft, 300m, M3-4 60°
4.  Right Bypass, 300m, M1 60°
5.  Right Runnel, 250m, M1-2 60°

Editor’s note: In addition to these routes, there’s also the good-looking line called Tastee Freeze (3 pitches, M4), which follows a left-trending chimney on a cliff left of the main east buttress. No doubt other lines have been climbed on these accessible buttresses.

Internationally certified mountain guide Eli Helmuth is the founder of ClimbingLife Guides. Click here for more info about Hallett’s east buttress and other alpine routes in Rocky Mountain National Park.