8/13/07 – Potosi Peak – Southwest Face

3.3 miles, 3230'


Monday was Erin's and my anniversary, and for our final day in Ouray we chose Potosi Peak, another mountain that we'd been close to, but had not yet climbed. Potosi was our last remaining high 13er in Yankee Boy Basin, a place that's grown dear to our hearts. Potosi is also important to me because after we climbed Mount Sneffels in 2001, it was one of the first 13ers I ever identified. With only Mount Audubon and a handful of 14ers on my resume at that point, it was easy to stand on a summit and accept the mountains around me as "other peaks." But that day I remember Potosi grabbing hold of me. I had to know what this inspiring peak was, and I began to learn how to use topographic maps to help identify peaks around me. Now six years later, we were finally here to try Potosi. I knew we needed some daylight so that we could try to duplicate our descent route from Teakettle Mountain last year, so we arrived at the outhouse parking lot a little before 6:00 A.M. We met a guy there who was setting off to climb Sneffels with his new dog. He seemed like a local, and he had some questions about Teakettle. Then he let it drop that he had climbed Potosi last winter! I only wish he had stayed longer because I forgot to ask him what route he chose before he started hiking up the road. We left just a few minutes later. Underneath Potosi's looming mass, we found our way up the steep grass, deftly bypassing the cliff bands that lie further to the right on Coffeepot. The alpenglow was spectacular as we climbed, but I found myself wishing Potosi's standard route ascended east-facing terrain so that we could see the morning fireworks on Potosi itself.

Though we picked the best route possible low on Coffeepot, regrettably we didn't choose wisely higher on the peak. After toiling on some noticeably loose talus, we abandoned a gully for a slightly less loose minor ridge. The work was tedious and tiresome, and that god-forsaken Paula Abdul song kept coming to mind ("Two steps forward... two steps back"). During one of numerous pauses to catch my breath, I noticed the mountains casting immense shadows across the verdant basin. Finally, we found some more stable terrain as we approached the base of Coffeepot's summit block at 13,500'. We set our sights on Potosi, and began descending the climber's trail to the saddle. I had heard that this descent was loose, but for the first few hundred feet, everything was hunky dory as we took in the expansive views of Mount Emma and Saint Sophia Ridge. Then the angle got steeper, and we entered the loose section. There was one particularly nasty gully, but thankfully, as we approached the 12,980' saddle there was a wall to hug and some slightly more stable rock.

It was 8:30, the skies were clear, and Potosi now towered 800' above us, an imposing block covered in teetering towers, fingers, and spires. The trail was apparent as it left the saddle and began its 180-degree trip around Potosi's hulking mass. It became less distinct about a third of the way around, and we kept a watchful eye for cairns to ensure we didn't get off-route. While there was one section of grueling scree, the traverse was otherwise a pure joy. We arrived at the base of the gully, the weakness on the southeast side of the peak that provides access to the summit, and started the final scramble. Cairns were still frequent, but it helped to be conscious of the route since it switches gullies once and then leaves that second gully to climb a 20-foot crack, which takes you to Potosi's expansive summit. Erin and I walked hand in hand across the summit plateau to the highest point, our 135th 13er on our second anniversary. It feels like a playground up here. We peered over several of Potosi's faces and down some frightful cracks. We gazed over at the fantastic shapes of the nearby peaks. I climbed into a channel cut into the summit. I suspect that's the beginning of the mountain splitting in a new place, eventually to form a new spire? We looked deep into the Weehawken Creek basin, which is a place I'd like to visit soon. And we noticed that while the weather was on the whole looking great, what few clouds there were in the area were beginning to form towering shapes. It was time to get moving.

The descent back to the saddle went swiftly. We kept our eyes skyward, and we didn't like what we were seeing. What had been harmless clouds minutes ago were expanding and rising into gray-bottomed giants. We went from summit to saddle in just less than 30 minutes, but it wasn't fast enough for this rapidly assembling storm. The first raindrops began to fall as we descended the gully from the saddle. It was only 10:20. Previously, we had toyed with the idea of reclimbing Coffeepot in order to descend on familiar terrain, but the storm left us no choice. Down we went! The rain was starting to come down more heavily, and we both silently observed hail beginning to fall. I was expecting worse coming down this gully, but there was often deep scree for boot-skiing. Other times, we moved slowly and cautiously down loose talus. As the angle of the slope relented, we knew it was time to check the route. We had two sources to consult. As I brought out my papers, the rain and hail turned into a raging torrent, and we both donned our rain gear. Over the din of the hail pinging off rock and helmet, I yelled to Erin the descent route so that we could both put it to memory. I was discouraged to realize that our two route descriptions seemed to differ, but they both agreed that we don't stay in the gully, that we must cross over to the left.

Just then, the hail started to lessen, and I must be an idiot because I said aloud something along the lines of, "Sure would be nice if this were over!" The storm replied with a terrible peal of thunder. Erin saw the flash and guessed it was only a quarter-second between it and the boom. It felt close enough to have hit the ridge above us. The thunder and lightning blessedly only repeated a few times, but the hail had returned with a neck-stinging vengeance and was now at its greatest intensity. We hiked across one gully and then another smaller one before arriving at the top of a large patch of tundra. And here's where our two route descriptions seemed to diverge. One indicated that we should cross yet another gully before beginning the final descent, while the other, as best I could tell, wanted us to start down the tundra patch on which we stood. I agonized over the decision. I've looked at Potosi so many times. "Am I where I think I am?" I wondered. Memories flooded to my mind of last year on Teakettle when Erin, James, and I had to reclimb 300' to get around a cliff band low on Coffeepot.

We started to aim for the next gully, but I changed my mind. "No, I know where we are," I said to myself, "I know this mountain," while even further back in my mind I hoped I was right. We descended the tundra slope, which was perhaps the most treacherous part of the day, the steep grasses slickened as they were with rain and hail. We reached the base of the tundra slope, and now we were just a couple hundred feet from the road. I saw someone at the parking lot who appeared to watching us as we checked our options. There were three gullies to choose from. The right-hand looked too loose for comfort at its entrance. The left-hand may be an possibility when dry, but wet slabs weren't in the cards today. The middle one featured the steepest climbing initially – a 15- to 20-foot third-class downclimb – but after that all I saw was a deep mound of scree the rest of the way down. This had to be it. The downclimb felt surprisingly safe and secure, and it was somewhat chimney-like. At the base I thought we were home-free, but I took a right and ended up on some hardpan rock peppered with scree that was hidden to my eyes from above. I directed Erin back up and around it after I found that crossing it was thoroughly unenjoyable. Erin dropped down luxuriantly deep scree on the left side, and when she reached my position, we had easy scree-skiing all the way to the bottom. We met up with the creek that drains Potosi's southwest face and were treated to an amazing sight. Pictures don't quite do it justice, but this creek cuts an eye-popping gash into the slopes. 2500' above, flanked by sheer rock fins, Potosi's summit was still visible. I was delighted to find this little seen view just a couple-hundred yards from the beaten path.

We hiked back to the road and observed the still uneasy skies over the basin. We had a quarter-mile hike up the road to get back to our car, but before we got there we came upon one of those touring Jeeps that runs tourists into Yankee Boy Basin. We were suddenly inundated. "I watched you with binoculars as you went back up and around that slick rock!" "We were praying for you!" "How'd you get through that cliff band?" "Which peak did you climb?" Back at the parking lot, there were even more people with questions and expressions of relief. Some of the folks had watched us nearly the entire way from the saddle. "It was raining," said one nice man from the Ouray Alpine Host program, "so there wasn't much else to do!" It was amusing to answer all their questions while at the same time a little embarrassing to learn that we were a spectacle for no less than a dozen people. Ah well. At least if we had managed to get ourselves into trouble, there'd have been a bunch of folks ready to summon assistance.

Erin and I were drenched, and we were thrilled to get into some dry clothes. The day before, we had imagined Potosi would go quickly, and that we'd have time to hike up the Montrose County highpoint, Castle Rock along the way home to Denver. Potosi and the San Juans' weather would have nothing of that! I tip my hat to you, Potosi Peak, you're one of the classics!