The Descent of Pyramid Peak

Pyramid Peak, Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness, CO – 1975

It was early August of 1975, and the previous winter had been lacking in snow. I looked up at Pyramid Peak from the Maroon Lake parking lot and made an instant decision. Tony Faulhaber, another Forest Service seasonal and I, would be on rotten rock, but the snow pack looked negligible. I decided I could leave my ice axe behind in my Landcruiser.

Back in the 1870’s, there were two prominent government surveys going on in Colorado. One was led by Lt. George M. Wheeler and the other by Dr. Ferdinand Hayden. Neither of these survey teams would reach the summit of 14,018 foot Pyramid Peak. A member of Wheeler’s team got within 200 feet of the top but decided that to continue on was, “mere recklessness”.

So with daypacks and climbing helmets, Tony and I started our climb on a cloudless, warm day. Most of the scramble up was uneventful. Tony had been working on a trail maintenance crew and I as a wilderness ranger, so we were both acclimated to the high altitude and in excellent physical shape.

We were making great time. We were near the “reckless” 200 feet from the summit when small rocks and then larger chunks began coming down towards us from above. Our rock climbing helmets still on, we closely hugged the rock wall and cried out loudly, “Hey!”

We were answered with, “Sorry! Didn’t know anyone was below us!” A group of four climbers had already been to the top and were on their way down.

That was a close call.

As they were safely past us, Tony resumed the climb. He grabbed onto a slab of maroon colored sandstone rock larger than he was and started to pull himself up. All of  a sudden Tony yelled out, “ROCK!” The whole slab pulled out from the wall and tumbled down past the two of us. When I looked into Tony’s face his eyes were huge and his color somewhat ashen. I could only imagine what I must have looked like.

That was an even closer call.

I guess I should have considered the old saying that “trouble comes in threes”. But that wasn’t on Tony’s or my mind when we found ourselves standing on a rock platform with a 360 degree view. We were on the top.

We took photos. We soaked in the view. We could see the other six fourteeners within the wilderness as well as many mountains off in the distance. I looked down at my feet and picked up a rock shaped like the state of Idaho. This felt like a connection to my graduate school studies at the University of Idaho where in the spring I had graduated with my Master of Science degree. I unzipped my North Face daypack and placed it inside.

Tony suggested we descend via a couloir where there was still snow. This would be faster as we could both ski in our boots or dig steps into the snow and walk down. Plus, we wouldn’t have to spend time on that rotten rock. That was the biggest selling point.

I started down. All was going fine. Then I hit a segment of the snow slope which stayed in the shadow of the mountain. Suddenly no longer in the sun, the melting snow had created an icy layer. Before I knew what happened to me, I was careening down the snow on my butt, feet first.

I’d had similar experiences with my senses slowing down when faced with a dangerous situation. When I was ten years old I fell headfirst off a garage roof. My fall felt like slow motion and I remember putting out my arms just before I hit the grass lawn. It seemed like I stood on my hands for a few seconds before hearing my legs hit as I fell over. I broke both my wrists but never hit my head.

As I cascaded down the snow slope I was very aware of my surroundings. I remember thinking to myself, “Why didn’t I bring my ice axe?” I saw a scattered rock pile below me and thought that when I reached it I could simply stand up and come to a stop.

As I neared the rocks I realized I was traveling too fast. My mind immediately went into survival mode. I leaned back onto my daypack and lifted my legs into the air.

I didn’t feel a thing as I careened over the rock pile and continued down the steep snow chute. Then the slope started to level out and I stopped. My 1,000 to 1,200 foot descent was over. I lay on my back with my right leg tucked back under my left leg. By this time Tony had reached my immobile form and dropped down to my side.

“Jon, did you break anything?” he asked with visible consternation on his face. Later he told me, he thought I was going to die, as he watched me slide down the snow field.

I answered truthfully, “I don’t know. But let’s find out.”

I knew I had to move my right leg that was still hidden under my left. This was the moment of truth. I slowly unwound and straightened out both legs. They seemed to be okay. I had some gashes in my right thigh but snow had packed the wounds and clotted the bleeding. So far so good.

I then pulled off my daypack to get to my water bottle. My Idaho rock, which filled the length of my pack, had protected my back from the rocks. Then I removed my white climbing helmet.

I held my helmet in my hands and stared. Tony let out a gasp. On the back of the helmet, about three inches up, was a golf ball sized divot. I never felt my helmet hit rock, but it saved my head from being cracked open like a watermelon.

Now that really was a close call!

I was sore but I could stand and hike out unaided. It was a much slower trip out than in, but I made it back to the parking lot and my Landcruiser. I opened the rear hatch and set my pack down next to my ice axe I had left behind.

The next day I started out on another ten-day backpack patrol into the wilderness. I hiked one and one-half miles to a secluded campsite I used near Crater Lake and stayed there for three days. My whole body felt stiff and sore.

When I met people at the lake or on the trail those next few days I’d be asked about the bruises and scars on my legs.

I just smiled and said, “You know how wild those Aspen women can be.” And then I pointed up at the mountain and said, “Her name is Pyramid.”