It was an early November Sunday during my slow part of the year. Autumn in Colorado’s Tarryall Mountains is spectacular. In late September, the Aspen trees turn gold, and warm sunny days are interrupted only by winter’s occasional and temporary arrival. But as fall gives way to winter, winter visits become more prolonged and more frequent. Over many years, early November is still a pleasant time to be there, weatherwise, with little to no snowpack and warm days that create almost ideal conditions for mountain biking, hiking, and climbing area peaks. But this particular year, I spent my days occupied with the aftermath of the OWA base camp lodge burning down, not with recreation. Instead of the comforts of my private lodge bedroom and bath, I was sharing an old one-room log cabin with an 18-year-old intern, Lee, and doing little besides cleanup and prep for new construction. On the day in question, I was piddling around the job site doing various chores. Since it was an off day, Lee asked if he could go on a straightforward, leisurely hike toward Bison Peak. I considered that he’d previously participated in several backcountry trips with my outdoor program. And since there was nothing for him to work on that afternoon, it seemed reasonable. And so, I gave him my blessing.
An hour or so before dark, I headed back to the cabin to get ready for a big night at Jim and Deb’s (our neighbors) of football on TV and pizza. I anticipated that once I got to the cabin, Lee would either be back from his hike or would be soon. So, I wasn’t surprised when I walked inside, and he wasn’t. But after I cleaned up and got ready to walk across the road to the neighbor’s house, and he still wasn’t back, I began to wonder where he was. It was starting to get dark, and by then, it had simply become the time when he should’ve been back. At that point, it suddenly became a lost person situation. I began envisioning a lone hiker, breathing hard, and bushwhacking through a mess of Aspens and Gooseberry bushes. That, when combined with the weather report I’d heard about an approaching winter storm, created an unsettled feeling in my gut.
We were in the middle of the Pike National Forest, some 20 miles from the nearest town. After considering our location, the approaching storm, and the encroaching nighttime, I decided to walk up the trail and look for him. And so, that’s what I did- suddenly in a race with the snow and darkness. The Ute Creek Trail follows the creek of the same name for about a mile before climbing steeply up toward Bison Peak. It begins or ends, as the case might be, at around 9000 feet near where it crosses Tarryall Creek. The dirt trail gains some 3000 feet in only 3 miles up to its high point at Bison Pass. Not far from the creek and the bottom of the valley, it enters the Lost Creek Wilderness, which encompasses much of the Tarryall backcountry. To be so close to the crowds of people living along the Front Range, it’s an island of wildness. Its various peaks and valleys rise out from the glacial plains of South Park, almost smack dab in the middle between the Continental Divide and Pikes Peak. The place is remote and, at times, can seem lonely.
When I started hiking, it was warm — almost balmy — which was good for both of us because it made being outside more comfortable. But there was a downside to that situation as well. That same pleasant weather also made it easier for Lee to go further.
Initially, I expected to run into him on the trail, delayed for some reason, but on his way back. But it didn’t happen. After a couple of miles, or about halfway up to Bison Pass, I came to the snow line. Neither the cold nor the snow’s wetness was inviting, but I realized the snowpack would allow me to see footprints. And then, right off the bat, there they were— fresh and moderately sized fresh tracks heading up, but not down. Since I’d noted no vehicles parked at the trailhead, I had to assume the prints belonged to Lee. It was at least some affirmation that I was on the right track.
It was well past dark by the time I reached that point. Thankfully, there was a functioning headlamp inside the small outdoor guide’s daypack I’d put on as I walked out of the cabin, and I put it to use. I’ve repeatedly wondered what I would’ve done up there in the dark without it. As I dug the headlamp out of the pack, I noticed various other items, including extra clothing, a partially eaten energy bar, and a full water bottle. And at the last minute, I’d also stuck a mostly uncharged cell phone in, which ultimately played a critical role in the whole event. In my haste to get going, I hadn’t thoroughly thought through potential gear needs and just grabbed the little daypack I carried whenever I was out and about. I hadn’t begun the search, expecting to go far or be out for a long time. To that end, I was wearing the same fleece pants and jacket I’d been wearing all day. And I had only leather work gloves for my hands and lightweight hiking boots, which weren’t good for the cold and snow. As mentioned, the phone ultimately turned out to be a key factor. But there was no cell service down low, and initially, it was of no use. One positive preparation step I did take was letting Jim and Deb know what was going on before I left. And so, they weren’t confused about my non-arrival. And they were poised to assist as the situation developed.
Up to that point, I’d been optimistic and mostly just pissed off that I was spending my Sunday evening on the trail. But I felt better and more positive when I reached the snow and saw the tracks. Before going any further, I stopped just below the snow and yelled the young man’s name. I was hoping he’d answer and we’d then get on with the business of spending our Sunday evening hiking back to square one.
“Lee,” I shouted. Only the wind answered, and I yelled again, “Lee.”
The breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby Aspen, breaking the silence. It was downright eerie. The reality of my aloneness hit me like a brick. The scope of it all, the approaching storm, and the darkness suddenly seemed overwhelming. To top it all off, the sound of the brisk south wind whistling through the rocks and the periodic dance of moonlight combined to create a moment that was at once intriguing, profound, and sad. Adding it all up made me suddenly feel helpless and insignificant.
I let the situation soak in for a moment and then concluded that more needed to happen. Since I was up high and had cell service, I called Deb to check in. First, I apprised her of the current situation. And then, I asked her to contact both the local Search and Rescue team and Quentin, one of the guides who worked with me during the summers and lived in nearby Breckenridge. She was to ask him to be the point person for alerting our network of Beckenridge backcountry people as to the possibility of needing their help. He didn’t hesitate to call around, place several people on standby, then gear up for a cold night outdoors in the mountains. By 9:00 pm, he’d done all the preparing he could, was in his car, and was heading my way to help directly. And at the same time, Deb assumed the role of “event coordinator.”
After the call, I headed back to re-equip for a night of searching in the mountains of the Tarryall backcountry. I was back at the cabin within 30 minutes of my phone call, sitting on a bench and putting on insulated mountaineering boots. By 11:00 pm, I was back in the snow at my high point on the trail and felt a change in the air. The storm front was arriving. The southerly breeze stopped, and the calm before the storm was almost spooky. I hurried my pace, knowing it would be there at any moment, and was aware it would bring strong north winds and snow along with it. The predicted 4 inches of new snow would undoubtedly obliterate any footprints, making outdoor conditions miserable. And, above all else, I needed to see what the tracks did. So, I struggled to move faster than I should’ve and soon became physically worn out. Nonetheless, I continued moving as quickly as I could, with the thought that the mind often says one thing and the body another, looping through my mind.
The last few hundred yards up to Bison Pass are steep, and the going was tough, but thankfully, the grade eventually began to moderate. I knew I’d reached the ridge’s summit when familiar rock and tree landmarks appeared. A short distance beyond the actual top, the Brookside-McCurdy Trail intersected the trail I was on, and I was especially eager to get to that transition point and see which way the tracks went. The easing trail grade gave me a short rest, so I picked up the pace and soon arrived at the junction. Thankfully, I got there before the storm. The tracks took the intersecting trail and headed on up and toward Bison. My initial thoughts about his choice included visions of the barren alpine tundra, massive rock towers, and stacks of boulders near the summit. I knew it was rugged and sometimes steep, going the way he’d chosen, but I wasn’t surprised he’d done so since mountain summits are often hiking targets. At least, I reasoned, it was probably better for me that he went up. While going that way was potentially slower, going straight at the trail junction would’ve taken him even deeper into the backcountry and further complicated my task.
I headed up the Brookside-McCurdy/Bison Peak Trail, still following the tracks. I knew that, ultimately, the trail climbed to a high alpine meadow we called the Football Field. It crossed the top and then dropped as it traversed the Tarryall high country toward McCurdy Mountain. The Football Field is where hikers and climbers heading for the Bison Peak summit leave the trail and head cross-country. I remembered that Lee had been up there before, so I realized he likely knew that route.
If the tracks did indeed get up that far, I figured the Football Field would be another critical transition point. Up there, they would either continue along the trail headed north toward McCurdy or leave the trail and head west toward Bison.
Just before reaching the Football Field, the Brookside-McCurdy makes a sharp left turn before its final ascent up to the Football Field, but that wasn’t what the footprints did. Instead, a hundred yards below the sharp turn, they abruptly veered off the trail on its uphill side. I looked ahead to see if there was any disturbance or blockage that might cause a detour at that spot, but saw nothing. So, I focused on the tracks and followed them with my light as they led into a maze of boulders and rock slabs that rose to a small peak overlooking the Football Field. I scanned the immediate horizon for a hump or unnatural glob as I speculated what a body down on the snow would look like. I thought about how a bright color would be helpful, but couldn’t remember ever seeing Lee, like most Americans, wear anything that wasn’t black or blue. And so, I just strained to see anything other than rocks, small trees, and snow. But nothing stood out.
And then, the storm arrived. The wind began to howl out of the north, which stirred up the snow on the ground, sandblasting me in the face. As if it made a difference, I pulled my fleece cap down tighter onto my head before returning to following the footprints. The walking was slower and more complicated as the tracks moved into the rocks. I was suddenly less confident in the surface and wary of potential holes, tangles, and drop-offs hidden underneath the snow. Nevertheless, I kept carefully picking my way up, following the tracks, looking for any sign, and with an ever-burgeoning sense of urgency.
After a few minutes, I decided to call Deb again and update her on the current happenings. And so, I did. Out in the open, with the wind whistling through the rocks, it was simply too loud to hear, so I found a small alcove in the rocks and out of the wind where I could hunker down and talk. I took the phone out of my pack, dialed her number, and she answered.
“I’m up high above the Pass, and he seems to have headed off the trail into some rocks. There’s no sign of him, but I’m still following his footprints,” I said. And then I continued, “What’s going on down there?”
She responded that both the local Search and Rescue Team and Quentin had arrived, which meant help was on the way. I let her know that I’d keep searching my way up and would call when I learned more.
It was comforting to touch base. But once I turned off the phone and stood back up into the wind, the situation hit me again, and I felt even more alone and isolated than before the call. I thought again about how Lee was just supposed to be on a simple hike, and I was out in the Lost Creek Wilderness at nearly 12,000 feet, in the middle of a storm, and at midnight. It just wasn’t the way I’d envisioned my evening unfolding.
Eventually, I reached a small, flat pass (or more of a transition point). From there, the minor summit overlooking the Football Field rose to my left, and the west-facing slopes of the Tarryalls dropped down toward Sand Creek to my right. The tracks had led me there, and I eagerly struggled to see what happened next, just as the blowing snow wiped out the last vestiges of the footprint trail.
“What did he do?” I thought. I shone the light toward the peak and couldn’t see any reasonable route through the rocks. Then, I turned the other way and looked out into the darkness of the slopes heading down. Going that way made no logical sense, and visions of how rough and convoluted it was gave me pause. “Is this his high point?” I wondered. I looked at the boulders and slabs I’d ascended that also led back down. He must’ve just decided to go back the way he came up, climbing down the rocks, which I speculated was why I never saw his tracks. I reasoned that doing that would be sketchy, but I knew he liked to rock climb. “Yes,” I reasoned, “he started back down, fell, and is either unconscious or dead.”
Time was suddenly even more essential. I had to find him if he was down, but not out, before he froze to death. So, I quickly worked my way back down, staying on top of the boulders wherever I could. I shone my light into every nook and cranny as I moved along and soon came upon a clump of giant rock slabs that I wasn’t about to try to climb down. I reasoned that it was likely the last thing he ever did if he’d tried to go that way.
After searching my way down a bit, I found myself on the top of a boulder with no way onto the next one that didn’t require several steps out onto the snow. At that point, there were only three options for where he could have stepped. I studied each closely, searching for any disturbance his footprints would’ve caused below the fresh coating of snow. There was nothing like that. I repeated the process to be thorough, and there was still no sign. I’d thought I was on the right track, but suddenly I had my doubts. I shone my light around. And I could barely make out the rocky face of the little peak looming to my right, the rock slab, or the various boulders filling up my immediate surroundings. By this time, fresh snow was falling sideways, blown by a frigid wind, and I was once again overwhelmed by just how small and insignificant I was.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Quentin’s number. He answered and told me he was on his way up the trail and was just below Bison Pass. I told him I was about to head back down to the Pass, and that we should meet at the trail junction. At that point, I’d become convinced that Lee was dead and buried in the snow somewhere in the rocks. I’d been up there looking for any sign or clue for several hours and had found nothing conclusive. It wasn’t the outcome I’d been searching for, but it was almost a relief when I finally came to the “death conclusion.” And so, I quit shining my light around at the rocks looking for Lee and began focusing on getting myself back to the actual trail. I was suddenly no longer looking for a living Lee.
After a short while, I reached the trail and continued heading toward the Pass. The footing was a little sketchy with the fresh snow, but within thirty minutes or so, I approached the trail junction sign and saw Quentin standing next to it. He was all decked out for winter conditions, was carrying a big backpack, and lit up the last few yards of my way with his headlamp. I was ecstatic to see another living human. There wasn’t much small talk when we met, though we each had a profound statement to share. He mentioned how spooky it was to yell for Lee and get no response. And I emphatically stated that Lee was dead and that we probably should hunker down where we were for the night and deal with the recovery the following morning.
By this time, it was around 2:00 am. A sickly feeling permeated our surroundings as we tried to process Lee’s apparent death. And at the same time, we had to deal with the reality of spending 5 or 6 hours trying to sleep outdoors in the cold and snow. There was nowhere nearby, warm and dry, where we could get out of the weather and bed down for the rest of the night. There was no cabin, we didn’t have a tent, and there wasn’t even a decent windbreak. But I did have a 20-degree sleeping bag I’d stuck in my pack. And Quentin had a bivy sack and a sleeping bag. Both of us had parkas, fleece clothing of all sorts, and good boots. But we didn’t have a stove or any external heat source. Spending the rest of the night out in the open, exposed to the elements, was not what we preferred. But we resigned ourselves to the inevitable fact that that’s what we were going to do.
We looked around and settled on a small thicket of trees for our camp. Low-hanging limbs limited the snowpack below them to only a foot or two, and the area was somewhat out of the wind. We sat down on the snow, pulled out our bags, and began stuffing ourselves into them. Just as I finally got my torso and a good bit of snow wedged most of the way in, another gust of wind whipped me in the face, sending some particularly strong shivers down my back. And just then, Quentin asked, “How about some coffee?”
As I was burrowing myself into the mound of wet snow, my first thought was that it was a cruel joke. I didn’t respond immediately, but he already knew what my answer would be. Then he dug a thermos out of his pack, set it down on the snow, and began pouring me a cup. I started to drool, both physically and mentally. “Wow,” I thought as he handed me a steaming cupful. I breathed in the steam and took a sip. To say it hit the spot is an understatement.
We organized our campsite, and I continued relishing the hot drink. Our talk was primarily related to dealing with the remaining nighttime hours. We realized our camping night was something we could really make a difference in. But, on the other hand, Lee’s situation was settled, at least in our minds, for the moment, and we figured there was nothing we could do about that until morning.
Eventually, we finished organizing and settling in, and it was time for us to wait for daylight. I had some battery left on my phone and decided to check in with Deb one last time. I dialed her, and unsurprisingly, she answered. Immediately, I began filling her in on how Quentin and I had met up and our plan moving forward.
She quickly interrupted, “They found him.”
I was bewildered beyond words, then answered, “Where?”
“He walked up to the road a few miles down from the cabin, and some deputies picked him up,” she explained.
I was overwhelmed with thankfulness, and at the same time, questions poured in. Why, how, and where, I wondered.
“Thank God. We’ll be down in a couple of hours,” I answered.
Quentin heard my end of the phone conversation, knew the gist of what was said, and was already getting himself up and packed as I ended the call. The tension was lifted. It was almost like someone popped a balloon. Lee was alive and well.
I climbed out of my bag and began stuffing it, snow and all, into my backpack. Before settling in for the long night, the campsite had seemed relatively snug and comfortable, but not so any longer. After the reprieve, it became a cold, windswept, and foreboding spot. And I couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to stay there without a tent on a snowy night, and I was thrilled we wouldn’t be.
Within minutes, we were on our way back down the trail toward the cabin. As we walked, Quentin told me how he had gotten up there that night by telling the search-and-rescue team (who wouldn’t let him go up alone to meet me) that he’d show them the way up. They had accepted his offer, but once they all started up, he left them in the dust and went on to the Pass alone, where he met me.
While walking down, we ran into the same search-and-rescue group about halfway back down, standing around a roaring campfire and waiting for the morning. They’d heard the news about Lee and said they’d head down later. I was amazed by how big and warm their fire was. And once I laid eyes on them, I began to ponder who they were. It dawned on me that they were all just regular people. Undoubtedly, most of them had to go to work the next day. And yet, here they were out in the wilds, on a cold, wintry middle of the night, and looking for someone they didn’t even know. We thanked them and kept moving, eager to get to a warm, dry bed.
Around 5:00 am, we arrived back at the point where the trail intersects Tarryall Road. Two deputies were waiting for us in their Blazer to give us a ride back to the cabin. We pulled off our packs and stuck them in the back. As we climbed in, Lee was already in the rear seat and scooted over to make room for us. There was a lot of eye contact between the three of us, but only small talk. The deputies drove us to the cabin. We got out and walked up the little hill that it sits on. We opened the door and went inside, ready for sleep. We told Lee we’d talk in the morning, Quentin had a beer, and we all lay down. Within minutes, I was warm and asleep.
We awoke a few hours later, and Lee explained what happened. He’d begun his hike, intending to only walk up the Ute Creek Trail for a few miles as it headed toward Bison Peak. As mentioned earlier, he anticipated the whole thing would be a leisurely, autumn Sunday afternoon hike. He planned to walk up the trail, turn around, and head back to the cabin well before reaching Bison Pass, while there was still plenty of daylight left. After about an hour of hiking, since it was only early afternoon, he decided to continue toward Bison when he reached the snowline. After walking for another 30 minutes, he noted a small and intriguing sub-peak above him and decided to explore it briefly. He intended to climb only up to its base, look around, and backtrack to the cabin.
All went as planned as he reached the small saddle (where I last saw his footprints) near the base of the little peak. And that’s where he made a crucial boo-boo. Instead of heading back down to the trail the way he’d come up, he mistakenly went down on the wrong side of the transition point near the little peak. After just a few minutes of going the wrong way, he realized what he’d done. But he decided he’d be able to get back by continuing down the way he was already going. So, he followed a dry water drainage for a while, confident it would eventually become a small creek. He figured that the creek would then flow into the bigger Tarryall Creek, which was close to the road. And when he got to the road, he would follow it for the short distance back to the cabin. It seemed, at the time, like a reasonable plan.
Darkness arrived sooner than expected. And since his new route didn’t follow an actual trail and there was only moonlight to guide him, his progress became excruciatingly slow. However, he saw headlights down on the road periodically, which at least kept him oriented regarding distance and direction. Thankfully, he had his daypack with him, which included some basics such as water and snacks, but only a limited amount of additional cold-weather clothing. Other positives included that he was in good physical condition and had some backcountry outdoor experience.
He recounted how his bare hands started to get especially cold after about an hour of darkness, and he could feel the temperature beginning to drop. So, he removed his socks and put them on his hands like gloves to provide some insulation. Doing that did provide cold relief to his hands, and since he was always on the go, the movement of his feet kept them from getting overly cold.
He bumbled around in the dark for several hours. Eventually, the storm moved in and completely blocked what little light there was, but he had little choice other than to continue following the drainage. By 1:30 am, he reached Tarryall Creek (or “the River,” as we called it) and found a way across. And then, within another few minutes, he was climbing through the fence that separated the Tarryall Road from the thousands of acres of wildlands on the other side. Two deputies patrolling the road picked him up and radioed the good news to all involved. His story about what happened answered many of our questions. But as always, along with the answers came new questions.
Those were 12 profound hours. Many people experienced a wide range of emotions that night. As for me, I felt happy, sad, lonely, relieved, scared, smart, stupid, and a lot more, almost all simultaneously. The scope of it continues to boggle my mind.
When I first yelled for Lee, I thought there was no answer. But ultimately, I realized that that was because I was listening for his voice, and the response was in the wind. Initially, what I heard made me feel insignificant and alone. Then, almost instantly, a sense of confidence swept in and overwhelmed my emotions, convincing me I was not alone in my search. I don’t fully understand what it was. But that feeling has returned from time to time over the years, especially when the going has gotten especially tough. And I’ve learned to both expect and relish its silent and comforting touch.
