The approach to Cottonwood Lake and further toward the Crestones massif is a true test of endurance. In summer, under dry and sunny conditions, the trail feels endlessly long and draining, as if preparing you in advance for a more serious climb. In winter, however, it turns openly harsh and unforgiving.
Despite everything, our objective remained Crestone Needle (4,327 m). Prakash, Colin, and I had already attempted it on the winter solstice, starting early in the morning. I was delayed and reached the lower parking area later than planned, so they moved ahead without me. They managed to climb to within a short distance of the summit, but after assessing the conditions, made the wise decision to turn back rather than risk a descent on icy slopes at dusk. I only made it to the upper access point and was also forced to abandon the attempt. Sometimes, even the best plans yield to reality.
I’ve been on this route once in summer and three times in winter. One of my most memorable nights in the mountains happened right here, when I guided a friend toward the summit. We didn’t make it, but we settled on a narrow ledge. He spent most of the day inside the tent, struggling with the altitude, while I sat with a cup of coffee, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of red and violet.
The forest along this section creates a distinct atmosphere—dense, quiet, and almost lifeless. Wildlife is rarely seen, and even birds appear only occasionally. Yet it is precisely here that the sense of solitude and untouched wilderness feels most intense.
This time, Prakash and I set out at 3:30 a.m., guided only by the moonlight. The path was well packed, with alternating patches of snow and bare ground, making travel relatively straightforward. Leaves and pine needles provided traction on slick sections. The air was unexpectedly warm for January, carrying the scent of damp earth.
We steadily gained elevation, following fresh tracks that appeared no more than a day old. Later, we spotted another party’s tent, but never encountered them again.
At dawn, it became clear the route led into dense shrubs along a stream. We chose to bypass them and climbed beside a partially frozen waterfall—another sign of the unusually warm winter. From there, we continued along the slope, avoiding difficult terrain where possible.
Snow conditions in the upper basin proved deceptive—soft in places, hard as ice in others. Progress was uneven and required caution. At the same time, the valley was strikingly beautiful: crystal-clear air, soft morning light, and a profound sense of isolation.
Still, I found myself increasingly aware that winter ascents no longer brought the same sense of satisfaction. Early starts, cold, fatigue, and frequent turnarounds begin to accumulate over time. At times, it feels like the idea of these climbs is more appealing than the reality. Yet stepping away is not easy—too much of it has become part of who you are.
Strong winds met us on the pass. From there, the route to the summit followed a narrow gully between rock walls. Conditions were demanding: snow mixed with ice and exposed rock, offering little consistency. At one point, I had to stop—the surface simply didn’t inspire confidence.
The crux proved to be a narrow constriction filled with ice. Progress required careful movement, using both snow and rock. A mistake here could have serious consequences.
Higher up, the slope steepened further. At one point, my leg plunged deep into the snow, leaving me briefly unstable. Fortunately, I managed to regain balance. From then on, we moved with increased caution.
Soon we reached the ridge, with only a short distance remaining to the summit. Prakash went ahead, and I followed. The climb turned out to be more demanding than expected.
We spent only a short time on the summit—had a quick bite and prepared for the descent. The priority now was a safe return.
The descent proved just as demanding. We searched for a safer alternative but ultimately had to descend the same route. Slowly and carefully, we negotiated the difficult section and reached more stable ground.
Back in the valley, it became clear that the day was far from over. In darkness, with weak headlamps, through dense shrubs and slippery terrain, the return felt endless. Though the distance was relatively short, it felt much longer.
This ascent proved far more demanding than expected, once again confirming a simple truth: in the mountains, there are no easy conditions—everything comes down to the details.
Author (text and photos): Kiefer Thomas (Colorado)
Source: alp.org.ua