Silver Peak

DATE: Thursday, July 23, 2020
DISTANCE: 17.2km / 10.69 miles
ELEVATION GAIN: 1,292m / 4,238’
TIME TAKEN: 11:10
HUMBOLDT TOIYABE NATIONAL FOREST
CARSON ICEBURG WILDERNESS
ALPINE COUNTY, CA
SOUNDTRACK: Rainbow: Man On The Sliver Mountain

SUMMITS:
•Silver Peak SW Summit 3,283m / 10,772’
•Silver Peak NE Summit 3,292m / 10,800’

PHOTO ALBUM
MAP






 

...continued.

Silver Peak is one of two sets of striking double peaks (the other being Highland) that form a massif just south-east of Ebbetts Pass in Alpine County, CA. I was poised at Silver Creek Campground in a bid to climb them both (and maybe even Tryon Peak as well). I would simply walk to the Noble Canyon Trail, right from my campsite, and begin from there. Climbing up Silver, Traversing the ridge to Highland, coming down to take a dip in Noble Lake, and heading back to camp along the well established trail. It would be spectacular. Nothing could go wrong!

Due to getting crap sleep in my tent, I didn’t wake up until 7:30AM, much later than I intended. I hesitated to rise, feeling the burn in my body from yesterday’s sixteen miles on the trail. Slowly, I dragged myself out, had a simple breakfast, and got ready to go. I left the campground at 9am, hiking out on a nameless trail that goes out of campsite 15, up to the hairpin turn in Highway 4 where a more official connector trail begins. Granite and volcanic rock formations came into sight almost immediately, followed by the the Silver-Highland complex, and then a fine alpine meadow. There was a clear signpost where my path intersected the official Noble Canyon Trail, and I continued south on that, over a primitive bridge on the namesake creek, and then on through the woods. At 9:54, I turned left off of the trail, heading cross country, based on a GPS of Bob Burd’s route of ascent. Side creek waterfalls were active, and volcanic rock scenery kept things interesting. I came across ghost trails here and there, that would appear and disappear, footsteps in the dirt, and then nothing. I followed them as best I could, because they seemed to be going in the right direction, but they always evaporated.

By this point, I had gained some elevation, and had views out back west to Raymond, Reynolds, and The Sinister, yesterday's playground. Now faced with a massive field of open brush in front of me, I changed course, and went for a gully with pine trees on one side, and talus chaos on the other, making my way uphill with rock hopping, just on the edge of the woods. After the top of the gully, the rocks got steeper, and volcanic sentinels erupted from the slope, frowning down at me, begrudgingly allowing my passage. So far, I had felt I was doing pretty good on the elevation gain, having slept at 7,000 feet the night before, and having gotten more rest than the previous night. This good feeling soon crumbled away like so much talus as I approached the peak, I was just as tired and out of breath as I had been yesterday on the steep part, pausing about every 20 steps. I invented switchbacks as I went up, zigzagging towards the sky. It was 1PM when I finally dragged my body over the top of the ridge, four hours ascent. Now I over the top, I could see the storm clouds coming in from the south, already engulfing highland peak, I quickly tagged the lower, southwestern summit of Silver, which I had come up right by, and then began crossing the ridgetop to the higher northeast summit. I could hear cracks of thunder getting closer. This was not great. They say if you can hear the thunder, it’s already too close, and you shouldn’t be out there. Whoops!

Down to the saddle, and up to the high peak. It was good clean rock out there, wish I could have enjoyed it more, but the encroaching storm was stressing me out. On Silver NE, I grabbed the ammo box summit register and dragged it downhill a bit, so I wouldn’t be so exposed. The register box had an old notebook that was rolled up and completely soaked, and a more recent, current one in a ziplock bag, which I signed. I ran the ammo box back up to it’s place on the summit, and got back down again as fast as I could. That’s just when the thunderstorm really hit Silver Peak. Thunder was close, cracking all around me. I started plunging downhill, trying to get off the ridgeline, I was going too fast, sliding on scree and over boulders. I said to myself “you’re panicking, if you don’t slow down, you’re gonna get hurt.” I slowed down. I wanted to get off the mountain ASAP, but I didn’t want to go back over the high top of the ridge where I had come from, and have a bigger risk for getting struck by lightning. In my haste, I had run down the east side of the mountain, away from trails and civilization. I decided to contour south, along the east side, and try to cross back over the ridge at the Silver-Highland saddle, the lowest point. I began moving, and then the first rain drop hit my face. I didn’t mind getting wet, but I didn’t want to get soaked. The storm continued to pick up. I was still at almost 11,000 feet, and the sound of a thunderburst across the mountaintops and through the alpine valleys is like nothing I’ve ever heard, in both volume and profundity. As a longtime fan of loud sounds, it was one for the books.

I decided to find a place to wait out the worst of the storm, which was not abating, and sought shelter in a volcanic crag alcove. I somehow had cell reception coming in from Nevada somewhere, so I sat and read the news about the horrible things going on in the outside world. Then I got bored of the cave, and made a mad dash south to get closer to the saddle, but thunder continued strong, so I took shelter again in another alcove, not as good as the first one. I waited and waited, and the thunder kept coming. Finally, it seemed like awhile since the last thunderclap, so I decided, if there’s not another one for ten minutes, I’m getting out of here. I got out of there. I scrambled over the volcanic formations on the east side of the ridge, still gun shy about returning to the top of the ridge, hoping to find an open path to the saddle, and my descent. I climbed over a nasty crag, and said to myself “please don’t be cliffs on the other side.” There weren’t. There were rocky slopes with scrub pine, and a means of escape. By the time I got to the saddle, it was 4PM, so much time burned hiding out from the storm, but I was now treated to views of gloomy looking Highland Peak along the way, and when I got over the ridge, I saw out to the west, Raymond-Reynolds peaks dusted with snow! In July! The magical view almost made everything worth it.

Now at the saddle, I had invested so much time and effort getting over here, I didn’t want to back up to retrace my ascent path, even though it was a known quantity. I also felt like it was too late in the day at this point to go tackle Highland Peak, and let’s face it, I was kind of “over it” as far as mountain climbing was concerned. I said “fuck it” and dropped straight down, west from where I was at. Dumb idea. It was all downhill, after all, and it was fun at first, boot skiing down the scree slopes. But this was not to last. Bushwhacking, rock sliding, picking my way down the drainages, through muddy mountain springs fields, and on, and on… The going was very slow, not even a deer trail to follow, choosing between one bad option or another. No country for human beings. I was scratched on the legs, smacked in the face, and fell on my ass more times than I care to recall. Frequent breaks to dump the rocks out of my boots. I ended up following the creek drainage, lots of brush, so many riparian bushes, down into a canyon, a gap in the rocks that looked like a waterfall coming ahead, this was one of the few times I would be happy to NOT see a waterfall ahead. No cliffs too, please. Anyway, no waterfall, no cliffs, but I could see out that I was still high above Noble Canyon, and I would have to keep picking my way down, so many rocky slopes. I was glad there was no chance of people being downhill from me, because I sent so many big rocks rolling as I plunged downward.

It wasn’t until about 6:30PM that I finally got off the slopes. Once in the “privacy” of the woods, I finally dug a hole and took the anxiety shit that had been brewing since the first thunderclap hit. It was easy going now, through the pines of Noble Canyon’s floor, and when I finally got to the trail, I could have gotten down on my hands and knees and kissed the packed dirt. But I didn’t. It was now easy going south along what felt like a superhighway. Noble creek was invigorated by the storm. Pink picturesque sunlight cast upon the peaks to the south. All trail back to camp. Last looks back up at Silver Peak. I had a PB & J sandwich and one beer and passed out at 9:45PM on the bench seat of the van, trying to see if this more familiar sleeping situation would garner me a better quality of rest than the tent, after all, how many nights of excellent sleep have I gotten on van bench seats over the years?

To be continued...

FURTHER READING
Bob Burd: My ascent loosely based on this
Fedak: Another ascent from the west
Marcus Sierra: Another ascent from the west
Silver Peak SW on PEAKBAGGER
Silver Peak NE on PEAKBAGGER

 

Stanislaus Peak

DATE: Tuesday, June 30, 2020
DISTANCE: 14.21km / 8.83 miles
ELEVATION GAIN: 712m / 2336ft.
TIME: 5:46
SUMMIT: 3424m / 11,233ft. SPS
STANISLAUS NATIONAL FOREST
CARSON ICEBURG WILDERNESS
ALPINE COUNTY, CA
SOUNDTRACK: Judas Priest: Dissident Agressor

PHOTO ALBUM
MAP

 ...continued.

Stanislaus Peak is really a classic butte, steep sided and flat on top, near perfectly shaped, (especially when viewed from the north). To add to it's attractiveness, it has a distinctive reddish color, different from the surrounding peaks, and it wouldn't even look out of place in Utah or New Mexico. It is an extinct volcanic cone, and the farthest north (named) 11'er in the Sierra Nevada. Faced with the choice of climbing either Sonora Peak or Stanislaus that day, with probably not enough time to do both, Axell and I settled on Stanislaus, because it "looked cooler," even though the original plan had been Sonora. The view of Stanislaus' majestic red cone in the distance, on yesterday's hike, had probably sealed the deal.

I awoke in my tent at Chipmunk Flat at 7:45AM, later than I planned. I'd had a helluva time getting to sleep in the tent, even though I was beat from climbing Leavitt. It was already plenty bright out, and with the tasks of eating breakfast, going to shit in the woods, getting water from the creek to dump on the campfire, and striking the tent, we didn't leave camp until about 9:20! This is when I especially realized that we wouldn't have time for both Stanislaus and Sonora, as we would have to leave back to The Bay by 3PM so I could make it to band practice.

Not too far east up Highway 108 from Chipmunk Flat was Saint Mary's Pass trailhead. When I got there, I saw that there were primitive campsites, and I cursed "Damn! We could have just stayed here last night!" From the trailhead, there were views of Margaret Lewis Peak, Mount Finiski, and the The Nightcap. We were on trail dirt at 9:48AM. The only human being we had seen yesterday had been a black dot in the distance, on top of Leavitt Peak. Today, we would not be so lonely, with a troop of backpackers storming out down the trail at us almost immediately. But that was it. Aside from Stanislaus Peak it's self, the most elevation of the trail occurred at the very beginning, going uphill to gain Saint Mary's Pass. There were fascinating volcanic rock formations along the way, including "The Eye." We were on top of the pass in 36 minutes. From this vantage point, there was a good look back at Starvation Ridge, and for the first time that day, an open view north of Stanislaus Peak.

The trail continued down from the pass and became a grandma grade footpath that gently followed along the west side of the ridge, through beautiful meadows and past trickling springs. We made good time on this part, and arrived at the granite outcrop "Stanislaus Crag," in just over an hour. (11:30AM now) Having arrived at the base of the red butte, the trail petered out, and we had to choose our ascent. While on our way up from the crag, we looked through a notch in the rock, which which was a window down into a surprise granite canyon, at least 1,000 feet deep, which had been completely hidden from view on our approach. "Stanislaus Crag," the granite formation, marks the end of the volcanic section of rock, and the beginning of the granite-bound canyon area, which leads down to the East Fork Carson River.

The route up to Stanislaus was an attempt to not lose elevation, so we tried to go due west, but some stubborn, giant chunks of rock would not permit this, and there was indeed some elevation loss and regain. As we started to go up, the only other consideration was to go around the stands of small pine trees, and by that method, our path came to be. Ghosts of use trails came and went, but it was mainly "choose your own adventure" over or around the worst sections of talus and shattered volcanic rock on the steep slope. Reports considered this peak to be a class 2 climb, so maybe there is an easier way to go that we simply didn't find, because our path to the top was decidedly class 3. More fun that way! We took turns going up to the top. I went up first, while Axell stayed below the class 3 section with the dog. The route of ascent was a short, but memorable climb through a jagged landscape, and I guess what you would call a brief chute. Up over the rim, and I was on the flat top, like a pile of broken terra cotta tiles. I found the summit register, and expected 360 degree views, not staying too long, time was on my mind. Then I went down, stayed with the dog while Axell went up to claim his first 11er.

We retraced our steps back down the mountain, as best we could, got back to the granite just before 2PM, and I posed for a "scary" photograph at the edge of the cliff. Now it was time for the long haul back on the wilderness highway of Saint Mary's Pass Trail, past the remaining snowy patches and bright green spring fed bogs. We were back to the van by 3:35PM. Behind schedule, but not disastrously so. Time to travel down, down, through surprisingly heavy traffic on Highway 108, through the foothill towns, through the scorching hot cowshit valley, and eventually back into the foggy embrace of the Bay Area.

FURTHER READING
•Stanislaus Peak on SUMMITPOST and PEAKBAGGER 
•Bob Burd: Bob tackles Stanislaus and Sonora in one go
•West Coast Hikes With Dogs: With snow! And dogs!