A Stairclimber from Hell: Donner Ridge to Mt. Ypsilon

My boot slipped twice and I looked down from the ledge I was currently edging across. It was midmorning, cold, and I could barely hear what Matt was saying slightly above me through the wind, my helmet, and all the layers I was wearing. We were teetering across the knife’s edge of the route now, along a violent ridge that led up to the summit of Mt. Ypsilon. It felt like we had been on a stairclimber of rocks forever.

The day began like most of the alpine missions that Matt and I had knocked out through the end of the summer season: wake up early, choke down as much food/water as you could at that hour in the morning, and be on our “merry” way down the trail. Today, although, was a little different. Following the successful climbs of the summer/fall season, Matt and I were becoming increasingly confident in our abilities out in the backcountry. This isn’t to imply that we were becoming cocky or anything in the least (certainly not- *sarcastic laugh*), but we at least had a rough idea of where our “limits” lie.

The week before deciding on this being our climb for the weekend, I spent every morning doing the same thing: I would wake up, make coffee, and check the updated weather for the area of the park that we would be in. It was late fall going into the winter season, and the snowfall was wildly unpredictable. Between being at the fire station and working calls, and being at my regular weekly job at the high school, I needed something to get me back into the alpine. Matt felt just about the same way.

Two days before when we were to climb, Estes Valley was hit with a snow shower that blanketed the surrounding areas with a considerable amount of snow. Not near enough at this point to constitute anything in the sort of a thicker base, but enough to sock out the other alpine climbs that we were seriously considering for weeks before. About a day preceding when were intending to go, Trail Ridge Road was closed, and with that, the other side of the park was closed to us without a two to three hour drive around through Loveland Pass. I had been reading about Donner Ridge and Blitzen Ridge for weeks now, and I thought nothing better to warm us up to the winter season of climbing than to attempt something Class III or lower on Donner Ridge.

Donner and it’s opposing ridgeline, Blitzen Ridge (5.4 III), are infamous in the park. If not for their violent looking crux spots, but for the storied history that they hold in mountaineering lore. On both ridges, and on multiple occasions, a few alpinists have had the distinct misfortune to make their last climbs on earth there. A few from those select parties have made it back to tell the stories of how their partners met their God-forbidden fates. The stories were not without pain. Being the confident folk that we were, Matt and I quickly dismissed them and went about our business planning the route. Maybe this was foreshadowing something. Who knows. Hindsight is always 20/20.

As we made our way down the tracks leading from the trailhead where we had parked, Matt and I were both quiet. This was the coldest it had been since the summer season, and neither one of us were yet accustomed to it. Trudging through the snow until we reached a point where we had to put on crampons, both of us stayed pretty quiet. I snapped on my crampons alongside Matt when the trail became too icy to continue wearing just our mountaineering boots. The ice that made up what was once the trail at this point was thick. My headlamp light almost danced in the minor imperfections of it as the light reflected off. I was still sleepy, and it was nearly mesmerizing.

We continued further until we met deeper snow. It was nicely packed though, and I was thankful we didn’t need yet to strap on our snowshoes. At this point in the season I wasn’t used to the awkward walk that snowshoes required, and my legs were already tired. Beyond the light of our headlamps lay Ypsilon Lake, and beyond that, the Spectacle Lakes. The water held a darkness that only one in the alpine would ever be able to see. In the deep black I almost thought that I could see the reflection of the moon and stars in the clear early morning light. We followed the banks of the lakes farther into the deep and narrow bowl that CCY forms along the divide as the sun began to shine light over the ridges beyond us. I could hear the wind howling too, but I wasn’t worried about that yet.

We continued farther, until the trail that had been buffed out around the lakes from people before us in the past days disappeared. We met the large scree pile that made up the bottom of the mountain bowl closest to Ypsilon, and began our grueling ascent. The sun was rising slowly over the peaks beyond us now, and in the growing light I turned my headlamp off and took it off of my forehead. I put on my helmet, collapsed my ski poles, and pulled out my ice axe. The rocks along the scree field were free of snow for the most part, but there was more than enough verglass to justify having something out to catch myself. If anything, I guess it made me look cool.

After about a mile and a half or so of rock-hopping, Matt and I came to the point where Donner ridge “officially” started. In all of the guidebooks that we had checked beforehand, and on Mountain Project, the route along the knife’s edge of the ridge was rated as a Class III climb. Just hard enough that it was considered some sort of a mountaineering route, but easy enough that any experienced alpinist could traverse it without having to do anything too technical. Due to this reason, we left our racks, rope, and a majority of our alpine climbing gear at home. The only thing that each of us carried was a harness and a rappelling device. Along with that, I kept a very thin emergency rappel rope in the event of an emergency if we needed to bail. There was only going up from here in order to get down.

The first few moves along the ridge were decently protected from the spindrift and wind that crashed along the divide. I was still pretty cold at that point, so I had all three of my hoods up, and my buff pulled over my face. Matt moved a little faster than I with his longer legs, and I could hear him route finding along the giant rocks above me. Do not misunderstand me when I tell about this climb-Matt and I both were about uncomfortable, cold, and tired the entire time, but the whole thing was worth it. If not for the views alone, but for being the only two people up there that day. It was why I loved doing things like this. We continued climbing upwards, and the farther we got, the more exposed we became to the crashing wind, and giant wafts of spindrift that followed each crash. To this day, there are still parts of my face that I can tell got a little too cold in those moments. I took winter layering seriously after being up there.

As we continued even farther upwards, the route became more technical as well. With the wind howling around the ridge almost constantly, thankfully there was little snow accumulated in spots. This allowed for a good amount of grip and purchase when we would make technical or reachy moves along the rocks, but with the limited feel on the foot placements with our heavy mountaineering boots on, we each still moved very slowly and carefully. I was happy that Scarpa made some sort of edge on the front of their boots, as it caught me from falling multiple times when my hands would slip.

With a little more than 350’ to the top of the ridge where it connected to the summit of Mt. Y, I had a few pretty bad leg cramps. They happened of course at the most inopportune time as well, and I had to power through a few large moves until I slipped over the top of a small ledge, and layed down to try and mitigate them. I groaned with pain as Matt yelled from above me, trying to make sure everything was okay. To this day, I thankful for his calming words. I wasn’t in the best state of mind at the time, and the fact that it felt like my legs were exploding with the massive amount of pain certainly did not help much at all either. Looking back, I almost sort of laugh at how helpless I was in that moment.

I stretched just enough to get moving again, and made the last final little push up to a small alcove that Matt was hunkered in above me. We both sat there for a moment, took a rest, caught our breath, and got some food and water in us. It’s hard to remind yourself to drink and eat when it’s so cold and you’re at high altitude, and looking back, I think that’s where most of our problems came from on the climb. We did the whole thing successfully that day, but we worked through a lot of fatigue, general tiredness, and brain fog.

When Matt and I had decided we spent enough time sitting there, and truth be told when we started to become a little cold, we continued upwards and finished the last section of very low-grade climbing and scrambling before we got to the top. Pausing a moment a few moves before we topped out over the ridge, Matt and I looked at eachother, smiled, got all giddy and excited again (with what energy I do not know), threw on a couple extra layers, and popped up into the unrelenting wall of wind that blasted over the ridge leading to the summit of Mt. Y. It was some of the strongest wind that I had ever been in my entire life. It was literally so strong, that both of us had to stay in a crouched sort of prone position as we moved along the top of the ridge. Verbal communication was out of the question as well, as I could hear nothing but the blasting wind, and my gear rustling around me because of all of it. Both Matt and I could do nothing in the moment but laugh and smile. This was what we came up here for. We got to the summit, marked ourselves on the summit register, and popped off onto the other side that lead down to a snowbowl that would take us down back to the lakes and trail below it.

I was very happy that I wore gaiters that day. Not only at this point were Matt and I exhausted from the never-ending climb hours before, but to get down, we had to post hole through at least three miles of snow-drifted terrain. I would soon become accustomed to this sort of travel, but at this point it was early in the winter season, and I forgot how cold one could get among these peaks.

Matt and I did everything short of fall down the slope. We slid on our butts and glissaded down when we could, and even tripped into the huge drifts of snow if they were deep enough. My legs just felt completely ruined by having to do such big moves the entire climb, and even larger steps post holing on the way down. By the time we got to the bottom of the snowfield, both of us laughed with exhaustion, and lay down on a rock for a little while to take a rest. I nearly fell asleep.

Matt and I followed the topography of the slope as it ran along the creek that came down from the bowl of CCY. There were a few spots that required some complicated downclimbing, but other that those few technical moves, the travel was relatively easy. We finally got back into the trees, and linked back up with the trail. I’ll never be fully clear on the exact route that we took to get there, but it involved a lot of postholing through the snow in the trees. Thank God we did not attempt this later on in the season when the base was much deeper.

As we worked our way down the trail I was reminded of another thing to not be cocky on: breaking in one’s own boots. I had bought the pair of new Scarpa Mont Blanc Mountaineering Boots only a week and half or so before we went out on this alpine mission. I wore them only a few times before going out, and by this point in the whole grand trek I was sure feeling it. The edges of my toes ached and I could feel sizeably large blisters on the back of my achilles forming on both feet. We were nearly finished now and back to the trailhead, but I couldn’t help but feel humbled. Even when one thinks they have mastered the mountains, they are reminded that they never will. They will always demand your respect, and they will always challenge your skills.

Next time I’ll spend a little more time on the stairclimber and a little less on the treadmill.