From the first time I viewed Mt. Cobb in the Pioneers, from the top of Baldy, I felt drawn. Of all the majestic peaks in the range, Cobb seemed to clearly stand out as the sentinel. Whenever I view the Pioneers from any vantage throughout the Wood River Valley, it is always Cobb that draws my immediate attention. Is it shrouded in clouds? has the first snowfall of the fall left its mark? How much? How late in the spring is there still snow? How much? One gets to know its face like looking at your own in a mirror.
One of the first inspirations to paint, when I arrived permanently in the valley in 1980, was, of course Cobb. The painting wound up as an early poster for Backwoods Mt. Sports. I used Cobb’s emblematic image later in many subsequent graphic works. And of course, I was beckoned to be on the mountain itself. I made my first trip to the summit exactly thirty years ago. I made my second day before yesterday on my 67th birthday. My first trip was with a friend. This trip, I had decided, was to be solo.
It’s a formidable hump to the top. From the parking lot at the end of East Fork, it’s nearly five miles to the base, and nearly five thousand feet of vertical. That’s damn close to a mile straight up. I’d been thinking of this ascent for some time, and had been hoping to make it with my son, Miles, but as events would conspire, we never were able to find mutually accommodating dates, and he wound up climbing it solo about three weeks ago. I was delighted and in admiration of this plucky feat, and vowed to duplicate the experience myself. It is wonderful to climb with a valued friend and share the event, but there is something equally rewarding in the solitude of being on a formidable face alone. Therein your own insignificance in such an awesome and potentially brutal environment becomes quite plain.
Though I had thought about the climb considerably, and thought about combining it with either the solstice, one of my favorite days of the year to kick out the jams and celebrate, or my birthday, I was undecided until late the morning of the climb. Suddenly, on a day when other plans were still unformulated, it hit me that I was to go for the summit, right now. I quickly threw gear and my bicycle into my truck, hit the grocery store for a few provisions and headed out for the trail head. By now it was approaching noon, and much later in the day than I would have preferred, but it was also the longest days of the year. Soon after I left the pavement, out East Fork, I popped open a quart of beer that I had just purchased for the event, smoked the stub of a joint that I had in a matchbook, and made it to the empty parking lot at 12:30. I put on a broad brimmed hat, jumped on my bike and started up the long trail towards the base. The ride wound up taking almost an hour. I was unclear to start with exactly how long this leg would take, so I pushed hard the entire time. I locked my bike to a conspicuous tree and changed out of my biking shoes, leaving them on the ground next to my trusty steed. By 1:30 I was heading out. Knowing that time was not really in my favor, I continued to push hard. My breathing and heart rate were well up for the entire trip from the car to the summit, what would prove to be almost exactly four hours.
The thirty years that had passed, since my first climb, left me with only sketchy memory of the routes. I had to cross over Hyndman Creek at some point, but it was running very high, and at this point was coming down through very steep terrain that gave clear example of the word “cascade”. I kept looking for a crossing, but the stream course was quite steep and inaccessible. Eventually, as I was nearing the end of any perceivable trail, I found a large log crossing the stream, and made it to the other side. In my anxiousness to keep moving fast, I failed to make adequate note of the exact location of that log.
Now came the real work. After climbing some very steep hillsides for about 45 minutes, I made it up beyond tree level to long stretches of rocky debris. This was slow, but demanding going, since every rock had the potential to turn. It required unblinking concentration, which was the order of the day for about the next five hours. I made the ascent along the northwest ridge, which drops dramatically on both sides. The climbing is not really particularly technical, but none the less, a mistake could easily be fatal. It was at this point in the climb, that being solo finally starts to make its mark. It was a beautiful sunny day. The temperatures at that altitude were mild with just a hint of chill in the breeze. There was no chance of any storm. But the shear faces all around and the complete isolation, starts to work its way into your consciousness.
At one point, probably five hundred feet below the summit, there is a 50 ft. chimney that is near vertical. When I encountered it, my first thought was, “Jeez, was this here last time?” Presuming that it most certainly was, I entered up. The hand holds were as secure as if you were climbing a ladder, but it was a ladder from which, if you fell, you were dead. I’m not, in the spectrum of climbers, particularly skilled or accomplished, but I certainly knew well enough that mind control at these points was an absolute necessity. At more than one point near the summit, I got a good grip on the rock, closed my eyes, and willed myself to just relax. Breath easily. Pay attention. Don’t hurry. It is at this exact point, that the pure thrill of the whole thing really hits home. “My God. I’m way the hell up here, and I sure as hell better get it right. Wow! This is spectacular.” At this point the top of Baldy, which seems the top of the world when you’re skiing, is almost 3,000 feet below, in the distance.
When I finally clambered over the final boulders to the summit, it was almost a surprise that I had arrived. I was tired from a long push, but now felt confident, even though it was 4:30, later than I would have preferred. I spent just a short time taking in the view, anxious now to start down. On the descent, I chose a different route. It appeared that abandoning the ridge might be a good choice, and instead heading more straight down what was a rubble strewn face. This was not particularly threatening, but very demanding of concentration to keep from kicking off minor slides. Most of these didn’t go far. After all this particular angle of repose has existed for millennium, but still, one does not want to be the unfortunate disturbance to the equilibrium, so slow and quiet was the order for the moment. A few minor slides did catch my immediate concern, but all were below me and not above. I scuffed off about a thousand feet of vertical in this shoot before finding a route back to the ridge. As I approached the tree line, my heart started to soar with a relief and sense of accomplishment. Little did I know.
As I approached the base of the mountain and the forested areas around the cascading creek, I became increasingly unsure of where the log crossing lay. Unfortunately I dropped down off of the ridge line before I should have, and when I encountered the raging creek, found no trace of the log crossing. It was impossible to just follow the creek, both because the underbrush was too thick, and the terrain too steep. Instead, I started to retrace my steps, again climbing, but now with my energy near spend, running on empty. By now I’d been at it non-stop for about seven hours.
After about thirty minutes of exhausted climbing, I found a potential crossing. By now the valley was going into shadow, and the light starting to fade. The crossing was on a shelf of the creek, above and below which, the water was running very fast, forcefully, and threatening. I knew that if I lost purchase the results would not be good. It was only about ten feet across, but in the middle was a section where I needed to step, the depth of which was questionable. I finally made my move, grabbing quickly to the rocks on the far side. I was across. In many ways, this unpredicted step was the most frightening of the entire day.
By now, I was thoroughly wet from the waist down. It was starting to get cold. I didn’t know where the trail was, but I had a pretty good idea of the lay of the land. It almost felt as if I had wings on my feet, although soaking wet, as I was able to walk freely on solid ground for the first time in a long while. Feeling the chill of evening descending on the valley, I made haste to descend myself, and within about half an hour made it back to my bike. I swapped my soaking hiking shoes for my bike shoes, and started the gloriously effortless roll down the trail. After about another half hour, I made it to the truck. I was very happy. It was a very happy birthday.