Cloud Peak in 24 hours

View of Glacier Lake from Cloud Peak Summit

 Some adventures are all about going for the big one.

Sure, I’ll wander off into the wild to get to an obscure mountaintop that no one’s heard of or scramble up that random butte for no reason other than the desire to see how things looks like from there. But, like most people I can be a sucker for the big names, the celebrities if you will in the world of outdoors.

Compared to the big shot mountains in the Tetons and down in Colorado, Cloud Peak would be lucky to make the C-list. That doesn’t change the fact that at 13,167 feet it’s still the tallest thing around northeast Wyoming; big enough to have the Cloud Peak Wilderness named after it, not to mention Cloud Peak Energy, the multi-billion dollar coal company based in Gillette about 100 miles to the east.

Almost a year ago, when I decided to move out to that city, the Big Horn Mountains had a lot to do with the decision. If I left, I was going to make damn sure to climb a lot of those mountains. One of those days, I was definitely going to climb the tallest one of the lot.

With the waist-deep snow finally melted, I was looking at an achievable goal. Cloud Peak is not too far from road access and has a gradual ridge for hikers on the Southwest side that doesn’t require technical equipment. Some of the local runners I know have done the whole 22 miles and 4,000 feet of climb from the trailhead at West Ten Sleep Lake in a day: the Cloud Peak Marathon, they call it.

I decided to tone things down a notch and do a two-day trip. I’d hike six miles from the Ten Sleep Trailhead the first day and then camp at 10,000 feet at the shores of Mistymoon Lake. The next day, I’d leave the tent and take a light pack to the Cloud Peak summit, get back to the tent and hike out the way I came: 16 miles.

I lit out from Gillette early Saturday afternoon, It was another 90-degree day in Campbell County. Since there is no A/C in my car, I had the windows down, as I shot down the highway, sweating in a whirlwind of superheated air. Every mile, the mountains grew larger in my view, cool, their cool slopes patched with snow and ice, outside the reach of brutal summer.

 I turned off Interstate 90 in Buffalo, then started up the 9,000-foot Powder River Pass.

While the faithful Mazda made the climb without protest, it was less happy when I turned off the highway onto the bumpy dirt road to the trailhead and the nine rattling miles of abuse to the suspension that followed.

The trail to Mistymoon Lake begins just above 9,000 feet. I got there at 5 p.m. when there was still plenty of light to hike in. The trail was smooth and pleasant, winding through the tall stands of lodgepole pines. Occasionally, the trees would break away into a glen, and I would see the denuded granite sides of mountains up above, decked with snow, exalted in the late afternoon sun.

One of the mountain lakes that I passed on the hike in

I reached Mistymoon Lake by 8 p.m., tired from the ups and downs along the trail. A clouded sky and the fading light dressed the surrounding landscape in dull colors.

But what a landscape! The trees that I had begun my hike with had fallen away with the elevation gain. Mountains thrust upward from the far side of the water in brazen walls of rock. Cloud Peak lurked further back, separated by distance, fortified by cliffs.

Large boulders scattered lay atop the alpine meadows nearby, calling cards of the last glacier. A few other campers had already pitched their tents on some of the grassy spots near the shore. They were finishing up their meals, getting ready to crawl into their sleeping bags as the darkness fell around us.

I chose a spot for myself and heaved the pack off my shoulders, glad to shed its weight.

As I did, the clouds parted in the west. I watched a blush of salmon-colored light spread across the mountaintops, illuminating the land peaks me, even as it stayed dark down below.

A small rock outcropping, a couple hundred feet above the lake looked to be crowned in orange as it snagged the last of the light. Taking a madman’s inspiration, I began charging up the bouldery slope, trying to reach the light before it faded. Alas, I wasn’t quick enough, and before I could reach Valhalla, the stone reverted to the dun shades of before.

The gods denied. But at least I had pictures.

From my vantage point, I could see another luminous corridor that opened over the land to the south, from the forested high country, down to the rangeland thousands of feet below. I watched, Gollum-like from my crouch among the darkened boulders, then scrabbled the rest of the way up to the dim summit.

View over  Mistymoon Lake looking south 

More earthly concerns awaited where I set up camp. I realized that despite my diligence in packing a camp stove, fuel, dehydrated food and spoon, I had neglected to bring a lighter or matches. I was discouraged by my absentmindedness, but not because I was afraid I’d go hungry. I’ve learned that dehydrated mashed potatoes are perfectly edible in cold water, if slightly less enjoyable.

I dumped my canteen over the pot and set to eating. Not bad. Not bad.

After the meal, I got into the tent and crawled inside my sleeping bag. I set my cell phone alarm for 4:45 a.m.. All the better to start hiking early and get down before any thunderstorms started brewing.

I woke to the alarm in the dark and cold and began preparations in the lantern light. This consisted of pouring cold water over some instant oatmeal and spooning it down with some raisins. I put some warm socks over my hands that were thicker than the gloves I had brought, cleaned up breakfast and put everything I thought I needed into the pack.

I turned off my lantern and picked my way along the trail in the predawn light.

There is no trail to the summit marked on the map, but there is an informal footpath up Paint Rock creek designated with cairns.

I wound on and around the trail, through a maze of boulders , scrambling up steep pitches of rock. It was impossible to find all those little stone piles and I frequently wandered off trail. It was easy enough to keep going in the right direction using the canyon as a guide. Eventually, the route started climbing away from the creek. I made sure to fill up both my water bottles and treat them with iodine before I left. It might be a while until water was available again.

As I climbed, I saw the first beams of sun light up the tops of the peaks. In the reverse of the night before, the golden illumination climbed down from the mountains, bringing warmth to the rest of the world.

The tops of the canyon above me blazed with the first stroke of day and I tramped merrily beneath it all, stupefied by the beauty.

A tributary of Paint Rock Creek on the way to the Cloud Peak summit

                          

It's a little cheesy, but I couldn't resist photographing the bright canyon top in this puddle

I started across a small snowfield and sunk in knee deep before I made it the whole way across. Well, it wouldn’t be a trip to the Big Horns if I didn’t posthole at least once.

I passed beneath a few other snow fields. The snow melted steadily into streams going down the mountainside. But instead of running along the surface, they sank down into the boulders. Oftentimes as I made my way over the broken rock, I could hear the water rushing beneath me. It reminded me of the documentary Touching The Void where a wounded climber manages to crawl down the mountain, is desperately thirsty and hears water coursing through the ground beneath his feet  but has no way to reach it. I tapped the canteen in my side pouch, glad that I was stocked for now.

After I spent some time climbing the ridge, the top came into my sites, just another mile of scrambling up the Dumpster-sized rocks. Sometimes a boulder would tip under my weight and I would hop nervously to the next. I found my heart pounding in my chest and it occurred to me that I was probably working harder in the thinner air. Only once did I get a slight dizzy feeling and it passed quickly.

At 8:45 a.m. I came upon the summit. I climbed the highest boulder, and let out a whoop of exultation. To the north I could make out the sharp summits of Black Tooth and Woolsey. Then there were the stony ridges coming of Bomber Mountain to the south.

Most spectacular of all was what was right in front of me — and straight down.

Cloud Peak’s summit stands at the brink of a 2,000 foot cliff. Below lies Glacier Lake, which as the name suggests, is surrounded by an immense glacial bowl. Minerals scraped off of the mountain have colored the western segment of the lake a stunning turquoise color, which seeps into the eastern portion, which is a, darker, deeper blue.

 I could sit above it all and see the world stretch out past my boots. Here was the chain of alpine lakes pouring out of the glacier over the rock fields and watering the piney forest. Here was where the forest fell away and gave way to the dusty rangeland that grew fainter as it went east until, at last, it blended seamlessly into the hazy sky.

I stayed on the summit for about an hour, taking in the views of Woolsey and Blacktooth, daring my way out on the ledge that overlooked the glacier. A brown smudge across the sky marked smoke from wildfires burning somewhere down below. At one point I caught a whiff of burning smell.

Smoke was one thing; thunderheads would be another. In looking out over the sky, I counted myself lucky that I didn’t see any.

I thought about my plan to try climbing Bomber Mountain that day. At 12,448 Bomber is shorter than Cloud Peak, but there was a substantial dip between the two. The wreckage of a bomber plane that crashed there on a World War II training mission still remains.

Looking across the way to the other mountain, I found a ridge that looked steep, but one I thought I could climb.

Getting there from Cloud Peak would be trickier. I decided to do a little scouting on the south side of the Peak. The topo lines on my map seemed to indicate that it would be doable.

I could have butt sledded down one of the snowfields, but they looked too steep and I would risk losing probably control in a very bad way.

Here's one way to get off the mountain really fast

I was walking over an immense, slanted stone surface near the cliff when I put my foot down on a surfboard-sized boulder. Instead of staying in place like a good rock is supposed to do, it slid out. I fell backward and grabbed another boulder for support, this one the size of a VW bug. Thankfully, it stayed in place.

Meanwhile, the rock I had stepped on sped up and then plunged over the cliff. I wasn’t able to see what happened but it must have been pretty epic. One boulder struck another and then another. As I clung there, I heard what must have been hundreds of pounds of rock go clattering down the thousand-foot wall, the echoes reverberating through the canyon. I wasn’t counting, but it probably lasted a full minute, growing larger, more distant and more terrifying. I delicately pivoted my weight onto the foot that was on solid stone, trying not to put much weight on the VW boulder.

I scrambled back onto more trustworthy ground and caught my breath, just as I heard the last stones go clattering down the abyss.

“Fool of a Took!” I muttered, feeling the flutter of panic in my chest, but not a little bit of hilarity at the situation.

It just kept going! I thought to myself.

Fortunately rock has a lower co-effecient of friction than soft human flesh. Even if I hadn’t caught myself, I probably wouldn’t have gone over. The experience was still jarring enough to make me rethink my off trail plans.

I made my way back to the regular trail and started the descent. I saw a couple of hikers going up as I went along and gave them updates on what they had ahead. There were some big white puffy clouds that looked like they could mean trouble, but didn’t do anything.

By mid afternoon, I was back at the tent on Mistymoon Lake and packed the tent and everything else in the bag and headed for the car.

That last six miles left me plenty weary. It was 5:15 p.m. when I got back to the trailhead: just over 24 hours after I had started for the summit of Cloud Peak.

I had earned myself a helluva sunburn, was grubby and tired. Above the fatigue my  chapped lips twisted themselves into a smile of satisfaction. I had got the big one.

Alpine flowers near a snowfield on Cloud Peak