FOOTPATHS

Assault on Wheeler Peak Taos, New Mexico

A view of Horseshoe Lake from the trail.

Merow (middle) at the summit with sister and father.

Looking out over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains from the trail.

By Katharine Merow

Express doubts about my father’s ability to do something, and you substantially increase his likelihood of success. Tell him that newborn rabbits rarely survive without their mother’s care, and he’ll spend weeks with an eyedropper feeding a litter abandoned in the backyard. Let a seasoned hiker predict that “it won’t be pretty” if he tries to summit New Mexico’s 13,161’ Wheeler Peak, and he’ll climb that mountain or die trying. Herniated discs and inexperience at altitude be damned.

My father climbs mountains largely because they are there. Popular with those aiming to bag the highest point in each of the 50 states, Wheeler Peak attracted his attention because of its proximity to Taos, site of last August’s three-generation family vacation. My mother and brother-in-law agreed to stay with the grandchildren at our casita-style lodgings in downtown Taos (6,967’) while my father, sister, and I stole away for a day to make the 16-mile round trip up Wheeler Peak. While my father relived his glory days scaling the likes of Mount Washington (in blizzard conditions!), Becci could temporarily satisfy her insatiable hunger for a physical challenge. My role in the expedition was to be the voice of reason, responsible for ensuring that my type A, firstborn family members discontinue the trek if, say, altitude sickness had them vomiting (not that it came to that).

Wheeler Peak is a 25-minute drive northeast of Taos in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the southernmost subrange of the Rockies. The shorter of the two oft-traveled routes to the summit involves negotiating a steep scree-covered incline, so we opted for the longer one, beginning at a trailhead off the Taos Ski Valley (9,207’) parking lot. Since we hoped to get back to the casitas by nightfall and, more immediately, off the exposed ridge by afternoon (to avoid getting caught above timberline in a lightning storm), we were on the trail before 6 am.

We traveled lightly and with a minimum of specialized gear. Each of us carried 100 ounces of water in a Camelbak, and our pockets bulged with energy bars and English muffins. While Becci and I each devoted precious space to a digital camera, my father’s pack contained the emergency essentials: topographic map, compass, space blanket, knife, matches, water purification tablets. With trail sneakers on our feet, and layers of wind- and water-resistant outerwear topped off by sun protection for eyes and face, we were ready.

Early confirmation of progress came with our arrival at Bull-of-the-Woods Pasture, altitude 10,800’. Although already playing host to a handful of campers — more accustomed to sidewalk mendicants than overnighting outdoorsmen, we avoided the spattering of sleeping-bag chrysalises — the clearing nicely accommodated our first snack and bathroom break of the day. Here our paths intersected for the first of many times with those of Mini and Madison, two sprightly Jack Russell terriers literally quivering with the excitement of accompanying their owners up Wheeler.

Nor were terriers the only non-human fauna flourishing in that increasingly rarefied mountain air. Though the fabled bighorn sheep declined to show themselves, we did spot several deer, antlers still sporting the remnants of springtime fuzz. The presence of domesticated cows atop 12,000’ Frazer Mountain diminished somewhat our sense of accomplishment at reaching it and fuelled our growing determination to press ahead through the disheartening descent into La Cal Basin — we wanted to go up, after all — and on to Wheeler.

As we followed the ribbon of dirt snaking its way along the ridge in a series of seemingly interminable switchbacks, pikas cheeped a lively chorus and marmot burrows yawned on either side of the narrow trail. By the time a gusting wind had us practically hugging the increasingly inhospitable mountainside, the last lonely bovine had dwindled to a dark smudge against a drab background of alpine flora.

Though my father says he will always remember yelling “Charge!” as we approached the final scramble up Wheeler Peak, the ferocity of the wind near the summit rendered his battle cry indistinct. We had had many false alarms, always mistaking the next in the long string of relatively minor prominences for Mount Walter (altitude 13,141’), and thus the slightly higher one behind it for our ultimate goal. This, though, was it. Face lashed by the pigtails escaping from my double hood and feet uncertain on shifting gravel, I leaned in for the home stretch.

We didn’t linger long atop Wheeler Peak: a look around at the stunning panorama, a bunch of pictures, lots of beaming, and we were on our way back down again. Since the headiness of the experience robbed us of the presence of mind to sign the summit register, only our photographs prove we were there.

Katharine Merow is a recent graduate of Swarthmore College currently living, working, and suppressing her wanderlust in Seattle, WA. She can be reached at kmerow@gmail.com