My partner Charlie Pitts sent me this write-up of our winter adventures on the north face of Pyramid Peak a couple of years after we did the climb and it has languished in the chaos of my filing system ever since. This is his take on the climb I recently posted on SuperTopo here: http://www.supertopo.com/tr/Winter-Ascent-of-the-North-Face-of-Pyramid-Peak/t13048n.html
The remarkable thing to me is the different details remembered by each of us. Memory is, perhaps, more malleable than we might imagine. I hope you enjoy this different perspective of what was, for each of us, a truly grand adventure. Cheers

Alpine Cowboys
By Charlie Pitts

Life in western Colorado is not always what it seems to the casual visitor. It’s really a war out there and we spend a good part of our time zipping up and down the highways and byways of the economic battlefield in our struggle for the legal tender. But there are times when we slow down a second or two for a wistful, longing gaze and fantasize – dreaming of leaving the rat race behind and drinking deeply the heady elixir of wind and snow, thin air and rock. Whenever I see Pyramid Peak framed so perfectly between the walls of Maroon Canyon I dream, dreaming of all the good times I’ve had in the Elk mountains and all the good times to come.

The tidings hardly seem auspicious this January morn and the road up to Maroon Lake is less a than appealing proposition when a person can rent a snowmobile right here at this ranch. Damn Winterskol anyhow; we decide to bypass his underlings and look for the rancher himself. Things begin to look up as as he turns out to be a gentleman and an eminently sensible businessman. All too soon we’re bouncing up the canyon in a supply sled and pondering the wisdom of using these snowmobiles as we try to anticipate the next series of dips and bumps on this crazy go-cart track. But as we round the big curve and finally sight the Maroon Bells our doubts diminish and soon evaporate as the beasts come to a halt in the unnaturally deserted parking lot at Maroon Lake. We bid our porters farewell and a good time at Winterskol.

As the beasts drone their way out of earshot we get down to the more serious business of hoofing our way up the trail to Crater Lake. All to soon the footprints of the idly curious fade to white and all that remains is our hard-won line in the snow of weeks past. Rumor has it that the ski areas are suffering a dearth of snow this winter but it would be hard to prove here. It’s time for the secret weapons, two pairs of Sherpa snowshoes. Years ago we both swore to never use the infernal contraptions again but today they seem to be uniquely suited to our approach problems and so they prove to be. We soon pass our previous high point and plow upwards through virgin powder. Where there is clarity there is no choice. If there were any doubt about our adventure lurking in our minds now we’re certainly not vocalizing them.

To the cry of “stone the crows, we made it” the north face of Pyramid slowly broaches the horizon and soon dominates our entire perspective. The legendary Layton Kor is rumored to have made flattering comparisons between the north face of Pyramid and the north face of the Eiger. Who’s to say? Across the Maroon Valley, high atop Buckskin Pass, the Pyramid seems to sit there like the throne of a long forgotten monarch in the days of Adam, when Titans ruled the earth. Perhaps they built these mountains to amuse themselves.

Abandoning our snowshoes we slog through the desert of white, strangers in a strange land, the eye in the Pyramid gazes down upon us noncommittally. Soon we’ll be at the base of the face, perhaps it’s best to stop a while and rest. It’s still early but we are both tired and hungry. Better to bivy here and stash most of our gear in the morning. We find a cave of sorts and settle into an afternoon of cooking, melting snow for our meager ration of water for the morrow, and watching the reds and yellows of twilight fade ever so softly to velvet black and diamonds. The night is clear and cold. Double boot liners just aren’t cutting the mustard and even best friends become talked out on a long winter’s night. We lie alone together, separately pondering tomorrow’s imponderables. “Hey, what’s going on over there?” “My feet are freezing, man. I’m wrapping them up in my parka.” A soporific stupor soon sets in.
“Silver wings of morning shining on a grey day, while the ice was forming on a lonely runway”. We tumble from our slumber and realize there’s no time to lose, we’ve got to be on our way. There’s not even time for breakfast. Six chocks, three ice screws, some biners, and a rope, that should keep us out of trouble. I shoulder the pack as Bob drapes himself in rope and rack. This is it. The last exit to Brooklyn; the last chance to turn around. The margin of error is pretty marginal from here on out, if indeed it exists at all. There’s no one to save us from our folly now. Spindrift shrouds the pyramid in a smoky, mysterious veil.

Chunks of snow scuttle downwards and disappear. Things aren’t looking so good. “Hey Bob, you wouldn’t mind terribly setting up a belay so I can get on up?” This buttress has it’s moments. It’s a jumble of snow-covered lower fifth-class climbing on the infamous Maroon sandstone. Every cloud has a silver lining, though. At least it’s frozen together now and not given to falling our way from above or breaking off beneath our feet, but this move looks well nigh overwhelming. Serpent-like the rope inches down the rock and tied in at last the move proves to be a super long stem and subtle ripple of gravity leftward. Later, in the chimney leading up the buttress, I again seek recourse to the rope.
“Guess this shows me for what I am, a real live wuss.”
“Ah yes, but the operative word is live”. Bobby always did have a way with words.
We stop to break our fast. An apple, some cheese, a few swallows of our precious water; it’s not much but hunger is nor our biggest consideration right now. Breathlessly we tiptoe our way across the “little Hinterstoesser” to an outcrop of rock and don our crampons. Any chance we may have had for a successful retreat are behind us now. Speed and doggedness are our most important pieces of gear now. Kick, step, kick, step, kick, step. Crusted snow breaks away beneath our feet and skitters away to disappear into the white hole below. Like two chipmunks on a treadmill of white, we inch our way out of this frosty funnel

In a very real sense, the faces of mountains are but the beginnings of the streams and rivers that drain our continent. Indeed, the topography of the peaks is but a product of water in its’ various incarnations. This proves little consolation to us as our route veers off to the right following the line of least resistance. Although the water isn’t flowing this time around, we’re shooting the rapids. Two hornlets of rock mark our destination and silently they mock our thrashings. The climbing is neither pure snow nor pure rock, but a perverse combination of the two. The snow collapses beneath our feet, the rock breaks off when we make contact with them. The grating of crampon and sandstone, foul expletives, moans of futility, such are our units of measurement as we “shoot the rapids”.

Out of the shadow and into the sun we stuble, feeling like a couple of salmon thrashing our lives away on the spawning grounds. The sun lies in distant, icy spender far to the southwest; a wreath of wispy angel’s hair crowns the Maroon Bells.
“Perhaps we should start down now whilst the sun still lights our way.”
“No way, buddy; that would be too much like coitus interruptus. Pulling out before you are done.”
“Well, all right. Just trying to be practical,” I mutter.

Abandoning the pack and clutching our axes, we race the sun as it sails galleon-like in the sky. A gully, a rock band, yet another traverse, yet another rock band. It’s an uneven race but we’re running neck and neck. The horizon drops beneath our feet in the same instant the sun sails into tomorrow. A witchen, crooked finger of snow guides our last steps. “Percy Hagerman would be proud of us today,” I muse as the shutter clicks. Softly mother night wraps the Pyramid in her embrace. In the distance the lights of Basalt twinkle like some far-off constellation, but we won’t be eating Mexican food and drinking beers at the Midland tonight. In a few hours the moon will rise, but even now tis soft light is our ally. We climb down to our gear.

“By the way, there’s this place somewhere on this ridge….” We scurry down a gully and continue the traverse. I begin to down-climb a gully but pop right back out like a cork in water. It’s the black hole, a one-way ride to the midnight rocks this silvery eve. It’s time to set up a rappel because there is no way we can down-climb it tonight. We’re not cavers. Agonizing fumbling produces a rappel anchor of sorts, but there’s no way of telling if it’s solid or not. We each, in our own moment, pregnant with apprehensions and subconscious prayers, lean back into space and gingerly inch our way down the gully. A reassuring upward pressure of the rope eases the anxiety somewhat, but only solid ground beneath our feet dispels it entirely. The moon rises a silvery orb over Pyramid’s east ridge as we gaze down upon our last obstacle to the bivy. By all rights we should be out of the woods now, but it is just a fantasy. The sky is clear for miles around, but the damn snow cloud is on a collision course with us. Fortunately, it proves more form than substance and the diffused light of the moon shines through the cloud to guide our weary feet down the final snow slope. As the slope eases to a gentler grade the cloud passes overhead and movement becomes surreal. The last few hundred yards to our cave seems more like a hundred miles, the cave itself a mirage tormenting us as we flounder in this snowy desert.

Running on empty we stumble home at last. To sleep, perchance to dream??? Would that it could be so simple. Our gear is dusted with a fine layer of spindrift and our aching bodies cry out for repast. Alas, our meager rations are exhausted and our dinner will be nothing more than a billy of unsweetened tea. Wards come as slowly as the snow melting on the Svea.
“Remember when we were in college and we always talked about sieging this face?” It’s like that wine commercial on TV, which one is it?”
“Ah yes, we’re like Paul Masson, We do no climb before it’s time”. It’s another long, cold night. Even thought saps too much vital energy as we lie shivering in our bags, the living dead. If only sleep would mercifully visit us or the sunrise resurrect us, we would be two of the happiest people alive. Like a thief in the night, fatigue dulls the bite of the cold and we lapse into a comatose state. Is it hours or only minutes? We’ll never know.

Somewhere in the nether regions of consciousness a droning sound becomes a conscious reality. The morning light burns our bloodshot eyes. “It must be a plane out looking for us”, we joke as we crawl from the cave. It’s no joke. A small plane circles the summit and scouts the ridges. They might as well be looking for King Kong up there. The thought of paying for our rescue is less than appealing, so we pack hastily and head for the valley below, two fugitives obsessed with but one idea – water and plenty of it. As the plane circles overhead, oblivious to our presence, we curry across the basin floor. Just as it seems that we might be able to evade it completely, the plane dives, eagle-like, and swoops low overhead with dipping wings and heads toward Aspen. It looks like that’s the last we’ll be seeing of them.

As we thrash our way down through the spruce and into the aspen, we curse our snowshoe all the while. The waters of Maroon Creek beckon. I can almost feel its iciness numbing my teeth. The blast of a whistle somehow seems inappropriate in the still air.
“Hey, are you guys all right?”
“Sure, we’ll be seeing you down at the parking lot.”
By the shores of Maroon Lake we meet two of our would-be rescuers.
“No, it’s no frostbite, just frozen boogers” Bob quips. Another quarter of a mile and we’re back at the parking lot, drinking hot tea and more than a little amused at all of the brouhaha surrounding our adventure. Andy Warhol was right, in the future everyone will be a celebrity for fifteen minutes. The snowmobiles drop us off at the car and the pieces of the puzzle all fall into place as we talk to a Pitkin County sheriff’s deputy. “We’re just doing our jobs, you know> The next time you boys plan on being gone over forty-eight hours, just let u know first”, he advices us paternally. But what’s this?!? They’re not even offering us a beer? Such cruel irony. Oh well, you can’t win them all.