Redemption on La Plata Peak
Gear Missteps, Emotional Struggles, and the Push to the Summit in a Race against Daylight
On December 29, my partner Candice and I attempted to climb La Plata Peak, the fifth highest mountain in Colorado. We were unsuccessful in summiting, but took valuable lessons away from the experience. If you missed that post, No Cherished Outcomes, check it out below.
We felt defeated after La Plata. The mountain chewed us up and spit us out. Even Headsize Burrito, the pseudonym for the experienced 14ers.com legend we’ve come to revere, who summited the day we didn’t, battled according to his trip report. The harrowing outing made two things abundantly clear. We needed better gear and we needed to start earlier.
My ratty Oboz “waterproof” boots I got in 2019 before a hut-to-hut hiking trip in the Alps with my buddy Thijs weren’t going to cut it. Candice’s extra pair of running snowshoes she found in her closest that I used for the day weren’t either. Even with better boots that would keep our feet dry, we needed them to stay warm, a problem Candice ran into earlier in the week during her solo ascent of Mt Elbert, which resulted in frost-bitten big toes. Ouch.
On top of footwear, we needed headlamps. We carried our lights during our first attempt, but neither of us wanted to descend in darkness, which is why we turned around near 12,750’ at 2:30pm. However, after realizing how long the full route would take, it became apparent that we’d finish after sunset, even with an alpine start.
Candice ordered Scarpa boots in a few different sizes and models for us to try as neither of us knew what to look for or how mountaineering boots were supposed to fit. We stumbled around her house in Leadville, laughing at each other and how ridiculous they looked on our feet. What were we getting ourselves into?
We woke shortly after 5am, were out the door shortly after 6, and arrived at the trailhead shortly after 7; however, we were greeted with an unexpected and unpleasant surprise. The parking lot was covered with a foot of fresh snow. Luckily, Candice had a shovel in the car, so I dug out a spot and warmed up before our real workout began. We effortfully put on our boots, figured out how to use the new snowshoes, and left the trailhead an hour later than we hoped, eerily passing an abandoned two-wheel drive car that had gotten stuck in snow the day of our last attempt.
From the first step, my heels slid in the new boots. A minute in and I was already in pain. Great. I messed up and didn’t try out the boots with the snowshoes. I broke the golden rule of racing—never do something in a race you have not practiced in training. While this wasn’t a race against other people, it was a race against the clock, against daylight. We were already behind schedule due to the unforeseen shoveling at the trailhead so I was even more hesitant to say something to Candice. I have a high pain tolerance, but going all day like this would’ve been unbearable. Luckily, she sensed my discomfort, encouraged me to stop, and threw in hand warmers in the back of my boots to provide a buffer and prevent chafing. It wasn’t a perfect solution, as my heels were still throbbing, especially when ascending, but it would have to do for today. When something’s wrong, it’s better to fix it as soon as possible instead of prolonging the suffering and likely making it worse.
We had barely started and had already run into unexpected issues. Is this a sign? To make matters worse, there were no tracks or trench to follow. Again, the fresh snow had complicated things for us, especially once we got to 11,500’ and were in the thick of the trees.
Do you see the trail?
Does it go left or right?
Are you postholing over there?
We had 300’ to the treeline, but it felt like an eternity. Only two miles in, I was sweating in negative temps, struggling to dig myself out of waist-deep powder, and expending precious energy I knew I’d need later. Should’ve brought my snorkel! When I moved out west, I quickly learned I could no longer gauge effort by mileage. I had to go by elevation gain and loss. Candice kept us on the invisible trail until we reached the notorious headwall. Ah, we meet again.
I led the way up the near-vertical rocky face, feeling confident after having some practice on it the previous week. Even with the heel lift engaged on the snowshoes, my achilles and calves were on fire, worked from the constant pressure and irritation felt when climbing in gear not suited for me. I violently dug the teeth of my snowshoes in, one small step at a time, until I reached the top of the headwall, where I waited for Candice. Knowing she was out of her comfort zone, I encouraged her. “You’re doing great, babe. You got this.” However, I should’ve known my audience. Words of affirmation make both of us uncomfortable. I was cheering her on with a compliment, but it didn’t land in the way I’d hoped. She didn’t appreciate being told job well done for doing a job she didn’t think was well done.
As she hammered her ice axe, her watch’s incident detection alert went off and notified her emergency contacts. Although there was no emergency, this added excitement to a situation that didn’t need more. Literally and figuratively on edge, we snapped at each other at top of the headwall and proceeded to eat salami roll-ups in awkward silence. We enjoyed a moment of stillness, apologized after acknowledging that emotions are heightened in intense situations, and dreaded what lies ahead.
We rode the rolling ridge with our snowshoes on until I had the not-so-brilliant idea to suggest abandoning them at 12,820’, a hundred feet above our turnaround point last time. From the saddle, the ridge to the summit appeared to primarily be exposed, wind-blown rock and crunchy, hard-pack snow. Why carry the extra weight, right? We tucked our snowshoes under a rock and carried on; however, soon found out there was still a lot of snow (postholing). Now too high to fetch the snowshoes, we inched forward, heads down in despair but up with hope, wishing the summit was closer than my Garmin was indicating.
It was now 2:30pm, the time Candice and I turned back the previous week. The winds were picking up and the temps were dropping. Candice made the call to bail on our previous summit attempt and I didn’t want her to have to pull the trigger again. I knew she was cold and uncomfortable, so I sheepishly asked, “Do you want to turn around?” According to my altimeter, which we later found out was giving bad data, we had another 1,000 vertical feet to the summit.
Candice, as stubborn as me, replied, “I just want to get up this section.” My question lit a fire in her. She picked up her pace and spirit and led the way, knowing we were almost there. Now on trail and in her element, she powered through the switchbacks to the summit that stands 14,344 ft in the sky. At 3:45pm, we finally reached the top of La Plata, seven and a half hours after we left the the trailhead. We took a few photos, split frozen Christmas cookies, layered up, and began our descent to escape the roaring, whipping winds, knowing we only had a little more than an hour until sunset.
On our way down, my hands started to get cold, something Candice had not seen before as I’m typically a furnace and am known to sleep with the bedroom window cracked in the middle of winter. Candice gave me her mittens with fresh hand-warmers then proceeded to tell me her fingers were turning black. Uh, okay? Here was a woman with Raynaud’s, who had gotten frostbite earlier in the week, whose hands were literally freezing, selflessly offering her warmer mittens and precious hand-warmers.
Despite being in bulky boots, dehydrated, in a caloric deficit, and afraid of losing fingers, she once again, powered through. Feeling threatened and understanding the severity of the situation, she tapped into something inexplicable. She became a mountain goat in its natural environment, descending flawlessly and intuitively, a contrast to the hard-fought ascent where she doubted her footing. I followed her as closely as I could, in awe of her Gumby-like flexibility and agility.
It was freezing, blustery, and we were losing daylight. While there were issues to address, food to eat, and water to drink, we needed to get down immediately. We intellectually knew we’d be descending in darkness, but it was only until the sun tucked behind the Sawatch for the night when we came to terms with that reality.
It was around then that I also accepted that no one was coming to save us—at least not anytime soon, not today. By tomorrow, or the time Search and Rescue arrived, there’s a good chance we’d have frozen to death. Some Aron Ralston, big-boy shit. This sense of urgency propelled us down the mountain as we slid down the snowfield instead of slowly navigating the safer switchbacks.
From the summit, we reached the top of the headwall in about an hour, just as the cloud-covered crescent moon illuminated the sky, providing a false sense of security. As we turned on our headlamps and mentally prepared to tackle the steepest part of the mountain in darkness, I smirked and asked Candice, “Is this a date?” With the actual security of crampons, she flew down the crux of the route, now relieved to be protected from the harsh elements and La Plata’s wrath.
At the base of the headwall, we once again, put on our snowshoes. Since it was already pitch black at this point, we kicked our feet up, sipped from our hydration packs, nibbled on snacks, and laughed at the absurdity of our reality.
We traversed the trees, this time having our own tracks to mindlessly follow. With a headlamp, your vision is limited and your focus singular. It forces you to not get distracted or look too far ahead, but instead to pay attention to what’s right in front of you. After hours of surviving the mountain’s fury, the freshly fallen, sparkly snow in the forest made us both smile. We had our fair share of obstacles, some before the day even began, but we persevered and were rewarded with nature’s beauty. God, is that you?
What makes people go after audacious goals? What motivates humans to climb mountains when everything is telling them not to? What separates the best in the world from everyone else? These are just some of the questions we pondered as we inched our way toward the car after an eleven hour ramble in the high alpine. The way back always seems longer than the way out—maybe because the excitement of a new day’s adventure has worn off, we’re exhausted from fighting gravity, and the thought of being horizontal in bed can’t come soon enough.
We didn’t see a single person all day until the Leadville Grill and Cantina. We stumbled in, ravenous, and were curiously asked what we did in the mountains, apparently showing visible signs of wear and tear. “La Plata?! In the winter? Weren’t there crazy winds and avi danger this week? That’s a no from me, dawg.” Half-asleep in the restaurant booth, we ate our bodyweight in Mexican food. Proud.
“Those guys climbed La Plata!” Our waitress, a local familiar with the area, gave us high praise as she shared the exciting news with her coworkers. We felt we had done something special, but know we knew it.
We pulled into the driveway, grinning at what we had accomplished. I felt like I had lived a year in a day. Thoreau’s quote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” popped into my head. It’s sad that some will never experience the richness of life we did today, I told Candice. “I mean, I was quietly desperate today,” she joked.
Heraclitus once said, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” I now know no man ever climbs the same mountain twice.
Adam, reading your story of perseverance on La Plata Peak immediately brought me back to my own experiences summiting Mt. Kilimanjaro, trekking to Everest Base Camp, and my days in adventure racing. I could almost feel the ache of blistered heels, the sting of biting winds, and the relentless grind of pushing through the pain. It reminds me of a mantra I hold dear: pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.
Your recounting of La Plata struck a chord—not just because of the physical challenge, but the mental battle that came with it. Both Candice and yourself faced the mountain, it wasn’t just about the summit. It was about adapting, learning, and recalibrating lessons that echo the spirit of adventure and grit. If it’s not the boots, it’s the snowshoes. If it’s not the clock, it’s the cold. Yet, you both pressed on, knowing the mountain demanded respect. By the way, I have gone through the same growing pains with new boots that tire up my heels.
Like you, I’ve had my share of unplanned detours and hard-earned victories. And yes, the lessons learned in failure are just as significant as those earned at the summit.
Candice even though we have never met but have been chatting for years. Your determination, even in the face of frostbitten toes, and your selfless act of giving up your mittens, embodies the kind of partnership that makes these adventures extraordinary. As I read, I couldn’t help but reflect on the camaraderie and trust that adventure builds whether on a high-altitude climb or in the midst of an endurance race.
Latly, your closing thoughts on the richness of life struck me deeply. Heraclitus’ wisdom rings true: no man ever climbs the same mountain twice. Each ascent changes us, shapes us, and leaves us a little different than when we began. That’s what keeps us coming back—the challenge, the transformation, and the fleeting moments of clarity that only the wilderness can provide.
Thank you for sharing this incredible journey. It’s a testament to resilience, humility, and the indomitable human spirit. Looking forward to reading more about where the mountains—and life—take both of you next. Let me know when your both ready to tackle one of the 7 summits.
Best,
Joseph
Beautiful read! So cool to get to dive into your experience because even though we did the same mountain, together, we had uniquely beautiful and different renderings of it (though many similarities too of course). Loved every bit of this read and the vulnerability of expressing the hardest moments of the day 🩵