Winter Solstice on Mount Elbert

A Journey up Colorado's Highest Peak

I’ve always enjoyed the change of seasons, maybe because I grew up in Pennsylvania, where I experienced all four. Don’t get me wrong, I love Hawaii’s weather, but doesn’t it get old after a while? As I’ve aged, I’ve come to appreciate the symbolism behind the change of seasons too: the hope, rebirth and growth of spring; the vitality, abundance and action of summer; the transition, reflection and release of autumn; the introspection, rest and resolution of winter.

On December 21, the Northern Hemisphere observed the winter solstice, the official start to the season. It marks the point when the Earth’s tilt is farthest from the sun, resulting in the shortest day and longest night of the year. While it’s the peak of darkness, it brings the return of light. It’s a time of endings and beginnings. It’s a time of balance and harmony.

Last Saturday, my partner Candice and I celebrated the winter solstice by climbing Mount Elbert, the highest peak in Colorado and second highest in the lower 48 states, standing at 14,433 ft.

Both of us, accomplished endurance athletes, have summited multiple Colorado 14ers—peaks in the state that rise over 14,000 ft; however, neither of us had ever done so in winter. Even in the summer, 14ers are taxing due to significant vertical gain and high altitude. At 14,000 ft, the air contains 40% less oxygen than at sea level, a problem even for experienced and well-trained athletes. Throw in the steep, rugged terrain and unpredictable weather, and you’re in for a real treat.

And then there’s winter climbing—an entirely different beast. Extreme cold and wind, snow and ice, avalanche risk, shorter daylight hours, and route-finding. Higher physical demands, extra equipment, heavier packs, and moving at 1 mph.

However, the greater the risk, the greater the allure. While I’m drawn to the mountains in the summer, there’s something different about them this time of year. Snow-capped peaks take on a new persona. The same mountains that seem approachable in June, July, and August transform into remote, harsh, and unforgiving landscapes in December, January, and February. It’s as if they’re telling us to stay away.

We eyed the weather all week, looking for the best window to summit. Fortunately, Saturday the 21st, the winter solstice, was the day with the highest temperatures and lowest winds. The night before, we laid out our gear, food, and water, ensuring we had everything we needed. We opted for 30L backcountry packs instead of our usual 12L vests, giving us the ability to pack layers, gloves, hand and foot warmers, microspikes, and other cold weather necessities.

The next morning, we left Candice’s place in Leadville, drank our coffee and ate our oatmeal in the car, and parked at the South Elbert Trailhead. A few days earlier, I had seen Anton Krupicka’s trip report on Strava, where he’d climbed Elbert’s East Ridge from Twin Lakes. Both of us had summited Elbert in the past, but not via that route; however, since Anton had recently done it, we knew it was relatively safe.

Many 14ers have different routes for summer and winter. Summer routes are designed to be the quickest, shortest, and most direct. Winter routes are designed to avoid the dangers of avalanches, gullies, and steep faces in favor of safer ridge lines. Just because you can see and follow the tracks left by a previous hiker, never assume they knew the correct route. They could’ve been traveling to a different spot.

Deep snow forced us to park farther away, adding 1.5 miles of rolling, rocky road to our approach—a welcome warmup before the real work began. We shed layers as we worked our way up to the treeline, but not without sinking knee-deep in punchy, loose snow. The inefficient footing expended energy, but we were continually recharged by sweeping mountain vistas. We passed a few fellow hikers, all giddy with gratitude, soaking up a delightful day in the high alpine.

When we reached the top, we were in disbelief, as if standing on the summit for the first time. A range that had been hidden during our ascent suddenly appeared. As the Haitian proverb puts it, “Behind mountains, there are more mountains.” While it encourages us to persevere and embrace uncertainty, it also reminded me of the image of two miners—one turning back just a strike away from hitting diamonds. You never know what’s on the other side—there’s always something beyond the visible horizon. As my buddy Ryan says, “Resistance is strongest before a breakthrough.”

We split a 6oz chocolate chip walnut cookie from the world-famous (cult classic) Levain Bakery, a Christmas gift my mom had sent Candice, and cherished the crowdless summit on a bluebird day. During our descent, we shared hops water and stories as we took turns postholing, navigating, and glissading. We accepted the absurdity of the situation and laughed at ourselves and each other, even as we fought daylight. The 6.5 miles back to the car felt like a slog, but went a lot faster with a little bit of humor.

We showed up at our favorite spot in Leadville, Treeline Kitchen, with eyes bigger than our stomachs. We ordered enough food for four, devoured meatballs and fries, and exchanged photos and videos from the mountain. We returned home, took an epsom salt bath, hit the hay, and were ready to do it all over again in a few days.

The seasons are a powerful reminder of impermanence and renewal. They nudge us to honor the natural flow of life and to recognize that we, too, are part of the eternal cycle of growth, change, death, and rebirth. Whether we’re embracing the new beginnings of spring or enduring the trials of winter, each phase has its own unique significance and wisdom.

“We are in the habit of imagining our lives to be linear, a long march from birth to death in which we mass our powers, only to surrender them again, all the while slowly losing our youthful beauty. This is a brutal untruth. Life meanders like a path through the woods. We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.” - Katherine May