Descent Into Black, Part 1

Paul and I came to Colorado with plans to climb a 14er. Personally, I boasted my intention to everyone I know before leaving the flatlands. “We’re gonna climb a 14er,” I said in my braggiest of voices. Like, I’m-acting-like-this-is-no-big-deal-but-really-I‘m-hoping-you’ll-recognize-what-a-big-deal-it-is-to-climb-a-14er.

For the uninitiated, climbing a 14er means hiking to the top of one of Colorado’s 14,000-foot mountains. Since there are 53 or 54 to choose from, we were thinking it’d be a no-brainer. Paul’s previously climbed three and I have climbed one and we’re both just slightly, teensily competitive so the only requirement, really, was that we pick a 14er neither one of us had summitted before. You know. To add something new to the ever-expanding list of outdoor athletic accomplishments.

My aunt and uncle and mom and dad and I’m sure every other Colorado relative of mine who heard about this aspiration said dismissively, “Um, not in June.”

“Oh,” I’d replied cockily to my mom back in mid-May, “We’re CLIMBING a 14er, come hell or high water.”

“Okay,” she’d said with that smug, knowing little twinge in her voice. Moms.

We arrived in CO on June 2 and it snowed the very next day. Then it snowed again a few days later. When we drove over Monarch Pass (elevation 11,300 feet) from Denver, there were snow flurries. All the 14ers you can see from my parents’ home in Montrose (not to mention all of the 13ers and some of the 12ers) look like I’ve only seen them in February or March or April.

What I mean to say is, they’re mighty white.

So, being lowlanders who lack things like crampons, ice axes, mittens, a tolerance of piercing cold, or even, in my case, a decent knit cap, we started discussing other options. Of course we still wanted a challenging hike and we still wanted it to be something neither one of us had done before.

The Black Canyon of the Gunnison began to look promising.

I’d heard about the descent into Black from many people, avid trekkers and average hikers alike. My parents did it in the 1990s. My Great-Great Uncle Atticus did it in the 1940s as part of a posse searching for a runaway bank robber. The story goes that the robber buried the booty in the bottom of the canyon. He was eventually caught and imprisoned, and Uncle Atticus made the descent into Black every summer for many years, trying in vain to dig up that loot.

I’ve been visiting the rim of Black Canyon for years but never its interior. Monday morning my parents drove us to the South Rim, just 20 minutes from where they live. There are many short walks out to overlooks along the rim and you can glimpse Black Canyon’s particular splendor from many different angles. We saw abundant mountain lupine in bloom and Indian paintbrush and other colorful wildflowers.

Satisfyingly to me, Paul made enthusiastic noises about Black Canyon’s depth and magnitude. According to the website, “No other canyon in North America combines the narrow opening, sheer walls, and startling depths offered by the Black Canyon of the Gunnison.” The Gunnison River, which is largely responsible for carving the canyon over the past 2 million years, drops an average 95 feet per mile.

(I don’t really have any idea what that means, except it’s supposed to be impressive when you compare it to the Colorado River of the Grand Canyon. That one only drops an average of 7.5 feet per mile. The Mississippi - .58 feet per mile.)

After a picnic lunch on the rim and a few overlooks with my folks, Paul and I stopped in at the visitor center to inquire about climbing down to the base. I tried to act like a knowledgeable mountaineer and knew better than to use the word climb, which implies the use of ropes and harnesses and tight little shoes. I said to the Ranger Lady, “We’re looking for a good, challenging hike to the bottom of the canyon. Can you give us some info?”

She was a petite little ranger with an athletic physique. I knew I’d blown my cover when she sighed heavily and foisted out the photo album with all the scary pictures. (I’m not positive but I think the title of this photo album might be “Hikes Gone Awry” and subtitled “Stupid Urban Lowlanders Come To Colorado Looking For Adventure.”)

She looked me up and down and said with a second sigh, “It’s not a hike, it’s a backcountry scramble - an 1,800-foot vertical drop, two hours down and two hours back. There’s scree fields and loose rock and the trail’s not marked and we don’t do rescue, so if you go, you need to be prepared to self-rescue.”

She opened the book to some of the scary pictures. She pointed to one of a sheer rock wall with an 80-foot chain attached to it. “When you get to this stretch, you’re a third the way down and this is the best time to change your mind and head back if you‘re not having a good time. Some people use the chain but I don’t recommend it. I think it’s more dangerous with the chain.”

I tried acting appropriately awed and Paul asked some very intelligent-sounding questions. We learned we’d need to apply for a permit and we’d need to carry 4 quarts of water each (!) and she showed us a couple of the secret signs to look for. Then she noticed the logo on my Life Is Good t-shirt: Gotta Run.

“So, you’re a runner?” she asked with a nod to the shirt. “Yes,” I said proudly, barely restraining myself from bragging about the 6-mile run we’d done just that morning. “Well,” she conceded, “I’m a runner, too. That’ll work in your favor.”

It was as good as the ranger’s blessing for Paul and me. We’re planning to make the descent on Wednesday.