Christmas, 2024, my wife presented me with Metallica tickets. This was a double-edged surprise, because not only would I be seeing a band that I’ve loved since I was a kid, I would be going to Colorado to see them... and for various reasons, (including a new little baby girl!), I, a lover of all things Colorado and mountains, hadn’t placed a foot on a mountaintop (heck, hadn’t been above tree line) in several years. You go out a few days early, in your truck, my wife said. Your daughter, my parents, myself... we’ll meet you in Denver.

Initially, I set my sight on Crestone Peak, a mountain that’s lived in my head for years since it’s turned me around twice. Then I decided... no. I needed to, for lack of a better expression, get my feet back under me when it comes to hiking and climbing. In other words, I wanted to give myself the best odds to make it to a summit. I’m from Arkansas, after all. These opportunities in Colorado come along once a year at most. Another failed attempt, another trip to the Rockies without a summit, and I might start to believe my days as an Arkansas-born mountain goat were over.

After I decided no go on Crestone, a few thoughts rapid-fired through my head: I could return to Leadville, my original home away from home, base camp of so many of my favorite fourteeners, and complete some unfinished business in the Sawatch... Lake City... Creede? I enjoyed a short visit to Creede a few years back... Isn’t there access to San Luis there? Isn’t San Luis supposed to be beautiful?

With this in mind, I set out. I thought my first destination was Creede. I figured I could get the Tundra up to the West Willow Creek 4x4 trailhead, summit San Luis, and then make for the Leadville area to get Missouri or Huron. But plans have a way of changing, and somewhere around the Texas-New Mexico border, it occurred to me that so many of my drives home had taken me by the Spanish Peaks... How many times did I find myself looking out the window or windshield at those two prominent behemoths wondering what it would be like to climb them? So why not see what the higher of the two was all about?

I spent a night in Raton, woke up early the next morning, and set out for Cordova Pass. The dirt road to the trailhead wasn’t bad; a few sections will rattle your fillings, but nothing more. The trailhead was obvious, and since I was getting an unusually late start (by my standards) of about seven a.m., I didn’t need any sort of light. The first couple of miles were exactly what I needed: a pleasant hike through the woods, a few switchbacks to gain some elevation, but nothing strenuous. Shortly before reaching tree line, I found myself at a corner in the trail looking down at the cloud tops, and I couldn’t help but smile and send a pic to my wife: This is why I love this stuff. And that last mile was also exactly what I needed: steep class-2 boulder-hopping and route finding with a top-out that seemed like it was never actually going to happen, except it did, and just a little over two hours after setting out, I was alone atop West Spanish Peak, a mountain that I’d seen from afar for years, so many times. And... I was on top of a big darn mountain! And I felt good! Except for wandering off route for about ten minutes on the way down (easy to do on this mountain; watch carefully for the cairns), my experience on the west peak was about as good as a day on a high mountain can get.

I left the La Veta area for Alamosa, stocked up and got some rest, and set out for Creede. My plan was still to do San Luis... but... plans changed again. I enjoyed an afternoon in Creede and did indeed get my Tundra easily to the West Willow Creek 4x4 trailhead. But the weather was bad. I wasn’t feeling great. And I didn’t have a good feeling about the hike.

Huron it is, I thought, and I got back in my truck and made for Winfield.

After nearly an hour of having my guts churned and another filling or two rattled out, I arrived at Huron’s lower trailhead. I knew my truck would make it to the upper trailhead, but I was fairly exhausted with bounding up (and down) these alleged roads and didn’t see any need in inflicting further torture on either my truck or my guts/teeth just to save half an hour of what proved to be rather flat, pleasant walking.

I slept in the bed of my truck at Winfield; the alarm went off at four; and by 4:30 I was hiking up the last of the approach road with my flashlight and hiking pole. Because, somehow, after well over a decade of hiking and climbing dozens of the highest peaks in the lower 48, I’ve yet to graduate to the elite ranks of headlamp and trekking poles.

Huron is in my top two or three fourteeners in terms of aesthetics. I’m not sure which 12er or 13er it is that you see as you’re coming up the 4wd road, but rounding a bend and beholding that mountain in the first light of morning is a heck of a way to start a hike... and it’s one of the things that fueled me as I struggled with fatigue later in the hike. Because I did struggle with fatigue.

My legs, I suppose, were still feeling West Spanish Peak, and maybe it was after the seventy-fifth or ninety-second switchback... I lost count... But somewhere on Huron’s higher flanks, I looked up and saw what seemed like endless switchbacks (truly, Huron, I love you, but that’s all you are is switchbacks) and a summit (not quite the summit) that seemed so darned far away.

“Remember,” I said aloud, “these things are never as easy as they look in pictures, and they’re never as hard as they look in person. Keep going. You’ll get there.”

And I did. Those endless switchbacks passed much quicker than I thought they would, and the steeper almost-scrambling for the last hundred feet or so wasn’t bad at all. Clouds were rolling in, so I made quick work of the summit: a quick snack, a few selfies, then down. The almost-ominous clouds proved to contain nothing but a breeze and cold mist. By the time I was back in the meadow, things were as pleasant as they could be.

In summary, West Spanish Peak was 13er number five for me, and Huron was 14er number 28.

I don’t know if I’ll get them all. Honestly, I don’t care. It’s the mountains and the pursuit of them that I love, after all. For now, it’s just good to see some mountaintops again.

(Oh, and Metallica rocked.)