The grimy and over-labored workers of the small mining camp of Buckskin Joe took solace in few things. The miners drudged to find the hidden treasures beneath the granite, the prospectors scoured the land for the promise of riches… but at the end of a hard day these men knew they could reconcile their struggles by watching a ballroom girl dance. Fluttering fire expelled from dim oil lamps illuminated her as she would foxtrot and waltz for those who cared to look. In the dim light, her lustrous silver dancing shoes glistened like the ores the miners yearned for. These alluring shoes earned this popular dancer the epithet Silverheels.

* * * * *

Something about the commencement of the warmer climbing and hiking season always burdens me with overconfidence. This year was no exception. I had a closing shift scheduled where I work, which—for me—spans from 4PM to 1AM. Somehow, my brain took that information and decided it’d be sublime to drive out to a trailhead immediately after that shift and attempt to be on a summit for sunrise. If you’re a follower of this blog, you may remember that this has happened before, when the Overcast Adventures summited La Plata Peak at sunrise. We paid a hefty emotional and physical toll for such.

Choosing to not remember this, I found myself rushing towards Hoosier Pass for an attempt of a centennial thirteener (the thirteeners within the hundred highest of Colorado’s peaks) directly after the aforementioned closing shift. With no idea of what I was getting myself into, I arrived at Hooiser Pass at 3:20AM. Hey, yeah! I’m not that tired, I thought as I crossed the gate and began to hike uphill.

This should be fine! Darkness veiled the way forward, broken only by my headlamp and lighthearted spirits.

* * * * *

A smallpox epidemic swept through Colorado around 1861. The virus marked its more fortunate victims with blisters and rashes and its less fortunate victims with tombstones and burials. As the disease swept through Buckskin Joe, many of the women and children retreated to Denver, but not Silverheels. She used money she had amassed while she worked as a dancer to attempt to bring in doctors, nurses, and treatment for the afflicted townspeople. Her charity came at the cost of her health, however, when smallpox invaded her body. She survived, but retreated to her cabin at the base of the unnamed mountain that rose to the east of Buckskin Joe.

As the epidemic was slowly controlled, the townsfolk of Buckskin Joe decided they wanted to repay Silverheels for her valiant philanthropy. They raised several thousands of dollars, but when they showed up at Silverheels’ cabin to surprise her, she had vanished without a trace. Speculation suggests that she left after the disease scarred her face, before the townsfolk had time to gather funds to pay her. After the whole ordeal, they decided to name the looming mountain over their town Mt. Silverheels after the altruistic, enchanting dancer.

* * * * *

The path to the radio towers at timberline meandered gently upwards and I only took pause to attempt to capture the nighttime scenery with long exposures.

The waning moon shed light on the western terminus of Hoosier Ridge: the rocky pathway I needed to traverse to reach the north spur of Mt. Silverheels.

Gaining the ridge, the way became tedious with its ups and downs, but I eventually located the turn and started the descent from Hoosier Ridge to the connecting saddle that would lead me to the north face of the mountain. By this time, I could tell I was not going to be on the summit for sunrise. Vulpine oranges tickled at the Prussian blue horizon, promising a sunrise.

Just beyond traversing the nadir of the saddle, alpenglow began to paint the peaks to my west.

The mountains blushed as the rosy sunlight kissed their summits.

From the saddle, the remaining 1,100′ of elevation gain served as a discouraging gut-check. My legs began to ache as I began the long final push.

* * * * *

Years later, after Buckskin Joe had succumbed to the loss of its nearby precious metals and subsequent workers, not much of the camp remained. Residents who stayed reported sightings of an ominous woman wearing a grey dress with a black veil walking among the graves of the old town, placing flowers on those who had died of smallpox. Was it her? Did the veil conceal the maimed face ravaged by smallpox’s claws?

* * * * *

The higher along the face I staggered, the steeper the grade became. The face was often loose and irritating to ascend.

I slowed down more and more until I hit the summit ridge. Here, temperamental gusts quickly dropped my body temperature. I layered up and arduously finished the remaining several hundred feet of vertical.

Only here was Silverheels’ face unveiled to me, and even with the scars of erosion and human activity, she was beautiful. From 13,822′, I soaked in the views of the South Park Basin to the south and the myriad peaks to my north.

I snapped photos before huddling inside the summit wind-shelter in an effort to raise my body temperature.

Rejuvenated by my break, I gathered my belongings and prepared for the descent. When I reached the turn for the north spur, I headed to a snowfield to assess glissading options. The snow on the edges was soft, and I prepared to have a go at a fairly long run. As I began to slide down, the snow quickly turned from soft to bulletproof; I managed to keep from careening with my microspikes.

This was fortunate, because in only that approximately fifty feet of sliding, I managed to tear my pants—through a protective padding. Had I lost control and not had on my microspikes, I could have easily slid another four hundred feet and gotten seriously injured. I opted to use the spikes to walk down the snowfield instead of the loose, scree-laden mess I had ascended.

The remainder of the excursion was uneventful apart from the suffering one experiences after a lazy off-season. The added uphill of re-gaining Hoosier Ridge from the saddle was onerous and slow. Any uphill on a descent is obnoxious and I cursed myself for being out of shape. The morning light complemented the bright perennial wildflowers that littered the alpine.

I realized as I got back to my car that I’d had the mountain all to myself that morning. The only others to be seen were friendly tourists in the parking lot asking if the trail I had just come from “lead anywhere.” Don’t all trails go somewhere?

Until next time, stay adventurous!