The snow melted, the ice turned to trickling mountain streams, and I returned to Mitchell Peak—with my brother this time.
His feet were already blistered and the six mile hike to the base of the mountain didn’t help.
We took the peak in chunks, pausing every few hundred feet too look at clouds or the fossils in the rocks. His breath came in gasps. I offered to turn back but he said no.
The summit was a pile of boulders after a short scramble, and here were turned and saw the Cirque of the Towers, a climber’s mecca. Beyond, the rest of the Winds, many of which by now I had climbed.
Lizardhead meadow below was peaceful, accessible by a short drop of two thousand feet. We spent a few minutes at the top, then began the long hike back.
Read more of the Climbing the Winds saga:
Travel, Adventure and Romance 