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Authors: Donn Fendler
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Rockies. I arrived back at the base camp in mid-afternoon and promptly fell asleep.
âAbout 7:30 that evening I strolled over to the Rangersâ tent to inquire about the other trails that ascend the mountain, their location, length, and so forth. We had talked scarcely ten minutes when a young boy, in the most exhausted condition I have ever seen, came running down the trail.
âIt was some minutes before he could speak to tell us that a twelve-year-old boy was lost on the tableland, a 40-acre plateau, high on the mountain-side!
âWithin fifteen minutes, the Ranger and I, along with four others, were winding our way up the six-mile-long trail. A short way up, we met the lost boyâs father, who supplied us with more detailed information. He said that he, with his two sons and another small boy, had started to climb to the summit of the mile-high peak. The youngsters raced ahead, and Donn, the missing youth, had turned to go back to his father but had lost the trail.
âWith cheery assurances that we would return with the boy in a few hours, the searching party continued on up. Darkness fell upon us shortly before we reached the tree-line where we found two fellows camping for the night. Here we paused for a brief rest.
âFar below in the blackness a light burned, the only sign of human habitation in the vast wilderness, and also the signal that the boy had not been found. Two lights would have called us back. One light spurred us on. Above us, shrouded in heavy wet clouds, lay the tableland and still above that, rose the peak.
âWe started again. From here on, the climbing became increasingly difficult. Irons driven into stone provided us with hand and footholds to assist us over otherwise unscalable boulders. The clouds enveloped us in a penetrating dampness, the wind increased, a light rain fell, and the rocks became slippery, thus slowing our pace. The sides became steeper and seemed to fall away on each side into mist-filled bottomless pits. I shuddered to think of the little ladâs possible fate.
âWe reached the Gateway, the beginning of the tableland, before 10 oâclock. To reach this point in daylight, the average climbing time is two and one half hours. We had made it, in pitch darkness, in less than two hours!
âHere we split into parties of two and spread out, fan-like, over the broad tableland. We flashed our lights in the scrub, under huge boulders, over rocky crags, and between great splits in the rock, calling out for the little fellow constantly, and straining against the wind to hear the feeble cry that never came.
âIn all my life, I have never been in a more desolate place. The wind was blowing 40 miles an hour or more. The temperature hovered around 40 degrees, although I could swear it was less. My hands had grown numb from the cold and I swapped my flashlight from one hand to the other. Rain and sweat ran down my face. My shoes, stockings, and pants were covered with mud from searching through rain-drenched grass and brush.
âMy feet began to ache. My legs ached. My back, my kneesâI ached all over. My heart set up a terrific pounding in my ears. I was wretched. I thought of the Indians and their God of Evil, Pamola. Surely, Pamola reigned on his lofty throne that night.
âWith lights that stabbed the fog and darkness a mere twenty feet, we worked our way along the rim of the tableland to the edge of the Saddle Trail. How the Ranger, Dick Holmes, knew the way in that sea of blackness, I shall never know. We went down over the edge. The trail was made up of small stones, sharp and jagged, and offered insecure footing. We slid and fell too many times to relate.
âIt was after midnight when we finally reached another Rangersâ cabin on the other side of the mountain. To our disappointment, there was only one occupant of the place, who promptly arose and gave us hot coffee and food. The young fellow sleeping there quickly dressed
âAbout 7:30 that evening I strolled over to the Rangersâ tent to inquire about the other trails that ascend the mountain, their location, length, and so forth. We had talked scarcely ten minutes when a young boy, in the most exhausted condition I have ever seen, came running down the trail.
âIt was some minutes before he could speak to tell us that a twelve-year-old boy was lost on the tableland, a 40-acre plateau, high on the mountain-side!
âWithin fifteen minutes, the Ranger and I, along with four others, were winding our way up the six-mile-long trail. A short way up, we met the lost boyâs father, who supplied us with more detailed information. He said that he, with his two sons and another small boy, had started to climb to the summit of the mile-high peak. The youngsters raced ahead, and Donn, the missing youth, had turned to go back to his father but had lost the trail.
âWith cheery assurances that we would return with the boy in a few hours, the searching party continued on up. Darkness fell upon us shortly before we reached the tree-line where we found two fellows camping for the night. Here we paused for a brief rest.
âFar below in the blackness a light burned, the only sign of human habitation in the vast wilderness, and also the signal that the boy had not been found. Two lights would have called us back. One light spurred us on. Above us, shrouded in heavy wet clouds, lay the tableland and still above that, rose the peak.
âWe started again. From here on, the climbing became increasingly difficult. Irons driven into stone provided us with hand and footholds to assist us over otherwise unscalable boulders. The clouds enveloped us in a penetrating dampness, the wind increased, a light rain fell, and the rocks became slippery, thus slowing our pace. The sides became steeper and seemed to fall away on each side into mist-filled bottomless pits. I shuddered to think of the little ladâs possible fate.
âWe reached the Gateway, the beginning of the tableland, before 10 oâclock. To reach this point in daylight, the average climbing time is two and one half hours. We had made it, in pitch darkness, in less than two hours!
âHere we split into parties of two and spread out, fan-like, over the broad tableland. We flashed our lights in the scrub, under huge boulders, over rocky crags, and between great splits in the rock, calling out for the little fellow constantly, and straining against the wind to hear the feeble cry that never came.
âIn all my life, I have never been in a more desolate place. The wind was blowing 40 miles an hour or more. The temperature hovered around 40 degrees, although I could swear it was less. My hands had grown numb from the cold and I swapped my flashlight from one hand to the other. Rain and sweat ran down my face. My shoes, stockings, and pants were covered with mud from searching through rain-drenched grass and brush.
âMy feet began to ache. My legs ached. My back, my kneesâI ached all over. My heart set up a terrific pounding in my ears. I was wretched. I thought of the Indians and their God of Evil, Pamola. Surely, Pamola reigned on his lofty throne that night.
âWith lights that stabbed the fog and darkness a mere twenty feet, we worked our way along the rim of the tableland to the edge of the Saddle Trail. How the Ranger, Dick Holmes, knew the way in that sea of blackness, I shall never know. We went down over the edge. The trail was made up of small stones, sharp and jagged, and offered insecure footing. We slid and fell too many times to relate.
âIt was after midnight when we finally reached another Rangersâ cabin on the other side of the mountain. To our disappointment, there was only one occupant of the place, who promptly arose and gave us hot coffee and food. The young fellow sleeping there quickly dressed
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