My photographic explanation of why this mountain is called "Elephant’s Perch."

It was love at first sight with me and Idaho’s Sawtooth Range. Rotten rock, mosquito bogs, and the annual July plague of biting flies: all failed to dampen my ardor. In 1971, I discovered Elephant’s Perch. It is a massive dome of beautiful pink granite (Leucocratic quartz monzonite). Its’ very clean and solid 1,200 foot high west face, is the best big wall in Idaho.

I started technical climbing in the Sawtooth Range in 1970. I was a Ketchum native and my summer job on a Forest Service fire crew in the area gave me weekends off. Unfortunately, two years after a high point in 1971 of 28 days in the Sawtooths, I found gainful employment running an outdoor store in Moscow Idaho. After that, my time in the Sawtooths became the typical "long-distance" love affair: with short visits throughout the 70’s and early 80’s.

In 1971, I learned that Fred Beckey, renowned Seattle Mountaineer: had done a Grade V route on Elephant’s Perch. Rumor had it: a convenient belay ledge capped each 150-foot lead. While climbing in the area in 1973, I spotted a line of weakness on Elephant’s Perch that I assumed was "The Becky Route." It took me two years to find the right partner for the route. Before the mid 1970’s there was no Sawtooth Range guidebook. Other than an occasional note in climbing journals, climbing history in the Sawtooth Range was all word of mouth.

Elephant’s Perch from Redfish Lake Creek. Pacydermial Pleasantries route in white.

Summer of 1975, Chris Puchner and I decided to climb Fred Becky’s route on Elephant’s Perch. Day one: we lugged large packs full of big wall climbing gear into the lakes at the base of the wall. To carry both climbing and camping gear: each of us carried two packs lashed together. These masochistic bundles of equipment exceeded 70 pounds each, and had been dubbed "Sawtooth Overloads."

At that point in my life (age 25) I had climbed one Grade V direct aid route: Leaning Tower in Yosemite. My chief background in direct aid was occasional use of it on an otherwise free climb. Chris Puchner had done a small amount of aid climbing, but he was a natural athlete, and always game for anything that entailed suffering.

Following what we thought was Fred Beckey’s classic line: we proceeded for seven slow leads up a suspiciously easy route, just north of the center of Elephant’s Perch’s massive face. (In current terms we were in the first major-crack system to the north of "The Mountaineer’s Route"). Mostly we free climbed, but on our last pitch Chris ended up doing some direct aid as well. At the end of lead seven: a nice flat 10 x 10 ledge waited below a slightly overhanging, very thin crack. Since we had brought bivouac gear, Chris and I decided to wait for morning before attacking the wall above.

During the short night: a cloud of mosquitoes raised unseen from the lakes below, and in our sleep we were both savagely attacked. I remember Chris mocking my puffy face the next morning. However bug bites on a bivy were much better than a thunderstorm: always our major fear in the Sawtooths.

The next morning we discussed our growing certainty that we were on un-climbed terrain. We felt excitement about pioneering a new route, rather than depression at not being on "The Becky Route." We always enjoyed doing something different. Thus inspired, but stiff and bug bitten, Chris attacked the aid crack above our ledge. The crack ran vertical about 20 feet to a small overhang, then continued thin, vertical, and unrelenting for a full 150 feet to where the crack finally widened. Chris went up a ways, bitched about not having enough thin pitons and retreated. I accepted his judgment and we rappelled off the route.

The summer of 1977 I was back with a secret weapon and a fantasy. The secret weapon was Mike Paine, a very good climber: who I suspected would be of great help in climbing Elephant’s Perch. I had also found more information on Elephant’s Perch and was certain that instead of repeating the Becky route: Chris Puchner and I had stumbled upon an actual new route.

The plan was to do the route with Mike, and my girlfriend Jennifer Jones, just before my 10^th high school reunion in nearby Hailey. Ray Brooks, high school social retard and non-athlete (voted most likely to be a nuclear physicist): would show up for the class reunion having just knocked off a prestigious first ascent in the Sawtooth Range. I would of course have my tanned and muscular woman on my tanned, muscular, and hopefully slightly scarred-up arm.

Once again we had to haul a huge load of climbing gear into the base of Elephant’s Perch. However, we had stashed three climbing packs full of food and climbing gear at the entrance to the canyon that goes up steeply to Elephant‘s Perch on another climbing trip into the Sawtooths, a few days before.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the place where I had hidden the packs under bark and vegetation: they were no longer there. Some searching revealed fresh bear scat with aluminum foil in it. A wider search revealed two destroyed packs, no food, and some climbing gear scattered around. Finally we found the third missing pack over two hundred yards away. It had been full of only climbing gear, weighed about 30 pounds and was intact, but covered with tooth marks. United with our gear: we were short of food, and low on water containers, but had enough equipment to proceed.

Mike Paine and I had been climbing together a lot that summer; but Jennifer had climbed not at all, since she had been off on an archeological dig in Washington. We humped our "Sawtooth Overloads" up the steep climbers trail from Redfish Lake Creek into Elephant’s Perch Valley. Then Jennifer and I spent the late afternoon on a short warm-up climb for her.

Jennifer Jones, Mike Paine – Elephant’s Perch Mike Paine leading

Early the next morning we were off and up: burdened with bivouac gear and water for a two-day climb. Mike and I swapped leads, making rapid progress up the first pitches; which had taken Chris Puchner and me a whole day two years before.

Unexpectedly, early in the day, we found ourselves back on the fine flat bivouac ledge: just below Chris and Ray’s high point of 1975. We had turned the seven leads into five leads, with my knowledge of the route, and Mike’s willingness to run out the rope. Mike had also free climbed through an area where Chris had resorted to much slower aid climbing. Directly above us, in a right facing corner: stretched the thin aid crack.

As the direct- aid expert, or more correctly, as the only person with much direct aid climbing experience: I got to lead the long, thin, aid crack. I had brought every thin piton and nut available for the aid crack: I used them all. The small overhang was not difficult to aid over; but above that the crack stayed unrelentingly thin: accepting Knife Blades and thin Lost Arrow pitons only. It finally started to widen just as I was running out of thin pitons. I must confess: my lack of aid climbing experience and the vertical wall kept me placing aid pitons more closely together than good style dictates. (The "clean climbing-throw away your pitons & use nuts for protection" revolution had occurred in the early 1970’s. We were fervent users of nuts, when possible. In this crack it mostly wasn’t possible.)

Somewhere, well up the aid crack, I ran so low on thin pitons I was forced to resort to very small wired-nuts (Copperheads) for aid placements. Some of these did not exactly fit well into the skinny crack: so I resorted to bashing them into place while nervously humming that old British ditty -- "When is a chock a peg?"

One well know fear of aid climbers is the dreaded "zipper" fall: where an aid placement you are standing on fails; then a number of placements below fail, when your accelerating falling mass "zips" them out of the crack. I was aware that below me were a bunch of fairly insubstantial nuts and pitons. Of course, one of the nuts I had hammered on popped out of the crack just after I fully committed my weight to it. Thankfully, my "zipper" fall only pulled two more pieces of aid out of the crack before the rope stopped me.

I was used to taking lead falls, but generally there was nut protection I trusted in cracks below me. Here, the little demons inside my head were chuckling loudly about my good chance of taking a huge fall, when every thin piton below me zippered. I pushed my fear into action and renewed a controlled struggle back up the crack. At almost the end of the 150-foot rope the crack widened slightly and accepted several large nuts. I felt relatively safe.

WOOHOO! I had a decent semi-hanging belay, with even a slight footrest. I had vanquished the thin, vertical, aid crack.

Mike Paine jumared up the rope to me, shared some water that I was very grateful for, and attacked the next lead. Above my belay: the crack was wider and in a much larger right-facing corner. Mike was forced to aid climb up the crack, and suffered considerably. There were two problems. First, although Mike was a great free climber, he had done very little direct aid climbing. Second, the suddenly wide crack demanded large nuts, which we did not have a copious supply of.

I had convinced myself the worst was over after my lead: but Mike’s thrashing and muttering above me indicated otherwise. However, I knew that even if Mike ran out of nuts for the crack, we had brought along "the bolt kit." This consisted of a ¼ inch drill in a steel holder and a small supply of bolts. When a climber could not find anywhere to place a nut or piton: he could always spend twenty laborious minutes hand drilling a 1½ inch deep hole, by hammering on the drill, then pound a special "Rawl" drive-in bolt into place. Although this was accepted technology for rock climbing: it was considered to be "bad form". In theory and practice, climbers could climb almost anything by "bolting their way up."

A possible slide into the low morals of using bolts for upward progress was taken out of our hands. During Mike’s struggles, the drill and holder: which had been in his pant’s pocket, worked loose. I heard a melodic ding, ding, ding, a muttered "oh shit," and the bolt kit came flashing by me. We were now limited to cracks for placing our protection.

After more struggles, Mike finally called down to me that he was giving up on the crack he was in. He wanted me to lower him from a secure nut he had placed at his high point and he would pendulum to another crack about 20 feet to our right. This was a fairly normal maneuver in big-wall climbing. I started lowering Mike back down to my belay point to make the pendulum. However, when he was about 15 feet above me he started rolling his eyes and groaning.

Mike Paine had a mild form of epilepsy from a high school football injury. I had seen him have seizures twice before, and the symptoms he was exhibiting now were identical to those starting a seizure. I knew he would instantly be fine: if he could take his medication pill, which he always kept handy. I feared he might not be able to access those pills without my help. The consequences could be horrible.

I dropped Mike to my belay quite quickly. At that point he looked at me with alarm (as he was bouncing up and down) and exclaimed: "Christ, Brooks, what are you doing? The nut I’m dangling from isn’t that solid."

I quietly asked, "You’re not having a seizure?"

"No way man," Mike replied, "The climbing harness was just killing my kidneys."

So, with that crises over: Mike was able to run back and forth on vertical rock, supported by the rope, and grab onto the crack 20 or so feet to our right. He scrambled up some lower- angle rock a few feet, put some nuts in for a belay, and I thought we were all set to go higher.

The maneuvers I would have to perform to follow Mike’s pendulum were a little complicated and put me at risk of a considerable fall onto Mike’s belay. For that reason, I asked Mike to reassure me that he had a good belay: just in case something went wrong. He wouldn’t give me any mental comfort. I just wanted him to tell me it was ok. We proceeded to have a fairly loud discussion on the subject, that ended with him shouting: "Christ Brooks!" "When is a belay, ever, really good!"

At this point: we decided to call it a day and retreat to our bivouac ledge 150 or so feet below.

By this point Jennifer had been waiting patiently on the bivy ledge for about six hours. She had been alarmed by increasingly urgent yells between Mike and me, and had early on noted the passing of our bolt kit. Somewhere in that long stressful afternoon, she decided it looked a lot like Ray and Mike might well go ding, ding, dinging, down the wall: just like the bolt kit. After that epiphany: she prudently untied from the potential mutual suicide pact that she suspected the climb had become. Securely tied to her ledge, but not to us: Jennifer had somewhat tearfully, waited for the drama to play out.

I should mention, in a 30-year climbing history, I have only witnessed one other incident where a climbing party member had decided to un-rope, before a possibly deadly group fall could occur. I was climbing in the Canadian Bugaboos in the mid-70’s with Chris Puchner. We impressed a couple of very competent female climbers with our ice-climbing abilities. They subsequently dumped the English lads they were climbing with, and went off to the Canadian Rockies to climb with us. Climbing conditions were horrible, due to recent heavy snow. In desperation, we ended up doing the tourist route on 11,100 foot Mt Victoria: which had enough fresh snow to make it "very interesting."

On the descent from the summit of Mt. Victoria, I belayed my female climbing companion down a steep, but very snowy, chimney. She exited onto a ledge and vanished from my sight. After a few minutes, she called "On Belay."

I climbed and skidded down the mixture of loose rock and snow in the chimney without ever finding a substantial hold. Several times I believed I was about to fall, but knew the rope to my partner would catch me. After a while, I reached the ledge and walked around a corner to see her tying back into the climbing rope.

She looked up and saw me, then quite calmly said: "I couldn’t find any anchors to protect a belay with." "Didn’t see any reason to die with you, if you fell."

Women are so practical!

Once Mike and Ray rejoined Jennifer safely on the bivouac ledge, all was soon better. A little food and water led to a good night’s sleep. No mosquitoes or thunder storms arrived during the night; and the next morning we woke ready to continue the climb.

Mike and I jumared back up to my high point. Mike cleaned the nuts from his pendulum lead, protected by my good belay anchors, then jumared up to his doubtful belay. With more nuts he was able to improve the anchors and pronounced it "pretty good". (Of course, if we hadn’t dropped the bolt kit we could have set "bomb-proof" belay anchors with it.) I then jumared up to Mike’s belay, while Jennifer took up my old belay station, as a safety backup.

At that point, Mike took off on the most difficult free-climbing lead of the route. It involved a delicate balance of friction and crack climbing on a very steep slab. Mike thought it was 5.9 and after following the lead with jumars, I was willing to agree.

My next lead took me into a huge lower angle chimney. When I reached the end of the rope: I propped myself into the chimney, placed anchors very carefully, then belayed up my partners. The problem was: the back of the chimney, about 5 feet below my belay, was piled with loose rock. If our climbing ropes disturbed any loose rock, those below me would not have enjoyed the subsequent projectile shower.

As I belayed up Mike and Jennifer, I coiled the rope over my legs to avoid disturbing rocks. Mike led on up, Jennifer went next, and about 1 ½ hours after propping myself across the chimney; I could finally move. I immediately discovered a problem. My left leg had gone to sleep: it was numb from the knee down.

After doing all the standard things you do to wake up a numb limb: I gradually accepted I had a problem. The leg worked; I just couldn’t feel anything with it. I climbed up to Mike and Jennifer and informed them I had a slight incapacity. Mike led the final three easier leads and we were on top of Elephant’s Perch at about 1:00 in the afternoon. We loitered around the summit for a while; then decided that if we were going to make my class reunion party we had better start down.

Pacydermial Pleasantries route in white. Arrow shows bivouac ledge. Jog to

Since my leg still had not awakened, Mike and Jennifer took most of the weight for the climb down. The easiest routes off of Elephant’s Perch are mostly walking down talus. I soon discovered I had to pay very careful attention to foot placement with my left leg: otherwise it would buckle under my weight. Despite my care, I took a couple minor falls.

After reaching our camp, we jumped in the lake for a much needed bath. Cleaner and much revitalized: we set off down the steep trail to Redfish Lake Creek. We had also picked up our backpacks and camping gear and now had more weight. Mike had martyred himself: carrying a huge amount of weight, but I had about 50-60 pounds of gear in my Kelty frame backpack. Of course, my leg was still numb. The mile or so down to Redfish Lake Creek is very steep and I had to be very careful. I took more minor falls along the way.

Finally, we hit the creek bottom and some smooth granite slabs for walking surface. In the dim forest light of early evening, I failed to see a small stick that rolled under my right foot. I lost my balance and quickly threw my left foot out to catch myself. My left leg collapsed: (it was numb-you remember) and I found myself stumbling faster down an inclined slab with the heavy backpack and gravity forcing my upper-body head first toward the granite.

About two inches before I slammed head first into the granite: the frame-extension on my pack hit the slab first. I somersaulted over into a sitting position and screamed: "That’s it!!" I think my bulging eyes nearly touched the rock just before the frame extension hit! I had been acutely aware my skull was about to be shattered like a ripe kumquat!!

It was not in my stock of outdoor trivia that a pack frame-extension could also function as a "roll bar."

The pack with "roll bar" that saved my head. Red item is a fishing rod.

There was still a delicate log to walk over Redfish Lake Creek, then two downhill-trail miles to the lake, and hopefully a waiting motorboat. After we reached the far end of the lake, we would have had a 65-mile drive to Hailey and the party. We camped right where I had fallen instead. Yes, I gave up on making the class reunion party. They probably would not have been impressed with our smelly bodies and matted hair. I didn’t have any good scars on my arms either.

Next morning we cleaned up the remains of the picnic the bear had made of the two stashed climbing packs a few days before and had a mellow walk out. My leg recovered in about six months. I made it to my 20^th class reunion.

One disappointment was: we only took one picture the second day of our climb. I have discovered that the number of pictures taken is inversely proportional to the difficulty of the route. Somehow the camera never got much use when I was suffering through an epic. I think it all has to do with priorities: for us, staying alive was more important than taking pictures.

I wrote up the route as "Pacydermial Pleasantries" for the American Alpine Journal. They published the description, but not my cool route name. I indignantly protested: since I had achieved a pinnacle of status in the climbing community with a free charter membership in the DFC&FC, as well as a paid membership in the American Alpine Club. My protest was ignored. The rumor mill told me the stuffy AAJ editor only allowed route names that were in Webster’s Dictionary, or were proper nouns. "Pacydermial" was not in Webster’s and did not make the cut.

Ray Brooks

Copyright 2003

Below is my heavily edited, by AAJ staff, route description. They even changed my first name from Ray to Raymond.

Elephant’s Perch, Northwest Face, Sawtooth Range. Chris Puchner and I attempted a new route on the northwest face of Elephant’s Perch in 1975 but ran out of thin-crack aid gear. In 1977 Mike Paine, Jennifer Jones, and I completed the eleven-lead route in two days. The route is 150 to 200 feet south of the route Bill March did (A.A.J., 1976, p455). Our route went up the right side of a huge flake, while he went up the left side of it. Raymond Brooks

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Pursuit of “Bluebonnet Tower”

    and the search for the “Crystal Cave”

By Ray Brooks

Glissading firm snow and going “way too fast,” I tripped and did a couple of fast forward somersaults. Rolling out of the second somersault, I planted my ice axe pick deep in the snow. It was a perfect “ice axe self-arrest” for about one second----then the axe ripped out of my hands, but stayed attached to my wrist.
As I started somersaulting again: the ice axe became a flail. It first smacked me a hard blow between my eyes, then in mid-roll, the spike got very close to my stomach. Somehow, I grabbed the shaft again, planted the pick a little less firmly, and managed to stop.

Gordon Williams: glissading “way too fast” on the same trip.

I had a minor scalp wound that bled wonderfully, but otherwise was uninjured. Wow, I thought: my first climbing accident!
It was mid- June of 1971, Gordon Williams, Harry Bowron, a tough little blond named Janet, and I, were descending miles of snowfields. We had just spent two days approaching and climbing an easy route up the backside of Thompson Peak, 10,776 feet: the highest choss-pile of Idaho’s Sawtooth Range.

Harry, Gordon, & Ray, Thompson Peak 1971

From near Thompson Peak: some of the more interesting technical peaks of the Sawtooths dominate the southwestern skyline. We only knew the name of one: Warbonnet. Worse yet, we didn’t know which peak was Warbonnet, but we had a new “must go, must climb” objective. I loved them all!

Peaks in upper Baron Creek drainage, from near Thompson Peak.
Soon there was a second reason for me to climb in the Warbonnet area. It was the home of the “lost crystal cave.”
I worked summers for the Forest Service in the Sawtooth National Forest, during my college years. Just after the Thompson Peak climb, the Forest Service had me haul some supplies (and a requested bottle of whiskey) up to an isolated Forest Service “Guard Station” for an old employee named Jim. I got there late and after unloading supplies: Jim invited me to have dinner with him. After food and a little whiskey, I asked him what he knew about the Warbonnet area. He was a little reluctant to talk at first, but with a “wee bit” more whiskey, he shared some very interesting information.
His father had been a horse-packer and guide for some 1930’s Sawtooth climbers. Jim explained that his father had gotten a taste for climbing, but also had found crystals.
“Crystals”? I said, leaning forward.
Jim straightened up, and nearly shouted: “yah, quartz crystals, certain spots are full of them: big ones----some are huge! There’s a bunch around Warbonnet.”
Jim’s voice got lower: “give me some more of that “nerve tonic”, and I’ll tell you a true story about my old man and Sawtooth crystals.” After taking a long deep sip of whiskey: Jim told the story. “During World War II, quartz crystals were worth good money as radio crystals. I got drafted, but my father hiked the Sawtooths and brought out a lot of those crystals. “
“Late one fall, my father was crystal hunting up in the Warbonnet area. He had to do some pretty hard climbing, but finally fetched up below a cave full of crystals.”
Jim shook his head ruefully. “Dad told me, there was a big snowstorm coming, but he climbed up into that cave anyway, even though he wasn’t sure if he could climb back down to get out.”
Jim explained that the cave had many beautiful crystals, but they were too big to carry out. All the quartz crystals were 2 or 3 feet long and weighed hundreds of pounds. His dad anchored a rope around a big one and rappelled out of the cave into a blinding snowstorm. Three days later, after many close-calls in the heavy snows, his father stumbled through the front door of his cabin.
“Dad never went back to the Sawtooths again, and I was always scared of heights,” Jim added.
Jim clapped me on the back! “That crystal cave is still up there youngster---right near Warbonnet!”
The next morning, as I was leaving to go back to my ranger station, Jim shook hands and said: “you be careful up in that Warbonnet area. My old man thought the storms up there were the worst he had ever seen.”
(Please note: collecting mineral specimens has been illegal in the Sawtooths since 1990 and quartz crystals now have no industrial value.)

Later that summer: Harry Bowron and I made a twelve-day climbing trip into the Warbonnet area.
We had some handicaps unfamiliar to many climbers these days. The only maps available did not show any details of the mountains in the area. There was no guidebook or “topos.” On the plus side, there was a good Forest Service trail and Harry, a NOLS course graduate and fearless leader, had got me “up to speed” (for 1971 Idaho) on technical rock climbing.

Our map: 1969 Forest Service map of Sawtooth Primitive Area---no USGS quads until fall 1972.
 

The first part of our 12 day trip was 2 1/2 days hiking into, exploring possible routes, and then climbing Mt. Heyburn, near Redfish Lake.

Ray on north-face couloir of Heyburn. Millet pack, REI Helmet, Stubai “Nanga Parbat” axe, 120 ft. rope. We didn’t want to get the rope wet on snow, so of course we didn’t use it until we got on rock.

We then took a day to trudge the long way into Baron Lakes, up the Redfish Lake Creek Trail. It was “a grunt” with 65 lb. loads (which were dubbed “Sawtooth Overloads”). No “freeze dried” food for us. We were laden with rice, macaroni, and beans, along with Harry’s beloved aluminum pressure cooker.

Ray & Harry at Baron/Redfish divide in July 1971. From that divide we had a close-up view of the many crags north of Baron Lakes.
 

Baron Lakes, and some of the many surrounding formations.
We hiked down to the upper Baron Lake, and next day started our climbing. For our first ascent we picked a striking tower, with a pronounced hook.

We scrambled up toward the overhanging spire, and finally roped up 30 feet below the summit. Harry made me give him a shoulder stand and later employed a RURP for an aid move. From the summit register, we learned our pinnacle was called Fish Hook Spire (now El Pima).

The first ascent had been by Fred Beckey, Pete Schoening, and Jack Schwabland in 1949 and we were only the 3rd party to climb it. I later learned that Fred had used not one, but two shoulder stands, and 3 aid pitons on the route.
From the summit, we were able to look down at the impressive summit block on another peak we thought might be the legendary Warbonnet.

Harry on Fishhook Spire summit. We thought peak at lower right might be Warbonnet.
However, looking up, I saw another tower that captured my imagination------the inaccessible monolith that later was named Bluebonnet Tower.
I might not have known its name, but I wanted it------badly!
 

Harry on Fishhook/El Pima, with Bluebonnet Tower on left at top, and Cirque Lake Peak on right.


First though, we had to deal with what we thought might be Warbonnet. Our candidate didn’t match where the Forest Service map said Warbonnet was, but it looked like a warbonnet. We smoked a little stuff, thought on the subject, and decided the map sucked and damn-it-----this peak must be Warbonnet.
 

South face of what we thought was Warbonnet, actually Big Baron Spire.

Next day, we worked up to the south face of what we thought was Warbonnet, and Harry picked one of the several steep shallow chimneys available. We scrambled to a belay platform up about 20 feet and then he grunted up about 70 feet, fighting his way past several evil little thorn- bushes. At this point a thunderstorm moved in. As the rain started, we retreated.

After that storm moved off, we worked ourselves along the base of the spire towards the east side. After a while we found a steep ledge system that went up a line of weakness on the east face. With careful route-finding: we were able to think, scramble, and occasionally stroll, all the way up to the flawless summit block, without roping up. (I looked at the start of this route again in 2007 and could not believe we climbed it un-roped.)
At the top, we discovered a flawless and crack-less 110 feet high summit block with some ancient, bent, hanger-less, ¼” bolts leading up it. We did not have the tools to climb it and scrambled back off, as the sun was setting. I did demand the rope in a couple places, on the way down.

The next day was a thunderstorm day. We alternated lazing about, with hiding from lightning, then pursuing more food: fishing, and hunting mushrooms. We had now been out 7 days, and our low-calorie diet was starting to affect our energy. We were definitely losing weight, and it was hard to think about anything but food. My journal notes that the fish were spawning and did not seem interested in our flies or lures.
The next day we addressed a challenge to our west (Verita Ridge we learned later). The three towers of a buttress dominated our western horizon and we worked our way up their south- side to a long ridgeline.
 

East end of Verita Ridge, above Baron Lakes.

At the eastern-most high-point of the ridge was a cairn with a mustard-jar summit register. It informed us that we were on the west peak of Cirque Lake Peak (the Cirque Lake Peak name now applies to the next peak to the north). We worked west up the spiny ridge to where we could look west into Bead Lakes Basin. Pinnacles were everywhere and a photo opportunity was soon found.
 

Harry posing on Verita Ridge.

After photo posing and some “boulder trundling”, we turned south towards the highest summit of Verita Ridge.
Along the way, Harry down-climbed un-roped into a notch in the ridge and took a little while figuring out moves down to a chockstone that bridged the gap. He then stood on the car-sized chockstone and gave directions as I down climbed. The final direction was: “don’t put too much weight on that handhold: it’s loose!” There was no other handhold, and little for my feet. Of course I pulled it off, and dropped 6 feet butt-first onto the chockstone. The handhold followed and hit me on my helmet.

Other than some butt bruises, no harm was done. I was a little jumpy the rest of the day and we got back to camp earlier than expected. Still thinking of nothing but food: I went fishing. Eureka! Two 20” Cutthroat trout for dinner: helped a lot with the “calorie deficit.”

Full stomachs also improved our morale a great deal and we decided to try another route on “our Warbonnet” early the next morning.

We were out of camp at first light and hiked and scrambled up lines of weakness on the northeast corner of “our Warbonnet” (Big Baron Spire) until we found a wide ledge that took us well out onto the north face. Along the way, I found a perfect 4” x 8” quartz crystal. It was a ‘good omen” and we carefully buried it, then hiked on up.
Maybe the “Crystal Cave” was above us?

our quartz crystal, “on ice”

We had scouted the start of this route two days previously, and we were both impressed by the possibilities. Our rope-up ledge was about 500 feet above the start of the steep north face, and above us stretched an invitingly low-angled area that led up to vertical headwalls.

 
We enjoyed seven 120 foot leads to the summit block. After four leads of lower angle rock, the route took off up steep cracks. Harry improvised aiders and aided up part of one pitch. I couldn’t clean and follow it free, but he felt bad that he had not “gone for it” and led it free. After we arrived at the “flawless summit block,” once again we stared up at the bent hanger-less bolts. An approaching thunderstorm chased us down before we could think how to try the ancient bolt ladder.

The Warbonnet/Baron Lakes area is notorious for frequent and vigorous summer thunderstorms. On the 1949 first ascent of the Big Baron Spire bolt ladder: Fred Beckey, Pete Schoening, and Jack Schwabland had major problems with thunderstorms for three days. The climax storm nearly killed them during an epic retreat: through rain, hail, and very close lightning strikes, from the “work in progress” summit-block bolt ladder. Although both Pete & Jack were injured as rain sluiced them off the mountain, they climbed back up the next day. They eventually placed 20 ¼” bolts on their way up the summit-block.
On both our ascents, we kept our eyes open for “the crystal cave” but never found a clue around our route, other than the one perfect crystal and some broken fragments.

Approximate locations of our 1971 routes on Big Baron Spire (our Warbonnet). On the left is the route we scrambled to the summit. On the right is the “North Face cutoff”

 
The next day we departed for another three days of Sawtooth Adventures to the south and east. However, that winter we learned that the true Warbonnet was several miles north of our “imitation Warbonnet.” The peak we had done two new routes on was “Big Baron Spire” and was also called “Old Smoothy.”
Where could the “Crystal Cave” be?

I was not able to search for it again until August of 1972. In 1972, Harry Bowron and I had planned on climbing in the Sawtooths all of July and August. However in mid-June Harry was offered a job as a Middle Fork Salmon River boatman. He explained to his would-be employers that he would love to take the job. However, if he accepted: his climbing partner would hunt him down and kill him. No problem: they would also train me to be a river guide too. We accepted, and I never regretted the lost climbing time.

After the float season was over, in late summer 1972, Harry Bowron, David Thomas, and I went into upper Goat Creek on the south-west side of Warbonnet in the Sawtooth Range. No trail goes into Goat Creek. On the way in we climbed another big peak in the area: Packrat. From its summit we were able to figure out where Warbonnet was, and how to approach it.

Harry Bowron and David Thomas: looking across at east-ridge of Packrat. It was a scramble, with the rope used only on the steepest part.

This time, we had no problem figuring out what peak was Warbonnet. We knew there were climbing routes on it, but beyond knowing Warbonnet was within our capabilities, we had no idea of where the established routes were.
 

View is northeast to Warbonnet at upper right center, with Cirque Lake towers to right.

At the time, Warbonnet, 10,200 Ft. had a reputation as one of the most remote and difficult peaks in the Sawtooth Range. It is still considered a remote technical climb, with the easiest route to the summit rated 5.4.
The next day, we climbed up to the high saddle on Warbonnet’s southeast side and decided to climb directly from there towards the summit. After scrambling up a ways, we had two leads of easy roped climbing with the route- finding taking us out onto the east face. We went diagonally up and north, toward the huge summit overhangs, until we finally came to hard climbing.
 

East Face Warbonnet with our “approximate” 1972 route in white. The white line ends at the chimney that splits the peak.
 

Ray on an early lead.

We arrived at a good ledge with much steeper rock above us. Harry was convinced two jam cracks that went up a very steep slab would take us somewhere. He tried climbing the slab free and backed off, then aided up the cracks to where the angle lessened. He went back to difficult (5.8?) free-climbing, up to a cave right under the huge summit overhang. The cave turned out to be a giant chimney that splits the summit of Warbonnet..
I remember some difficult free climbing, with a pack on, getting off the slab and into the chimney. After that, it was no problem.
 

Harry’s aid lead onto easier slabs, below the cave.


Harry leading in the giant chimney that splits the top of Warbonnet.


A view out the west side of Warbonnet from the “giant chimney”

The chimney took us to a big belay platform, just before the final lead to the summit.
Ah yes! Was the chimney------“the crystal cave?” Unfortunately, there was no sign of crystals, although we did not descend into the much deeper west side of the chimney.

The summit lead was a “little bit airy” but I lead it without difficulty. My old notes mention there was one bolt for protection in 60 feet of climbing. I disapproved of the bolt, but clipped into it.
I would rate our route as 5.8 A1, but I think it would go free at a 5.9 or low 5.10 level.
 

David Thomas rapelling off the summit of Warbonnet, 1972.

The next day Harry and I climbed a nice route on one of the minor pinnacles on the west side of our valley. I mention it because we thought it was a “first ascent” and we named the pinnacle “Mayan Temple,” since it looked like one. We scrambled some of its east face, then enjoyed 3 pleasant leads to a striking 15’ high summit block.
 

Ray at top of “Mayan Temple.”


On our way out we ran into Louie Stur, who was: “the godfather” of Sawtooth climbing. We told him of our adventures and he made note of the “first ascent of Mayan Temple.” Unfortunately, when the climbing magazine, Off Belay, did a Sawtooth Guidebook article in 1975: “Mayan Temple” was the new name of a nearby and much more formidable mountain: previously named Japan Peak.
 

Looking south from Warbonnet into Bead Lakes basin.


For four summers, 1973-76 I did not return to the Warbonnet area. I was running an outdoor shop 300 miles away in north Idaho and discovering climbing in North Idaho, the Cascades, Canada, and even Yosemite. My mentor Harry had married, spawned babies, and was “a pale shadow of his former climbing-whiz-self.”

What about Bluebonnet Tower and the Lost Crystal Cave? They both gnawed at my soul. Would I ever find them?


Finally, summer 1977, I was back with two friends. Mike Paine, was a very good climber, and Frank Michaels, was always willing to give it a try. We packed “Sawtooth Overloads” up from Redfish Lake into Baron Lakes on day one. Day two we examined options and decided that the first order of business was to free the 1971 route that Harry and I had done on what we now knew was Big Baron Spire. We now knew about the Beckey bolt ladder on the summit block and we were ready to deal with that as well.

North Face Bypass route, Big Baron Spire. Follow low angle slabs up into the steep area, then escape up cracks to right.

We fired up the route. To start, Frank led a steep slab with a grassy crack up the middle with the help of his Chouinard Alpine Hammer pick placed firmly in the sod-crux. A very-stinky dead marmot nearly forced a retreat, but we solved the problem when Frank grabbed it and tossed it off the north face.
Mike danced up the aid pitch, free. I followed and cleaned, while Frank happily jumared. Mike and I later agreed it was a 5.9 fist crack. More steep, but well protected leads followed.
 

Fritz leading “pleasant cracks” high on Big Baron Spire.

All too soon, we were at the overhanging summit block with Fred Beckey’s bolt ladder. I had time to open my pack and get out the ¼” hangers and nuts, and strap on the “bolt kit.” About then, a thunderstorm filled the sky and we retreated. It was a close race off the mountain, but we beat the storm back to camp.

The flawless summit-block of Big Baron Spire, from El Pima (Fishhook Spire)


It appeared we had hit a storm cycle in an area noted for thunderstorms. The next day started with a thunderstorm, but cleared shortly after. It was time to go deal with the tower that I had seen from Fish Hook Spire in 1971, and to search a little more for the “Crystal Cave.”
We worked our way high, up to the west through swollen streams and areas covered with rock fall from recent storms.
Then I saw it.
 

The tower I had chased since 1971.

Mike, Frank, and I climbed higher, and worked our way through route finding difficulty. The top part of the climb was on unusually choice choss. Two poorly protected leads with some 5.9 got us to the summit. Another difficult, obscure, but highly insignificant: Sawtooth first ascent was mine!

Climbing higher, the improbable began to look possible.
 

Fritz following near the chossy crux.

From the summit of--------wait-----this was a first ascent right??? We got to name it. Seven years of searching for this obscure pinnacle. I must have a name worthy of its grandeur. All I could think of was: “Bluebonnet.”
You won’t find it in any of the Sawtooth guides. I have not shared it publicly until now.
But why, you may ask, did we name it Bluebonnet Tower? It just seemed “fun” at the time.
We then took care of the second of two mysteries, in one day. From the top of “Bluebonnet Tower” we could see an area of reflected late-afternoon light one-half mile south. Could the reflections be from crystals?
Within an hour, we were working our way up through an area of large loose rocks and debris. It was obvious that this area had recently broken away from the face above us. We started finding big fragments of quartz crystals. Then we found what was left of “the crystal cave.” It appeared that its roof had broken and fallen: destroying most of the crystals. Some impressive, but battered, and dirty specimens remained in a dark tunnel that went up steeply. It was a dangerous area. Rocks were falling on us from unstable cliffs above.

Large broken fragments of quartz and feldspar crystals in the destroyed “crystal cave.”
 

It then started raining, and lightning was striking higher peaks, as we retreated down to camp.
That night, the worst thunderstorm of my life hit our corner of the Sawtooths. The lightning bolts worked the surrounding peaks, then started hitting and exploding trees closer and closer to camp. After initial “oh shits” on every close strike, we all burrowed into sleeping bags and dealt with terror-----each in our own way. I always preferred whining and shaking, as opposed to a previous alternative: moaning and wetting my sleeping bag.
Next, the wind from the storm hit and started blowing over snags near our camp. Marble-sized hail slammed into us, and then a pole broke on our tent. We held together the tent as the hail changed to heavy rain. In between thunderclaps, we could hear massive rockfalls off the surrounding peaks. Finally, the storm departed, but we were too wet and scared to sleep well.

After sleeping late into the morning, we dragged our soggy sleeping bags out of the tent and tried to dry ourselves out. There was some minor flooding in camp: but otherwise, we had survived the storm.
I was drawn back up to “the crystal cave” while Frank and Mike packed up for our hike out. I could not find the cave. Massive rock falls covered the area we had looked at the day before. More storm-loosened rock kept crashing down on the same area.

 
I finally found one small crystal: that somehow survived, under a large tottering boulder. It too would soon be smashed: when that boulder fell, so I saved it and carried it a short distance away from the landslide. Later: I did a solo trip into the same area, with minimal gear, wandered around places that were significant to me, and then carried the crystal to a safe home.


Ray today, with “small crystal” he saved in 1975.

In 2007 a group of us went into Baron Lakes on a trip we titled “old farts trying to recreate past glories.” Our younger “rope rocket” friend hiked in a few days later. The weather “sucked.” (after 36 years, you would think I would know the weather often “sucks” there.)
 

The “old farts” and Kim. Bluebonnet Tower, Fishhook Spire, and Big Baron Spire in background.
Chris, Heidi, and I tried the original Beckey route on Big Baron Spire and got hit by a snowstorm, with a little lightning mixed in.

Chris & Ray posing on the Beckey Route on Big Baron Spire, just before the snow hit. Yes that is a 1973 Vintage Ultimate helmet on me.











We all enjoyed some high mountain exploring, in between storms. Finally, we “knocked off” a first ascent on an another obscure tower to the east of Baron Lakes, with our “rope rocket” Kim leading the way.

Ray, Dorita, & Kim on top of----oops we forgot to name it!
Weather for our last full day looked great. Kim wanted to climb a 5.10d crack route on Big Baron Spire. No one wanted to belay and be dragged up, but I hiked up there with her and Heidi.
Later we hiked rough terrain over to where “the crystal cave” had been. Nothing remains but large broken rocks. Nice view though! Both Kim and I then scrambled up very loose and dangerous rock to a high saddle and an awesome view into Goat Creek and peaks further west! (danger and scenery at the same time-I still love that adrenaline fix!)

Landside at right: that buried “the crystal cave.”
“The Crystal Cave” is buried. The best new routes are all climbed. It is a long hike into the area. Lightning storms are “frequent and vigorous.” A lot of the rock is “choss.” The fish are seldom biting, but wood ticks, carnivorous-flies, and mosquitoes are: usually biting.
No reason to go there anymore;<)
I will repeat: collecting mineral specimens has been illegal in the Sawtooths since 1990.

 

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