Target: Lost Mine Peak
Type: Rightpoint
State: Texas

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I went to Big Bend planning to climb Emory Peak, but feeling conflicted. It’s the highest peak in the park at 7825 feet, and there is some exposure to the climb making it a genuine, if easy, challenge. But. It’s a popular destination. But. There are antennae on the top placed by the Park Service. But.

I had loosely chosen Lost Mine as a secondary target and in some ways I really wanted to do it. There are no trails to the top of Lost Mine and the summit requires a free climb. The problem is that the true summit is very difficult. Pretty much everyone goes up the east block. I’ve never actually seen a report from someone that crossed the summit block gap to the actual highest point of this mountain. I’m sure someone has, I just don’t know about it.

The conflict only existed because Emory was somewhat iconic in Southwest Texas. It was The Thing To Do and that counts for something. Fortunately (?) the choice was taken from me because Emory happened to be on fire. Or at least it was close enough that the Park Service closed the entire area. Lost Mine was at the edge of the threatened area and fire watchers were ready to evacuate it if the winds shifted. It was late in the day when I arrived and discovered all this so I scouted some possible alternative routes and then planned to make an attempt on Lost Mine the following morning.

Rising early, I drove up to the trailhead with my father-in-law. The main trail is considered easy and takes you to within a mile of the summit. Piece of cake right? However, I had heard that only ten people a year actually go to the top. As I rose higher and caught my first glimpse of the bushwhack portion I couldn’t help but wonder why. It seemed very straightforward. A simple ridge walk, to a short traverse, up a steep talus slope, to a small rock face at the top. There was some low vegetation throughout, but nothing that seemed like much of a problem. I can only laugh at how little I knew about the terrain.

I walked to the end of the trail and took some pictures at the edge of the terminal cliff. The wind was howling, but there was a clear view of the summit so I ducked into a crevice to have a snack and survey the route. The ideal place to start the bushwhack was a good half mile back along the trail, where it made a 45 degree turn to parallel the summit ridge. Backtracking, I left my father-in-law at the curve telling him I anticipated about an hour and half trip. The height of the trees should have been a clue that things were not quite as they seemed.

At first I made good time, following a game trail to the top of the first ridgeline and then down it to a saddle between the peak the trail. Here I found a dry, sandy wash with coyote and deer tracks through the bottom. Looking up I felt my first real hesitation. I saw a jagged line of high rock with dense and aggressive vegetation rising on its flanks. From afar the line seemed obvious, but now it was confusing and intimidating.

Moving higher, hoping it would become apparent as I went, I followed the impenetrable stone battling through scratching, stabbing, poking, switching plants. I knew I needed to cross to the other side of the wall but a couple of false starts led to sheer drops. Moving higher I reached a stunning, but impenetrable view of the terrain stretching to the western horizon. Despite being so early in the climb this view felt earned and special. I was bleeding from a half dozen scratches, felt alone and completely uncertain about the next steps, and yet this alone was worth the effort. Anything else was just extra.

I decided to keep moving up to where the jagged wall petered out parallel to a proper cliff, hoping that a route existed between the two. Sure enough I found that I could backtrack a bit and then drop down a steep, thick, sharp but short rock band to a narrow valley that looked like it to connected to the talus slope eventually. From the bottom it seemed like I could cut around a high stone block and push straight up. From here that seemed much less likely, so hedging my bets I pushed the long way around and made towards a long, parallel ridge line.

What came next needs a little history. About three weeks before this I had Lasik on my left eye. Tired of sweat and fog obscuring my glasses I felt like the procedure was money well spent. I was concerned about some of my favorite activities being problematic for the rather delicate seeming surgery, but my doctor assured me that I could do pretty much anything just as long as nothing seriously impacted my eye in the first three months. After that it would be healed to almost as good as new. And if I did suffer an impact i could come in right away and they could probably fix it so that no permanent scaring would be present.

Climbing towards the ridge I was pushing through eight to ten foot junipers so thick that I couldn’t see anything ahead. As I pushed back a branch it slipped over my arm and snapped directly into my left eye. The pain of the impact was intense, the sharp needles felt like they sliced my cornea. Juniper also has a dense chemical feel that makes an intense burning. Tears streamed down my face as I cupped my eye and fought down panic. I was hours from the nearest eye doctor, much more from anyone likely qualified to deal with this kind of injury. The pain doubled me over as fear stabbed deep.

Taking deep breaths I reminded myself that I had Lasik on one eye at least partially for this reason. If I had issues with the surgery I wouldn’t be completely blind, my other eye could carry me through. I knew this was a melodramatic thought even as it flitted through my mind but it made me feel better. After about ten minutes I could start to open my eye again. As the tears cleared and my vision returned there was a large, definite blurry spot at the lower edge of my vision. the eye wouldn’t stop leaking, the obscuring and clearing of my vision marking a slow, regular, painful hertz cycle.

I considered my options. I decided to keep going. It wasn’t a reckless or brave or even difficult decision. I wasn’t really hurt. Nothing that hindered progress at least. Help was beyond hope. Waiting a day wouldn’t change the outcome of the damage. I was having fun despite everything and I didn’t want to turn back.

Moving further up the face I eventually reached the ridge and started moving along it towards the summit. Spectacular views followed me to either side and I was able to appreciate them through one eye. I was hot, thirsty, half-blind, bleeding from many places, hosting a few dozen cactus needles, and itchy from sap and pine needles when I finally broke through the last trees an stood before the final false summit block. One bleary glance was enough to understand that there was no way I was going to safely climb to the top. And it wasn’t even the top. Without much trepidation I turned downhill and started my way down via the more direct talus slope.

The way back was, if anything, even more frustrating. One eye open I down-climbed a short cliff band, traversed a thick band of vegetation, and climbed the other side. Somewhere in all this I lost a trekking pole which made me feel bad, not because of the loss but because of what I added to the otherwise pristine harshness of the landscape. I didn’t notice it until much later.

Eventually I fought my way back to the trail. Instead of the expected hour and a half it had been over three hours. My father-in-law was nowhere to be seen and I realized that we had never arranged a signal if he decided to head down. I walked the half mile to the summit, feeling ragged and out of place amongst the hikers on the easy trail. Worried that I missed him off to the side somewhere I nevertheless decided that heading to the bottom was the most judicious option and set off quickly down. Another half hour found me at the trailhead and my father-in-law waiting with stories of the bear that tore through the parking lot.

The next day found me not only suffering from a blind spot, but unable to open my eyes at all. For years I had glasses with UV coating that protected me from the sun’s most damaging rays. Without those glasses, staring at reflective rock, looking up constantly at the peak, I had sunburned my eyes. I didn’t want to stop my wife and father-in-law from enjoying the park so the next two days were stressful. I could only see the world in small pieces, glimpsed strobiscopically in the moments between cracking my eyelids and them being overwhelmed by the harsh desert sunlight. Eventually I was able to open them enough to see that the blurry spot had cleared from my vision.

The natural healing of the eyes was enough to counter the damage of the snapping, biting juniper branch and all was going to be well. I didn’t make the summit but I had an adventure in the real sense. My arms were crisscrossed with burning, bloody cuts and for months afterwards I had an increased sensitivity to light, but before all that I had views and feelings that made it all worthwhile. I understood now why only ten people a year made the summit. The number who attempted it couldn’t be much higher. I hoped that all of them had a chance to appreciate the unique Texas desertness of the experience.