Sheri and I were headed to Big Sky for our niece’s wedding and we decided to go north up early and bag Granite Mountain, the highest peak in Montana. I’d already done Granite so I started searching for nearby peaks to climb as well. I stumbled on Pilot Peak and it grabbed my attention…hard.
It’s a cliché to say a mountain is “the Matterhorn” of this or that range. Like Ama Dablam is the Matterhorn of the Himalayas. Why is the Matterhorn the standard of alpine beauty and inaccessibility? Well, just look at it. If you need more explanation than that, you aren’t a climber. Pilot Peak looks like the Matterhorn of Wyoming. It’s form is irresistible to a climber. That isn’t completely true. While the desire might be there, the skills might not be. I found the easiest route, the only route, up the mountain was rated 5.6/7. That’s a range where I might solo it except that the route was supposedly very loose. No way I’d solo something like that. I needed to recruit a partner and reached out to my long-time partner Homie.
Homie is the most knowledgeable peak bagger I know. Yet, he hadn’t heard of this peak. Why should he have? It’s only 11,699 feet tall. He did some research of his own. The peak isn’t climbed often. On his favorite peak-bagging site, Lists of John, there were no recorded ascents. His interest increased. With the prospects of Granite and Pilot Peak, he didn’t hesitate at all. He was in.
Granite went well and we rested and prepared for Pilot. We had a reasonable route description, but the details were sparse, left as an exercise to the climber. Knowing how well prepared Homie always is, I abdicated my responsibility of collecting the route information even though this was my idea. Homie didn’t let me down.
I did know the rough line of the approach to the peak, which always looks reasonable when looking at a 2D topo map. Seeing the terrain directly in front of you is quite a different story. We started hiking right out of town, at 7600 feet. After two hundred yards on a steep 4WD road, we broke left onto the Woody Creek Trail. We followed this for a couple of miles and a thousand vertical feet. This trail was marked on my Gaia map but not very accurately. We were looking for a fork in the trail and once we passed by that point, at least according to Gaia, we wondered if a faint branch lower down might be it. We reversed back to that point and soon the trail and Gaia synced up.
This trail just stopped on my map so we were expecting the end. The trail dropped us into the creek bed, which was a hundred feet wide and carpeted with smooth river rocks. The stream itself was minimal and we crossed back and forth looking for the smoothest passage. After a mile we arrived at the confluence of the creek draining the basin below Pilot Peak and its companion Index Peak. Both of these peaks are spectacular.
We headed east, towards the basin, following the creek on more creek-bed stones. We passed what looked like a couple of cairns, but we couldn’t be sure due to the tremendous effects of the flooding that struck this area. This was the same flooding that devastated Yellowstone National Park, which lays just west of this area. Soon the valley turned into a gorge and then nearly a slot canyon with a waterfall blocking further progress. Now what?
I’m not big on retreating. It’s not so much determination as laziness. I didn’t want to go back and try another way if there was a way forward. There was. It was up an incredibly steep slope to the south. This would lead, eventually, to a high ridge where we could traverse over a couple of intermediate sub-summits to Pilot Peak. We knew gaining the ridge would be loose and somewhat dangerous and maybe even impossible at this exact location, as we couldn’t yet see the slope above us due to the dense trees.
We continued up, blindly, determined to make treeline and assess the situation. Once there, the view was daunting, at least initially. After some study, we could see a couple of possible routes that might go. The slope was very steep and consisted of what could only be called a rock soil. The rocks were all loose and the climbing was stressful, delicate, and dangerous. We moved like we were rock climbing, picking out each foothold carefully and placing our feet gently, so rocks wouldn’t break free. We climbed parallel to each other instead of behind to minimize rockfall danger.
We made steady careful progress and eventually got into a rock gully that was mostly solid. Further up, we broke out onto grassy tundra which would normally be considered risky at this angle in dot-rubber approach shoes, but compared to what we had been doing it felt very solid. Gaining the ridge was a relief. We knew we could approach the peak from here albeit with some work. The first peak loomed ahead and we continued along the rocky ridge, side-hilling around any gendarmes. At the top we took a well-needed break to eat and drink. I was surprised to find I had a cell connection — something we didn’t have down in town. I sent Sheri an update on our progress.
Pilot Peak stood guard at the end of our ridge. It looked…difficult. But that was part of the appeal: a mountain that looked extremely hard, yet was only 5.6/7. We started down from the summit of our sub-peak and in just a few minutes, I slipped on the loose ground, threw out my arm to get my balance, and sliced a flap off the heal of my right hand on the sharp rock. I tried to stop the blood with the sleeve of my shirt. I slipped a second time and nicked my left hand. After my third fall, I pulled out my gloves to protect my hands. I’m a slow learner, but I do learn.
Homie had no trouble on this terrain and led the way. Eventually, I tried to stick directly on the ridge. This proved much nicer for me. Though it was steep in spots, the rock was pretty solid here and at least I didn’t have to fight the slope. The sides of the ridge were steep, loose, and thousands of feet down. It is truly an impressive position.
When we got to the base of Pilot Peak, the north aspect of the peak completely blocked the ridge. This spire was clearly unclimbable for us and maybe anyone not named Ondra. I asked Homie which side we’d traverse around, as both sides seemed equally improbable. We went on the west side. It looked horrible and I steeled myself for a miserable, dangerous traverse, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked and we made good progress…until we went around a corner.
The route ahead looked ridiculous. I’ve traversed rock climbs that were less steep and way more solid. My first thoughts were to abort, but Homie forged ahead. Well, if he thought it was doable, I thought, I need to pretend it looks reasonable. Again, we moved forward like we were rock climbing instead of hiking. The consequences of a fall or a slip here could be fatal. I wasn’t sure where you’d stop if you slipped, as it didn’t seem possible to stop yourself since the terrain would be coming down with you.
We got around this section only to meet something even more exposed. This was true scrambling but more serious than most of the Flatiron scrambling I do. I led this time, slowly, gripped. Around the corner things were better and I hoped we’d soon find the start of the roped climbing. We might have used the rope earlier if there was hope of any gear.
We ascended a loose scree field to the base of the wall and traversed hard back to the left, looking for a break. The wall above was steep and either unclimbable or much harder than the 5.5/6 start we were looking for. I was in the lead and got to a corner where it seemed foolish to continue. Homie looked on the right. No dice. I swallowed hard and decided to venture around the corner to seek the start of the route. I inched around very carefully. There was reasonable footing, but I was worried about every handhold, every foothold collapsing under me. A mistake here would end things. Hence, what would be trivial scrambling on solid rock, got my full attention. Once around the corner, I ascended into a small bowl and found a crack that matched our description. Now I had to reverse back around to notify Homie. And then do it again to start the route. Before starting up the route, Homie would read the description again and we’d realize that this traverse was actually part of the first pitch.
In the exposed bowl, we geared up and decided to leave our packs, as we’d descend the same way. I could find no anchor, so I told Homie to not tie into the rope or belay me until I got a solid piece in. If I fell off, I didn’t want to pull him with me. The start was steep but only for about twenty feet and probably only 5.6, but, again, I had no gear and didn’t trust anything until I pounded on it with my hands or kicked it with my feet. I moved deliberately and tested every single hold. I found solid gear, placed a cam, and Homie had me on belay. I put in a second solid piece and moved up into the bowl above where I found a fixed sling — our first sign that people had been here before.
I continued up and left, passing a short, steep, but easy wall onto low angle terrain and up to a flat ledge. I put in a single piece (the only one I could find) but it was solid. Homie joined me and I continued up and left for two more pitches. This was easy going. In fact, most of it was just walking on loose ground with short sections of scrambling. I was looking for the crux pitch and had some trouble locating it. I didn’t realize where it was until I was fifty feet by it. I put in a piece to belay Homie, who was already simul-climbing, and when he got to the right location he stopped and I reversed back to him. Things were about to get very interesting.
I climbed a steep wall for twenty feet with no protection. The technical difficulties were moderate and the holds seemed solid, though I tested and re-tested each one, acutely aware of how far from help I was and the consequences of a fall. Once above the wall and into another small bowl, I spotted a crack up and right and made a beeline to get in some protection. Once the gear was placed, I was puzzling out how to continue when Homie called up, “Hey, you’re supposed to exit that bowl on the left.” I looked left and it did look climbable, but I wasn’t sure about the gear. I pulled my only gear and downclimbed a bit and to the left, where I found a solid piece. The next twenty feet would be the crux of the climb.
The rock here didn’t look great. Five feet out from my piece, I tried to place another cam. I fitted it into a crack and then gave it a tug. The rock to the left of the piece moved. It was no good. I removed the cam but then noticed that the huge piece of rock, to the right of the crack, was loose as well. In fact, it was too loose for me to safely continue. The rock was the size of a microwave and just moving by it might cause it to come loose. I was afraid it might cut my rope. I called down to Homie that I had to trundle this rock. I told him to move as far away as he could, though, since I had moved left of where I started, I thought this rock would land well to his left. I pulled it off and it plummeted, hitting the wall and bouncing towards Homie, landing right where he was initially belaying and shards barely missed him.
Fifteen feet out from my only piece, I placed a 2-cam #0.5 and a 2-cam #3. I didn’t think either would hold. I wouldn’t have weighted them if I was aid climbing unless a solid bolt was just below. There isn’t a bolt on this entire mountain. I tried hold after hold, either rejecting them as insufficient or too likely to break off. I knew I could not fall and I was determined to take as long as it took to make myself nearly positive that I could do the move and that the holds wouldn’t break. I wrestled with this situation. Was this too risky? Was it worth it? If I fell, I’d certainly rip my gear. Maybe the one solid piece would stop me before I hit the ledge where Homie belayed. I might be able to survive that fall, but I wouldn’t be going anywhere under my own power. Even if the piece held and I didn’t hit the ledge, I’d be hurt. Maybe hurt enough where I couldn’t get down without help. Unprotected 5.7 climbing isn’t a big deal for me, though it will have me very focused, but unprotected climbing at any grade where I have very little confidence in the integrity of the rock itself is terrifying.
Rock climbing like this is such a strange thing to do for recreation, for fun. It’s no wonder that so many people think climbing mountains and rock climbing is the definition of misery and an insane thing to do for fun when you could play tennis or golf or sit on the beach and sip exotic drinks. Why would anyone put themselves, willingly, into a situation where they know they will be afraid and possibly in real danger? Climbers get this and in fact most people can understand why some can’t resist this challenge. Homie would comment later about the phrase, “Well, at least he died doing what he loves.” That isn't how we want to go. If you die while climbing, you screwed up. We like to think we know what we’re doing. Did I know what I was doing here? I wasn’t sure. I take calculated risks all the time and I could die with some of those risks. Heck, people take risks, though likely not calculated driving their car while messing with their phones. But, as I said, I’m reluctant to turn around. I’d done so much work just getting to this point. This reluctance to turn around might be an asset to a professional climber, but I think isn’t such a good quality for a mediocre climber like myself. What’s the point of taking such a risk for a 5.7?
I moved upwards, gingerly, focused. I searched out holds that weren’t edges, as edges can break. I eschewed anything too positive for pulling off an entire block. I kicked aggressively at any foothold I wanted to use. If it was going to pull off, I wanted it to happen before I committed to it. I got through the steep section and onto easier ground. There still wasn’t any gear, but I saw a crack above and moved easily up to it. Once there, I could see around the corner to the left. There was a mess of fixed gear there: a piton (the only one on the route), a fixed nut, a threaded sling, assorted other tat, and a biner. The entire climb I was concerned how we’d get back down. The only anchor I’d seen so far was that sling atop the first steep section. Homie had seen another fixed sling a bit above where I had climbed as well. I was prepared to leave gear, including cams, to descend safely, but that wasn’t my first choice. Seeing this anchor, I knew we could at least descend back to the ledge, where, if we had to, we might be able to down climb to the sling Homie spotted.
I clipped in and put Homie on belay. He made short work of the initial steep section, though he found it a lot steeper than he originally thought. He traversed over to the crux section, noticing the fresh rock scar from my trundle. Once at the crux, he called up, “Keep the rope tight.” He’d later tell me that two or three times during the climb he had a foothold fall off after he moved off it. That’s unnerving. I kept the rope taut.
As Homie ascended, I was noticing the darkening skies. A squall was brewing and there was no way it would miss us. Homie was keenly aware of this. He thought he heard thunder on the previous pitch. When he arrived at the belay, he mentioned the weather and concern etched his face. I knew he was on the verge of calling for a retreat. I could read that plainly in his eyes. I wasn’t unconcerned, but I had invested so much and I hadn’t heard thunder or seen lightning. Not yet, at least. Before he could think any longer, I pressed. “Let’s tag this summit and get out of here.” I re-racked and Homie put me on belay.
The last pitch of note was a steep 5.7 chimney, but the rock was bomber compared to everything else. I placed three solid pieces and only struggled with a flared jam at the very start. I found a rappel anchor on top, though the sling was in tatters. I called down the good news to Homie (neglecting to mention the tatters). He swarmed up the pitch, faster than I had led it, spurred onwards by the threatening clouds now above us.
Once up, I sent him onwards to the summit, along the summit ridge. He passed two sections without placing any gear, then clipped the anchor on top and kept going on easy ground to the very summit. By the time he got there, I was simul-climbing, though most of this pitch was walking. We slapped a high five and took some photos before scurrying back to the rappel anchor. We found no summit register.
Homie is rock solid in the mountains. He knows what needs to be done and he does it. He never cuts corners either. He makes me a safer climber and I’m thankful to have him as a partner and a friend. He brought some accessory cord on this climb, expecting to leave it behind to either backup anchors or create new ones. He also brought a knife, which was necessary to not spend all the cord on one rappel anchor. At this first rappel, we threaded two reasonable slings and I went first.
Back at the tattered sling atop the chimney, we used Homie’s cord and cut off just what was necessary. Down I went, as the wind picked up and skies started spitting at us. The next rappel was the mess at the top of the crux pitch. It looked okay and down we went. Although the climbing was easy below, we stayed roped and I led downwards, putting in a piece whenever I could find a location, so about every fifty feet.
On the second pitch of downclimbing, I was struggling to find the anchor that Homie had seen. At first, I traversed too high. I had to retreat back and try the next ledge. All the while Homie is out of sight, around the corner, and above me. He was stressing. Why wasn’t the rope moving, he thought. Bill is normally quick with this and now, when we need to be as efficient as possible, the rope isn’t moving. I knew what was going through his mind, as it would have been going through my mind as well. On the ledge below, I spotted the sling around a huge boulder, perched on the very edge of a crumbly ledge. That had to be it and I traversed over to it, clipped into a sling in such bad shape that I thought I could have pulled it apart. I immediately put in a cam between the boulder and the ledge to back it up and started reeling in rope.
When Homie joined me, he immediately got out his cord. There was no chance either of us was going to trust this sling. We had just enough to get around the boulder. In fact, we tied it a bit long, so that it hung below the tattered sling. I instinctively threaded the rope through both slings, thinking two is better than one. But now, when I weighted the rappel line, I’d also weight the tattered sling. As I did so I told Homie, “Okay, I have to remember not to freak out when that sling breaks and I drop three inches onto our new cord.” I cringed and weighted the rope. The tattered sling held. Down I went, but I noticed that Homie wasn’t clipped to the boulder. He thought if the sling broke and I shock-loaded the new sling, the giant boulder might be pulled off the ledge. He didn’t want to go with it. Everything stayed in place and while I struggled with a tangle on a ledge below, Homie adjusted the new sling to take my weight first.
I almost got back to our packs on this rappel but was ten feet short. I had to stop at the first fixed line I had clipped at the start of the climb. Luckily this was in a cave of sorts and I was sheltered a bit. When Homie arrived, he rightfully didn’t want to trust a single sling, despite it looking quite good. I used four of my slings to back it up and sent Homie down first. As he descended, the lightning flashed and the rain and graupel hit us hard. I pulled off all my gear and piled it away from me. I huddled in the back of the cave, but the wind was so strong that it blew the moisture straight sideways directly at me. My marginal rain gear was located below, in my pack.
I called down to Homie and suggested that we wait out the worst of it. I feared getting on rappel with the lightning cracking. I called for a 5-10 minute break and we each huddled in our respective caves, me forty feet above Homie. The storm did ease after maybe five minutes. The fixed sling held Homie, so I pulled my slings and descended down to Homie. We agreed that roping up the first part of pitch one, the part we had soloed on the approach, was the smart move now that the rock was soaked and the wind was so furious. Homie led, placing a couple of pieces, and I followed around the corner.
Once there, the storm stopped. Or at least paused. I wasn’t sure we’d seen the last of it and I knew we had lots of dangerous ground to reverse before we’d be safe. We switched back into our approach shoes and stripped off our harness and stowed our gear. I was able to get Sheri an update on our situation and told her we were probably five hours from getting back to town.
We carefully reversed ourselves back to the ridge and then down the ridge to the low point. Now, instead of going back over the peaks on the ridge, we dropped down steep, loose, 4th-class terrain into the giant cirque below Pilot and Index Peaks. We took different ways down this section, each trying to find something that would go safely. We both succeeded. Below we stopped to eat and drink and even shed some clothing. It seemed the storm was done.
We descended into the bowl and followed the creek until it became slot-canyon-like. We crossed to the west side, hoping to eventually intersect our ascent route to the ridge. Here we found a faint trail and followed it down for hundreds of feet before losing it at the creek. We crossed to the other side, hoping it might be better for descending, but avalanche deadfall forced us well away from the creek. We found an old mudslide and followed the hard dirt lower and lower, eventually back to the creek. We crossed over, again hoping to intersect our ascent route and traversed the very steep hillside, into and out of steep, loose, flood-torn ravines, sometimes following game trails, sometimes not. We never did identify our ascent route, but we crossed over it at some point. We found our way clear down to the initial rocky creek bed. We followed that for a mile, regained the trail, and were back at the car by 7:15 p.m., 12.5 hours after we’d left.
This was a significant adventure. Once down, Homie likened it to Mt. Alberta and Shiprock. I’m not sure I agree, but that isn’t too far off. It was much shorter than Alberta and maybe as dangerous. It was much more dangerous than Shiprock but not nearly as technically challenging. It was the hardest summit I’ve done in Wyoming, but that isn’t saying that much, as I’ve done few peaks in Wyoming, but my ticklist does include the Grand Teton and Gannett. I’m sure that will entice others to give it a try and completely understand that, but I won’t recommend it. It’s just too dangerous to recommend. If you haven’t heard of this peak before, if you haven’t seen this peak before, count yourself lucky and forget about this trip report.
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