Colorado’s private 14er

Editor’s note: This is the final installment of a multipart series launched by Aspen Journalism in 2025 on the long history of public lands in the United States. This piece follows a gap in reporting due in part to a lengthy permit process required to climb the only privately owned 14er in Colorado.

The mountain stands out on a rolling alpine ridgeline bounded by a high desert that defines the Colorado-New Mexico border. The peak and much of the surrounding land are privately owned and strictly regulated. Culebra Peak is the only 14er (which is shorthand for a peak over 14,000 feet) in Colorado not on public lands. That doesn’t diminish its appeal to bucket-list climbers hoping to summit all of the state’s 54 14ers, but it reduces hiker traffic on a summit that, as a result, has no trail and no signage. 

Hikers must apply for a permit well in advance, and only 20 are permitted on three designated hiking days per week — when the summit is open, which is not year-round. Reservations are accepted in December for both winter and summer climbs. Winter climbs start the first weekend in January.

Journalist and book author Ted Conover, an old friend, waited two years for the permits for our hike this past June 12. We learned about Culebra during a visit I paid him at his trailer home in the San Luis Valley in the summer of 2024 when I suggested we climb the peak that’s visible from his trailer home, only to discover that it’s part of a large private  property, known now as Cielo Vista Ranch.

“How can anyone own a 14er?!” we wondered, “and what does that mean for public access?” This lingering question intrigued Conover to make a summit bid, so he applied in January and won spots for three. Conover invited me to take one of them.

The bridge

Conover is the author of “Cheap Land Colorado” (Knopf, 2022), a book about life off-grid in the San Luis Valley, specifically the central part without trees that locals call “the prairie” or el llano. Our third hiker, Lance Cheslock, is former executive director of La Puente, a nonprofit that serves some of the poorest counties in Colorado. La Puente translates to “the bridge,” connoting the social support and charitable connection that offer a unifying context to an otherwise disparate population.

The three of us gather the day before our planned ascent at Cheslock’s home — a few miles south of Alamosa — where we enjoy the comfortable shade of Chinese elms while sipping smoothies and listening to birdsong. We watch Cheslock’s dog, Ollie, lap peanut butter from a plastic container after performing tricks for us visitors. Conover and Cheslock became friends in 2020 when Conover volunteered at La Puente to gain an insider view of prairie life as part of his book research. His job was to deliver firewood and a variety of donated supplies to poor off-gridders, a role that put him in the crosshairs of valley residents, sometimes literally.

Conover credits Cheslock, who gave 30 years to solidifying La Puente, with growing the fledgling charity into an ambitious program with an annual budget today of $6 million that “offers a range of services to the poor: a valley-wide network of food banks and social enterprises such as a coffee shop in Alamosa and a used-clothing store.” Most of those people live in the valley’s main towns—Alamosa, Monte Vista, Fort Garland, Antonito, San Luis. But a few years ago La Puente noticed that the population of rural off-gridders had grown significantly. “We need to be out there,” Cheslock is quoted in “Cheap Land Colorado.” “We should have known this long ago,” he says of pervasive social ills. “But like everyone else in the community who drives on paved roads, we hadn’t paid attention.”

In “Cheap Land Colorado,” Conover opens with an apt description of the unpaved territory that harbors on-the-fringe lifestyles: “The San Luis Valley still looks much as it did one hundred, or even two hundred years ago. Blanca Peak, at 14,345 feet the fourth highest summit in the Rockies, overlooks a vast openness.” 

In his book, Conover conveys a mystique that surrounds the prairie, a high-altitude desert where harsh nature is a sobering influence on the many human populations that have transected here over the centuries. Today it remains one of the most barren, isolated and demographically diverse landscapes in the American West, and is a rare place where acreage has been and still is available on the cheap.

Cheslock, like many of La Puente’s clientele, was attracted to the region by the allure of land. “Ten thousand plots of land are ten thousand potential dreams,” Cheslock is quoted in “Cheap Land Colorado,” where the prairie becomes a contemporary frontier for pioneering seekers of solitude and housing security. La Puente’s challenges include helping settlers survive frigid winters, torrid summers, unemployment and marginal social support.

Having spent three years in Haiti working for Habitat for Humanity prior to his arrival in the valley, Cheslock is well acquainted with poverty and difficult living conditions. He was not shocked by what he discovered in the valley; rather, he was deeply sympathetic. Today, La Puente supports more than 16,000 individuals annually by providing a safety net for independent living that includes 15 food pantries, homeless-prevention resources, emergency services and educational gardens.

Life on the prairie

After our shaded sojourn and choreographed dog show, we regroup at Conover’s trailer home, located about an hour south of Alamosa. Here, trailer homes are standard. Conover has made his clean, orderly and comfortable. But it’s not comfort that brings Conover back regularly from his primary home in New York City. It is the sere and silent setting. From Conover’s small deck affixed to the rear of his well-seasoned modular, there is no other human habitation in sight. Rimmed by distant walls of mountain peaks and buffered by open expanses of sunburned grasses and desiccated shrubs, the prairie is seemingly removed from everything, making it a quiet haven and fitting antidote to Conover’s urban life back East. Conover is a Colorado native, so the setting fits his background need for vast, unspoiled vistas and the strong presence of space — big, open space.

From Conover’s deck, where Cheslock plucks out traditional tunes on his dulcimer, we gaze east at the Culebra Range where I ask Cheslock to point out tomorrow’s destination. Conover, who has a strong command of Spanish, hones my pronunciation of the peak: “kool-ay’-bra,” he articulates. The name means serpent or snake. Culebra, one of the lesser 14er summits, reaching 14,047 feet, is hard to pick out on the undulating ridgeline. Cheslock orients us by a distinct line of snow in a vertical couloir, which is the only remnant left in this parched year. Cheslock says the current drought is historically unprecedented in the local annals of an already arid landscape in which wells risk running dry and irrigation will almost certainly cease. The nearby Rio Grande River, says Cheslock, is at its lowest spring runoff in recorded history.

Alpine start

Cheslock’s dulcimer lulls us into pleasant rest that makes for an early night, which is appropriate as we agree to rise at 4 a.m. Soon, the total silence of the prairie soothes our sleep with nocturnal peace, interrupted sooner than we wish by cellphone wake-up tones. We grope from our sleep to the aroma of coffee while the first glow of morning rises in the east. A scant breakfast of cold cereal and yogurt suffices as we pack our gear, preparing for a big day. The air is cool, and a light breeze is chilling. 

We push off a little after 5 a.m. because we are required to arrive at the ranch gate no later than 6 a.m., as the instructions state, and must be off the mountain no less than 12 hours later. If not, we must pay a fine:

Hikers/climbers must sign out of Cielo Vista Ranch no later than 6:00 pm. If all climbers have not signed out by 6:00 pm, we consider this an emergency situation and will begin following search-and-rescue procedures. Any climber that fails to sign out when leaving the Ranch or leaves the Ranch after 6:00 pm agrees to make a $100.00 contribution to The Costilla County Search & Rescue, per the waiver.

Such is the tone of the rules and regulations of Cielo Vista (Spanish for sky view or heaven view) that require climbers to walk carefully and pick their route to the peak with discerning steps amid the carpet of tundra and wildflowers that begin and end the climb beneath a jumble of boulders that define the summit ridge of Colorado’s southernmost 14er.

Climbing guidelines are intended to reduce impact and conserve the natural resource, as the ranch website states:

Culebra Peak offers a unique climbing experience. Unlike any other fourteener in Colorado, hiking impacts are largely absent — Culebra is essentially “untrailed.” In order to preserve its pristine condition, please follow these climbing guidelines and procedures.

Ascend and descend on a different route, and disperse while hiking. To protect sensitive alpine plant communities, avoid hiking single file or along existing trampled routes. Try to step only on durable surfaces such as rocks to protect sensitive alpine plant communities while hiking. Don’t walk along the edge of melting snowfields or other areas where the soils are wet. Many alpine soils are over 5,000 years old, and alpine plants grow very slowly in the harsh climate and short growing season on fourteeners. Refrain from feeding wild animals or picking wildflowers: leave what you find. When relieving yourself, please bury all human waste below the tree line, not in the tundra.

Driving from Conover’s place as the rosy fingers of dawn spread, we brake for a pronghorn antelope that darts into the headlights. We pass the looming forms of several wild horses while a blazing orange sunrise illuminates the windshield. Conover’s GPS guides us through Colorado’s oldest town, San Luis, where a humble townscape and cluttered homesites reveal a modest rusticity and signs of economic marginality. 

Add a billionaire landowner to this social and cultural milieu and a serious conflict has ensued given the enormous gap in wealth and the resulting stratification, all revolving around control of the land.

A billionaire and his fence

The billionaire is William Harrison, the son of a Texas oil tycoon, who reportedly purchased the land in 2017 for $105 million. According to The Colorado Sun, Harrison has erected 20 miles of fence that excludes the public and complicates access for traditional land users, many with indigenous rights that go back centuries. The fence is high and tight, and it has interrupted deer, elk and other migration corridors that go back millennia.

The Sun reported in April 2024 that Harrison was forced to stop before finishing the perimeter along his property and that locals estimate Harrison built about 20 miles of fenceline before a judge ordered him to stop.

“Harrison counters that trespassers have entered his private property to dump trash and collect antlers, to fish illegally and ride ATVs,” The Sun wrote. “It’s his right as a landowner to keep them out, he argues, especially since the descendants of the original settlers have keys to nine gates through which they can enter the property. He built the fence to prevent illegal trespassing by people with no access rights, and to contain his herd of bison, which locals estimate at about 60 animals.” Cielo Vista Ranch representatives did not respond to a request for comment from Aspen Journalism.

But land closures of a former commons in the American West are guaranteed to engender hyperreactions when traditions are seemingly violated, so passions are running high on both sides.

The battle has spilled beyond courtrooms into the larger community where the contested fence has had a dramatic impact on traditional peoples. The privatization of these lands has also forced 14er peak baggers to apply for hiking permits, sometimes years in advance, and pay $150 per person for the privilege of hiking the “trail-less” landmark peak, the highest in the Culebra Range.

Despite what poet Robert Frost once wrote, the fence is not making good neighbors. It is making bitter enemies of people who are holding to a deal made when the valley was subdivided into the Sangre de Cristo Land Grant of 1844. “That grant,” reported The Sun, “allowed descendants of early settlers to go into the high country to harvest timber, hunt deer and elk, and graze their cattle and sheep.” It has remained mostly in place even as a line of wealthy men have purchased the land, but not always peacefully. There have been court battles, armed security guards, suspected arson and even a shooting.

Many heirs to the land under the original access terms, reported The Sun, see the fence as a “symbol of wealth inequality, and a not-so-subtle reminder that the age-old, range-war struggles over land use and private property never die.” 

The Sun reported that Harrison has ordered security cameras and surveillance drones to cover the fenceline while land grantees have reported harassment by armed security guards. Then came real trouble when the ranch manager’s house, which is not on the ranch, was riddled with bullets one night and no one was charged. 

As emotions fester on both sides, Culebra Peak remains a sought-after summit for 14er peak baggers and even for casual mountain hikers who, like Conover, Cheslock and me, desire access to what has become a forbidden mountain due to private ownership that exercises total control. Such can be the outcome when public land becomes private.

Huffing it up Culebra

Just before the witching hour, Conover pulls up to the ranch gate, where a dozen vehicles are queued. Groggy hikers mill around sipping from mugs. A ranch hand begins the check-in by matching driver’s licenses to the release forms. He motions us through at the head of the line. A sturdy-looking man in cowboy boots with a clipboard then motions us out of our vehicles. Carlos introduces himself as part of a brief welcome, then directs us to drive five miles up a jeep road to the trailhead. He stresses the importance of signing out afterward as requisite for receiving a code for the gate lock so that we can then exit ranch property. “Any questions?” he asks. When no one speaks, he gestures us on. 

Our cohort of about 20 climbers pile into vehicles and begin a convoy up the rough, unpaved road that Conover navigates handily in the hail-pocked truck he acquired at a discount for his use during visits to his home on the prairie. Twenty minutes of pummeling gets us to the parking area at 11,600 feet by about 6:30 a.m. Cheslock points out a small herd of elk loping up the closest skyline ridge against a cloudy sky.

We throw on jackets and slip on gloves and hats to counter a cold wind scouring the timberline approach. We stretch our legs up a steep Stairmasterlike climb toward the first ridgeline. A faint trail soon disappears in the tundra, so everyone spreads out as instructed. I move ahead of Conover and Cheslock, focusing on a sustainable pace that leads to a second ridgeline. An enormous cairn of stone is silhouetted against a pale-blue sky where a diaphanous cloud blots the sun and keeps the air bitter cold.

The ranch website mirrors what hikers find by inferring that the journey is as important as the destination:

The path you choose is your own and may take you across small streams and across the ridge where an occasional elk, mule deer or bighorn sheep can be seen, as well as many other types of wildlife. Once your hike begins, it is evident that this mountain is like no other. With lush vegetation and no defined trail guiding the way up the mountain, one can really become captivated by the beauty and undisturbed environment that surrounds this range. A rare jewel to find, enjoy the freedom of making your own way up to the summit. Once reaching the summit, enjoy the heavenly view of other nearby peaks including Red Mountain, which can be accessed quickly from Culebra Peak.

I hurriedly seek shelter from the icy wind on the lee side of the ridge beneath a sheltering slab of rock that provides vantage to the steep north cirque of Culebra. This jutting peak, dark in shadow, promises considerably more effort than I am able to summon given my six-month battle with cancer and a debilitating chemo treatment five days before our hike. A glance around reveals a few hikers crossing a saddle of scree toward the summit, but there’s no sight of my hiking buddies.

Unbeknown to me, Conover and Cheslock have passed my bivvy and, assuming I’m in the lead, they continue across the saddle and begin picking their way up the long, rocky ridge toward the peak — which, at 14,000 feet, is no mean achievement. They assume we will celebrate together at the top, but I’m nowhere to be seen when they get there. Baffled and a bit concerned, they join five women sheltering behind a wall of stacked rock that offers the only windbreak. They eagerly inquire about their missing friend, to no avail.

Given the teeth-chattering, finger-numbing cold, I assume Conover and Cheslock have turned back, so I begin the long descent to the trailhead, which I reach about two hours before they do. I gaze north toward distant Blanca Peak to where the ground falls away and stretches out into the valley below, but there are no hikers. Much of the foreground, I realize, defines the private holdings of Cielo Vista Ranch and reaches back to the first human populations in Colorado.

Disputed land and deep history

The story of this vast territory, published as an extensive history on the Cielo Vista Ranch website, goes far beyond the past several centuries to long before the San Luis Valley was permanently settled. The region was traversed by a wide range of indigenous peoples, from Folsom cultures thousands of years ago to Apache, Navajo, Pueblo and Ute peoples in more recent times.

The ranch website states that the valley was prehistorically used more as a corridor than as a site of a permanent community when hunter-gatherers hunted bison here more than 10,000 years ago. By the 15th century, nomadic tribes — Apache, Comanche, Kiowa, Arapaho, Cheyenne and Ute — frequented the valley. 

In 1540, Francisco Vásquez de Coronado set out from Compostela in New Spain (Mexico) and conquered native pueblos near modern-day Santa Fe, New Mexico, claiming all lands to the north, including Colorado, for the Kingdom of Spain. By the 17th century, Santa Fe had been established bringing Spanish imperial domination of native peoples by enslaving many, while also facilitating the acquisition of the horse by the Utes, the first Native Americans to enjoy rapid mobility, hunting prowess and warrior superiority on horseback. 

The first American description of the San Luis Valley was offered by explorer Zebulon Pike in 1807. After trying and failing to climb Pikes Peak, the expedition moved southwest into Spanish territory in the San Luis Valley. “The great and lofty mountains seemed to surround the luxuriant vale, crowned with perennial flowers, like a terrestrial paradise, shut out from the view of man,” Pike wrote in his journal.

After winning independence from Spain in 1821, the new nation of Mexico used land grants to encourage the occupation of its northern frontier as a bulwark against rising American influence in the Southwest. Under the land-grant system, families were given plots to build homes, while large swaths of surrounding land held in common ownership were set aside for hunting, grazing and other community needs. All seven of Colorado’s major land grants were awarded by the Mexican government after 1821. 

In 1833, the Mexican government awarded the Conejos Grant, roughly spanning land between the Rio Grande River and Conejos Creek, near present-day Alamosa, to 50 families. Other Mexican land grants in the valley included the Beaubien-Miranda Grant (later known as the Maxwell), the Luis Maria Baca Grant No. 4 and the Sangre de Cristo Grant, which later became Costilla County and part of northern New Mexico.

The Mexican land grant encompassing Cielo Vista Ranch dates to 1844. Soon after, the land became part of the United States. A decree in 1863 saw the establishment of Settler Rights, guaranteeing that homesteaders who came to the territory through the land-grant process would enjoy access to the mountain lands for grazing, firewood and timber in perpetuity. In 1864, the land grant was sold to Colorado’s first territorial governor, William Gilpin. He agreed to honor traditional land-use rights, and yet the die was cast for privatization of a historic commons.

Almost a century passed when, in 1960, North Carolina timber baron Jack Taylor purchased the ranch, fenced off part of it, and denied local access, leading to decades of range war tension, including lawsuits, violence and ongoing disputes. Known as the Taylor Ranch or “La Sierra,” it was sold in the 1980s to former Enron executive Lou Pai, then sold in 2004 to Texas investors, who renamed it Cielo Vista. The property currently encompasses more than 100 square miles of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

The access war was supposedly settled in 2002 when the Colorado Supreme Court (in Lobato v. Taylor) upheld the historic rights of local heirs to use the land for timber and grazing, but not for hunting or fishing. In 2017, Harrison purchased the ranch from the Texas consortium. In 2018, he announced an end to access restrictions and pledged to work cooperatively with local and indigenous claimants to the land, yet soon after, he initiated construction of the fence that would become just the latest flashpoint in a long history of conflict over who belongs. 

Today, the ranch is navigating the balance between private ownership and the established, court-ordered access rights of more than 5,000 descendants of the original Spanish and Native Americans who hold claims on the land. “The history of the San Luis Valley is a living mosaic of many people over the last 10,000 years,” states the ranch website.

As I wait for my hiking companions at the trailhead, I contemplate our curious place on this particular day in that mosaic. After Conover, Cheslock and I regroup, relieved to see one another, we bump and bounce down the jeep road, sign out at the ranch office and exit the gate. Cold beer and spicy enchiladas at Mrs. Rios restaurant in San Luis restores tired bodies. A final night at Conover’s ends on the deck with a last, long gaze at storm-shrouded Culebra Peak.

The next day, driving back home to Basalt over Independence Pass, I’m musing over the private nature of Culebra while passing the La Plata Peak (14,336 feet) trailhead on a bluebird Sunday. Cars have overflowed the parking area, and dozens are parked helter-skelter on both sides of Independence Pass road. I envision a conga line of hikers trekking up the beaten route to the summit and realize that perhaps there is a silver lining to restricting foot traffic on a trail-less, privately owned 14er.

This story was updated to reflect that La Puente serves multiple counties in the San Luis Valley and to clarify the distinction between “the prairie” and other areas of the San Luis Valley.

This final installment of Paul Andersen’s series for Aspen Journalism on public lands. To read the rest of the series, visit aspenjournalism.org/tag/corruption-of-the-commons and keep an eye out for a future volume binding the stories together.

Aspen Journalism is a nonprofit, investigative news organization covering water, environment, history and more.