I scaled Mt. Elbert on Labor Day, 6 September 2001. It would have been my second 14er summit, but I didn�t make it all the way to the top. Elbert is the tallest peak in Colorado, and the second tallest peak in the lower 48. It is listed as one of the easiest 14ers to ascend.
The trail was steeper than I thought it would be. You don't really "climb" it, you walk up. But I didn't expect it to be like climbing to the top of my 51-story building downtown the entire hike. I spent the first hour or so humoring myself with comments such as, "If this is an easy mountain, I�d hate to be on a difficult one!"
And yet, I accomplished "difficult" the previous year when I climbed Longs Peak, listed as one of the more difficult peaks in the state. After climbing that monster, I vowed to never climb another mountain as long as I live!
That�s a promise I must have forgotten. Several times now I have caught myself mapping out a schedule to climb as many of Colorado�s 54 14ers as I can.
When I could reach in front of me and touch the trail I was supposed to be climbing, I remembered why, after the previous year�s climb, I didn�t want to climb any more mountains. I passed an alpine lake in the shadow of Mt. Elbert�s summit that was too far off the beaten path to explore and still witness the sunrise from more than two miles above sea level. That lake made me remember, albeit briefly, that I�m a destination hiker. Not a peakbagger. I like to take pictures of the beautiful sights other hikers don�t notice, not pass them by!
When I hit Elbert�s treeline and spooked a herd of elk in the dark, I initiated a similar adrenaline explosion inside me! I remembered why I like to hike alone. During daylight. I like to photograph animals, not scare them. And I definitely don�t like it when they put a few extra gray hairs on MY head!
Shortly after crossing paths with the excited elk and singing aloud "Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh, My!", I felt my knees throbbing. I swallowed hard as I realized I might not make the summit. I wanted to. I�d driven all that way. I�d slept less than two hours, in closed quarters with coughing children just so we could do this together (a rewardless undertaking; the kids informed me at 3 a.m. they were too tired to hike with me). I wanted Elbert's summit, but I wasn�t sure my knees were going to hold out.
I was the first hiker to sign the registry Labor Day morning. I was alone on the trail. I had passed four hikers getting ready to head out before I reached the trailhead. I knew they were about half an hour behind me. They were wearing professional stuff, such as helmets with high-powered lamps attached. I knew they would overtake me and most likely beat me to the summit.
I could hear their voices when I hit the 12,000 foot level. I really hadn�t expected to make it that far without being passed by someone.
I could see them in the twilight when I hit the first of two false summits. I could make out the conversations of the approaching hikers, two guys and two girls.
The moon was full and casting an eerie blue glow on the mountain�s southern slope; I had put away my flashlight after clearing treeline. The mountain still was dark enough that I had to be careful about where I put my feet. I didn�t want any rocks or tree roots reaching out to grab my ankles.
After the first false summit, the trail became steep again. Not the kind of steep like the Homestretch on Longs, but not the kind of steep I would readily choose to take in the dark, either. My hip had begun aching, and my shoulder was sore. It took eduring all my aches and pains combined to realize I was being haunted by ghosts of injuries past.
I had injured my rotator cuff practicing with my son before baseball season began. All season, I could barely throw, much less bat. But my team would have forfeited every game had I not played. I never gave the injury a chance to heal. In fact, I�d probably aggravated it. Now I was hauling 50 pounds of camera equipment up a steep mountain, all the weight resting conveniently on my so-sore shoulder...
Then, three weeks earlier, I was riding my bike home from work when I was hit broadside by a car that ran a red light. The station wagon hit me hard enough to somersault me over the car. I landed on my feet behind the car, and my bike, which miraculously was not damaged, went skidding across the busy intersection. I color-coordinated with my purple bike for the next two weeks. I had the ugliest-looking bruises all over my legs from the impact. My hip didn�t discolor, but it sometimes hurt worse than my knees.
Near the top of Mt. Elbert, I could feel all those injuries all over again, as if they�d happened just hours earlier.
I�ve been running four miles almost every day since the bike incident, and I had been working up to longer distances. I thought my legs were okay before I started hiking, otherwise I wouldn't have attempted such a strenuos climb. My knees had not hurt this bad since I�d run seven consecutive miles, a fete I�ve accomplished but once.
After I cleared Elbert�s first false summit, I decided to catch my breath and let the four hikers behind me pass. I knew I would be able to give the next portion of the climb everything I had if I fully rested and then followed other hikers. I would be able to keep their pace.
The hikers behind me seemed to take a long time passing me. I was beginning to shiver. There was frost on the ground. I hadn�t noticed the cold until I stood still long enough to slow my heartbeat sufficiently.
When the other hikers finally passed me, we exchanged greetings again, and I began to follow, but soon grew discouraged because they were moving much slower than what I wanted to go, partly because of the temperature and partly because of the burst of energy I�d mustered.
I stopped again and let the other hikers pull far enough ahead of me that I couldn�t make out their conversation anymore. Then I tried to dig into that combustible energy I�d stored and hustle up the second false summit.
When I saw the true summit, my heart sank. It was much further than the first two had been. I was only about 200 yards beneath the peak, but it was at the edge of a huge bowl I would have to circle. I judged the twilight distance at about half a mile. I sat down on a rock, discouraged and out of breath. Within seconds, my fingers and toes were stinging from the cold, and my earlobes were soon to follow.
I looked out at the eastern horizon. The sun would be rising in about 10 minutes. The clouds weren�t painting the dramatic sunrise I�d hoped for, and the skyline of distant 14ers wasn�t as distinct as I�d envisioned, due to cloud cover. Momentarily, I entertained the thought of shooting the sunrise and then heading back down the mountain, but my hands were too cold to pull my camera out of my backpack. Plus, I wasn�t sure I�d be able to get the pack back on my sore shoulder if I took it off.
I turned and looked at the summit one more time. I knew I could do it. But would I be able to get back down the mountain?
I stood to judge my strength.
I nearly toppled over. My knees had grown so stiff from pain and cold, I was sure I�d have to be carried back down the mountain on a stretcher. I was overwhelmed with humiliation, and the summit no longer called out to me. Without a second thought, I post haste began traipsing back down the mountain, hoping that by forcing my blood to circulate again, my knees would loosen up and I would chase the ominous frostbite from my extremities.
I was angry that I got up so early for nothing, but I didn�t regret not pushing forward. I didn�t regret not taking a single photo. In fact, I even convinced myself in the next hour that by failing to summit and having nothing to show for the entire experience, I would never again forget how much I hate climbing mountains. This was a lesson that would stay with me for life. I tried to pat myself on the back and congratulate myself for making it up one of the most difficult 14ers in the state and for attempting to make the tallest summit in the state on defective equipment.
Five steep slides later, all I could think of was protecting my knees. And that was my sole motivation the entire remainder of the trip.
All the hiking guides I read said it takes half as long to get down Elbert as it takes to get up it. The majority of climbers take four to six hours to summit, and about three hours to get back down.
It took me two hours and 55 minutes to reach the second false summit, and it took me two hours and 45 minutes to get back to my car. My knees! Oh! My aching knees!!!
Once I got back into the trees, I roamed around looking for a sturdy branch I could use as a walking stick. I went down the rest of the mountain sideways to cushion the impact on my knees. For the next two days, I had blisters on the downslope sides of my feet. However, my knees were safe, and I didn�t have to bear the humiliation of being carried down the mountain on a stretcher.
Bending over to pick up gold, orange and red leaves already falling from the aspen hurt so bad, I came home with only about 20. The color was so radiant, and so early, I wanted to be able to share it with my co-workers. Since I didn�t snap any photos to illustrate my experience, I raided the mountain gold and brought home treasure instead of pictures.
I bought a bag of autumn candy that I buried beneath the leaves in my scarecrow candy bowl at work the following day. When people asked, I didn't hesitate to tell them I didn't summit, but explaining why sure was a booger. Everyone knew how much I wanted to do this, but they all remembered me vowing the previous year never to be so stupid again.
I was hoping negative peer pressure following my failed attempt would be an added incentive next time I contract peak fever. But then I caught myself studying topo maps of Mt. Princeton and Mt. Yale, a pair of visually stimulating 14ers in the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness�
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