Ascending Longs Peak

Longs Peak, Rocky Mnt. National Park, CO
August, 2014

Our first day in Estes Park, Colorado, my husband and I parked our converted van home in our campsite on national park property and set out to explore our new backyard. Behind our campsite was a steep hill (or perhaps it would be considered a mountain–perspective is strange in the Rockies) called Eagle Peak. We started off our day scrambling up through the aromatic Ponderosa Pines and onto the rocky peak. When we crested the ridge we felt like we had stepped into a photograph–below us was a lush valley with a sparkling stream winding through its grasses, and surrounding this on three sides was the most spectacular panorama of massive snow-laden peaks I had ever seen.

After a few moments of silent admiration I pointed to the largest, snowy peak–the one with the steepest, craggiest point of rock for a summit–and said, “We are going to climb that.” Tyler looked at my skeptically, but I was determined–that mountain was calling my name.

It was a busy summer of hard work, but every break we had we took the opportunity to climb one of the endless peaks which surrounded us in every direction. But that first peak whose challenge I had accepted we continued to push off till later in the summer. We found out its name–Long’s Peak–and that it is the highest peak in the Park. Every year hundreds of people make the ascent and this year already there had been several rescues and several deaths. We wanted to be prepared, we told ourselves. But all summer that looming face watched over us–visible from nearly every corner of the park–taunting us.

It was nearing the end of August when the cool mountain summer suddenly turned to fall and we knew we could wait no longer. The window of time when the snow and ice was likely to be clear from the treacherous summit ledges was nearing its end–perhaps already passed.

The night before our ascent we drove to the trail head and parked our van. I slept fitfully–dreaming of all that might go wrong on the morrow. I was awake when our 3 am alarm went off and we fumbled in the darkness for a light. It was cold and we bundled into layers of wool socks, leggings, sweaters, and jackets–though it was not quite that cold it would be much colder at 14,259 ft. We climbed out of our van and headed for the dark trail head–tired and anxious as we went.

We began trudging up the path under a thick canopy of pines. Our head lamps illuminated our immediate path, but made the darkness around us all the more intense. Within minutes Tyler began chattering away excitedly about goodness-knows-what. He was nervous and excited and needed an outlet. But I was still wrapped in a heavy layer of sleepless-exhaustion and did not like to be pulled out of it. For ten or fifteen minutes I gave barely audible grunts in response to him–hoping desperately that he would take the hint–he didn’t. Finally, I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry, but you are really going to have to stop talking now.” Wonderful man that he is, he gave me a sheepish grin and fell silent.

I sighed in relief and my tired senses gradually began to absorb and appreciate the cool, darkness of the forest, the soft earth underfoot, the silent sounds of the night all around us. We climbed steadily and quietly upward and the time passed quickly. Before we knew it we were breaking out of the woods onto a little rock outcropping and we could see out over the trees and knew we had made good progress. Above us the the stars peeked in through the trees and we were enveloped in the beauty of the night. The last of our exhaustion and nervousness dissipated and was fully replaced by a thrill for the adventure we were embarking upon.

As we re-entered the forest I picked up the chattering where Tyler had left off. I jumped from topic to topic–anything to let out the anticipation building inside. It was still completely dark when we broke out above the tree-line. Spread out before us was open tundra and spread out above us and reaching down far below to the horizon was a brilliant canopy of stars. In front of us the mountain rose in invisible blackness, but its blackness cut a shape out of the stars and we could sense its vague and menacing form. In the trees below us we could now see an occasional point of light bobbing along–a fellow traveler far below us. Looking up ahead, these same points of light were scattered up the slope.They were all distant enough to allow us to feel solitary in our venture, but at the same time gave us a faint sense of comradeship on this journey.

Climbing up through the dark tundra, under the stars, heading towards dangerous precipices while the rest of the world slept below us was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. As we climbed and talked the air got sharper and colder, even as the world began to grow slightly light. There is nothing quite like that magical time before sunrise when the world grows brighter but the light seems to come from no particular place. Its almost as if the world itself is producing a soft glow. Then, gradually, a faint bit of color appears on the eastern horizon and the sunrise begins.

We watched as one by one the lesser lights of the heavens went out in anticipation of the appearance of sun on the edge of the earth. What had before been formless shapes and shadows began to solidify into rocks, boulders, and outcroppings. Towards the rising sun the earth fell away and we could now make out the steep ascent we had made in the darkness and already far below were other mountains we had conquered on previous ventures.  Meanwhile, towering over our heads we began to make out the looming shape of the mountain peak–our destination–which had been hidden from us in the darkness.

We were nearing the end of the first portion of our journey now. To successfully (and safely) summit this mountain it is necessary to complete the long, gradual ascent to the base of the peak by sunrise. There are two reasons for this. The first is purely the length of the hike and to complete it in one day you must reach the summit before noon. But the other, more menacing reason is that dangerous and sudden storms are common at the peak and it is imperative that climbers be off the summit before they roll in, usually around noon or after. Though the first portion of the hike is the longest in distance (6 of  the 7.5 miles to the summit), it is also the easiest. As the sun finally shone its rays upon us and we neared the level field at the base of the peak we knew we our journey was really just beginning.

The mountains and valleys below were now bathed in light and the blue and white lines of the mountain ridges on every side stood out sharp, and vivid, and the sight was breathtaking. Our path was no longer skirting the outer edge of the mountain, but had turned inward, directly towards the peak which was still not entirely in view. The wind was biting now and found our layers insufficient to stop it. Our bare hands grew stiff and red. Underfoot we now saw occasional puddles frozen solid. Somewhere miles below it was still the end of summer, but here winter had already descended–perhaps it had never left.

We meandered through some boulders and over a ridge and suddenly found ourselves at the base of the peak–a massive pinnacle of solid rock. In the shadows and crevices of the rock face hid heavy layers of snow. Between us and the path we had to take up to the peak was a vast field of boulders of every size up to as big as an SUV. The icy wind blasted at us across this open field and stole away the last of our warmth. We found shelter among the boulders and tried to regain some warmth while eating a huge turkey sub we had brought along. Though we were hungry we did not make much progress on the sandwich as our hands were too cold to even hold it. And though we had some protection from the wind we did not grow any warmer and soon gave up and proceeded across the boulders. The best way to traverse the expanse was to climb onto the larger boulders and leap from one to another–at any other time we would have made a game of it.

When we finally reached the other side we found a handful of other hikers lingering around the opening in the rock face that led to the back side of the mountain and marked the beginning of the real ascent. The opening in the rock is called the Keyhole. It is like a picture frame through which you can look to world beyond. Through this opening gale force winds rushed through. We climbed to the frame and peered through–carefully bracing ourselves to keep from being tumbled back down the rocks. The far side of the mountain was still in shadows of various shades of blues and grays. Just through the opening the mountainside dropped away to nothingness for thousands of feet. To the left of the a narrow ledge of jumbled rocks formed the path which led across the top of this abyss and up the back side of the peak.

We stepped back from the opening and pondered whether it was wise to go forward. Snow and ice would make the narrow path treacherous and combined with the intensity of the wind we were concerned that to proceed might be foolish. But as we rested and pondered a group of hikers emerged through the opening. We questioned them and they had already been to the summit and back! They assured us that the going was better and the wind less strong as soon as you got through the opening.

We looked at each other questioningly and both knew the other wanted to proceed–and so we did. Climbing through the opening with the wind tearing at us was terrifying. But it was true, once we were through and reached the narrow ledge the wind subsided. This portion of the trail is called the Narrows. We proceeded cautiously, but found secure footing and felt fairly confident in spite of the ledge to our right. The drop was not quite 90 degrees, but though the solid rock slope had an angle to it, it was just enough that should you fall you were guaranteed to bounce along the rock the whole way to the rock floor thousands of feet below without the slightest hope of ledge or handhold to save you.

This stretch went smoothly enough and was mostly a horizontal trek and therefore not very tiring. We took this restful opportunity to admire the surrounding landscape–blue and white capped mountains in the distance and the nearer, sharp spears of rock surrounding us. It was awe-inspiring to say the least.

At the end of the Narrows we came to the Trough, a chute of tumbled boulders covered in powdery snow. Here we stopped to put metal ice grips on the bottom of our shoes. This portion of the climb was much more arduous as the ascent was fairly vertical, with the boulders we had to scramble up covered in slippery snow. Here there was much less danger of an instant death fall, but the prospect of tumbling down the slippery boulders was not an appealing one and we climbed cautiously.

At the top of the Trough there were several, enormous boulders that could only be climbed by shimmying up the space between two, chimmney-style–with back braced against one and feet against another. Tyler helped me to my feet on top of the highest boulder and we found ourselves looking out through a gap in the rocks, down another side of the mountain. We scrambled over a ridge and down onto another narrow ledge–this time the drop was a sheer free-fall of thousands of feet.

The ledge here was even narrower and covered with ice. It was more apparent than ever that one wrong step could lead to a swift death. I was grateful for the grips on my shoes which I could feel biting into the smooth ice with every step. We tested every step before putting weight on it–before trusting our footing. I’ll admit, there were a few times here where I was scared. But for the most part as long as I tested each step I felt confident in my footing. This continued for some time before we rounded an outcropping and saw the final stretch before us. Here the narrows began to widen out a bit, but even as they did the smooth rock slab began to increase its angle until it was nearly vertical with a clean-cut drop on the outer edge.

To make matters worse the smooth rock had rivulets of frozen water running down it–covering and obscuring many of the already too-few handholds. We began to climb on the inner edge closest to the comforting rock wall, but as we navigated the ice patches and attempted to find satisfactory hand and foot-holds we often found ourselves closer to the outer edge and the sheer drop than was comfortable. At this point there were also a number of other climbers on this portion of the slope and I was very aware that should one of them slip (or should I) it was likely they would take others behind them down on the way. But we were so close now, there could be no going back.

My frozen fingers fumbled stiffly along the rock, searching for a grip. I found myself in a position where there were no hand-holds. None within reach, that was. I saw what I had to do–I had good footing and I would have to push off and attempt to spring to new grips for both hands and feet. I had to be confident in myself. To falter here would certainly mean to fall. And to miscalculate would also certainly mean to fall. But it was the only way. I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked down at Tyler who was looking up at me–studying me.  It was now or never. I held my breath and jumped, praying I would reach my aim. I used the momentum to propel me, and scrambled up a few feet, grasping as I did onto some good holds. I was safe. I had done it. It was just a short scramble now over the edge and onto the summit. Exhausted I pulled myself up, and then reached a hand back to Tyler. Together we crawled onto the peak–onto the top of the world.

In every direction we could see endlessly–nothing could obscure our vision at this height, we were above it all. Clouds hung below us and a few sailed towards us, directly on our level. We rested for a while, soaking in the beauty around us and the triumph of our ascent. Now that we were on top, however, I began to feel the adrenaline that had been propelling me on begin to dissipate. I felt exhaustion begin to creep over me.

It was growing late in the morning and though the sunlight was piercing at the moment, there were clouds in the distance that could pose a threat and we knew we must begin our descent. I had heard before that descending a serious mountain can be more dangerous than the ascent and I instantly realized the truth of this. The mountain was conquered and the adrenaline gone and with it the extended strength it had provided. As I braced my body against the pull of gravity and began to slowly lower myself down the steep, icy, slope I felt the weakness and the exhaustion of my arms. I realized the toll that had been taken on them in the ascent that I had barely noticed before.

As I braced and lowered, braced and lowered, my tired arms threatened to fail me at any moment. I mostly slid down on my butt, trying to do most of the hard work with my feet. Finally, we reached the bottom of the wall and were faced with the long, treacherous narrows. The sharp awareness given by adrenaline which had aided us in our careful steps in the ascent was gone, and it took great effort to pay such close attention to each step–to put each foot forward delicately and gingerly, prepared for anything. By the time we reached the bottom of the Trough I was stumbling–and we still had the longest stretch of the Narrows ahead of us. A little ways into the Narrows I stumbled, and fell forward, catching myself with my hands. Tyler rushed to me and looking up at him I saw the fear in his eyes.

I summoned what little strength and energy I had left for his sake. I’ve never felt that exhausted in my life. My bones felt empty, hollowed of all life. I felt so tired it was almost like pain–and I don’t mean muscle pain–the pain of pure exhaustion. I told Tyler I didn’t think I could go on and again saw the fear and something like desperation in his eyes. I had to keep trying. I could have curled up on that rock face and gone to sleep. But I kept going. I stumbled again, and again. Tyler was nearly on top of me now, trying to keep me from falling. The Keyhole came into sight. We were almost there. Almost.

The final climb up through the Keyhole was treacherous and my broken body raged against me for forcing it forward. But then we were through, and the sun shone bright, and weakly warm on our faces. I found a large, flat rock and stretched out and didn’t move for a long time.

Finally, Tyler woke me from my petrified state of exhaustion and said we had to move on. The boulder field stretched out like an ocean before us. I looked from the boulder I was standing on to the one a few feet away, knowing I would have to jump to it. But all the spring was gone from my body. What nearly as natural as walking on the way up now felt like jumping the Grand Canyon. I forced my body to make the leap and I landed awkwardly, the impact jolting through my whole body. I had to rest between each stumbling-jump and our progress was slow and tedious. When we finally reached the end of the boulder field and and were able to walk on the packed dirt trail again I could have cried for joy. We had six miles left to go, but I could stumble my way down from here on.

We turned back and looked at that menacing, black peak which had taunted us for months. We had been on top of that. We had conquered it, experienced it, and now that we were safe from it it could be a friend–it could threaten us no more. We stood arm-in-arm marvelling at the power of the mountain and at our own ability in having successfully reached its summit.

The Earth is a Living Myth: Looking Upon the Heart of the Earth

Leon, Nicaragua

I woke to a knock and a voice at the door of our sleeping quarters. My feet made contact with cool, dusty concrete as a I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I woke my husband and we entered the courtyard together and crossed to the kitchen where our friend fed us rice, beans, and hard cheese. By the time we had each downed our cups of coffee we felt alive and ready for the long day ahead of us .

We packed a few essentials–water, a machete, a book of poetry, a hammock, a few baloney sandwiches–and then we were ready to set out on this adventure. Stepping out onto an empty, stoned-paved street we were hit with a wave of morning heat. Down one street, then another, through an alley and out into a busy market our friend guided us. People on foot, in carts pulled by donkeys, on bikes, and motorcycles all swarmed around us.

We plunged into the covered market area–a maze of booths and stalls selling everything imaginable. Freshly arrived from a world of neatly, packaged sterility, I was overwhelmed, invigorated, and intrigued by the myriad smells and sounds attacking my senses. Piles of strange fruits and vegetables, pungent cheeses, and raw meats surrounded us on all sides and the merchant of each product yelled out a price and promotion. I could hardly move for desire to soak it all in; but my husband and our guide were rapidly disappearing into the labyrinth. I ducked quickly through the crowded space to catch them.

We headed towards the light and open air on the other side of the market; stopping on the fringe to get bags of juice for the bus ride (like a gold fish at the fair would come in). Our friend led us seemingly arbitrarily onto one of a line of retired school buses. We sat aboard drinking our juice bags through straws and waiting for the bus to start.

Soon we were leaving the narrow streets of the city and driving through the dusty countryside. The others chattered and joked, but I couldn’t draw my eyes from that hot, dry countryside with its scattered tin-roofed huts. The world was so foreign and strange and soon the sharp, smoking triangles of the volcanoes appeared in the distance.

We were dropped on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. We began our trek up a dirt side road with the largest of the volcano peaks looming in the near distance. Halfway up the road a young horse appeared trotting down the road towards us. We watched bewildered as it drew nearer and then passed by–unaccompanied and intent on its destination.

After a while the road came to an end and we found ourselves at the head of an unmarked trail heading up into some sparse trees and meandering in the general direction of the faintly smoking peak. We paused for a few moments before beginning the real portion of our adventure. Up the rooted, rocky trail we climbed–grateful for the thin shade that the trees provided to protect us from the sun. It was still early in day, but the air felt like it came from an oven–so hot and dry.

We climbed through the woods for miles, up and up. Finally, we broke out of the trees and passed through parched fields on a path so narrow, dusty and hot that we were soon covered in a fine layer of brown dirt clinging to our sweatless skin. I would not readily admit that I was tiring, but once or twice suggested we stop to eat–anxious to have a rest before I had to break down and demand  one. It had been a long and sunless winter for me and I bitterly found my body weaker than I was accustomed to. But I soaked in the hot sunshine like one starved–feeling it heal and warm me to my bones.

Finally, after many miles through this desolate unmarked wilderness–when we all felt at the end of our morning strength–we saw it. A massive, lush tree in the midst of all of the dry shrubbery. It was surreal–like seeing a mirage of an oasis in a desert. We did not fully believe it until we reached its shade and entered instantly into another world. Under the thick, heavy canopy of this massive mango tree was an atmosphere of peace, still and cool.

Our friend strung his hammock and we sat on a rough wooden bench already there. In this haven of coolness and quiet we devoured the most delicious baloney sandwiches anyone has ever eaten and gave sighs of relief and contentment. We reclined and relaxed and read a few poems. We sat quietly and melted into the earth and the tree and felt that it would be best to never leave this place.

I don’t know which of us broke the spell and suggested moving on. We emerged from the shadow of the tree and instantly were returned to the ordinary world. It was still brutally hot, but the sun had shifted in the sky and we saw that we would have to hurry to complete the miles to the top and then begin our descent.

Revitalized, we set out with renewed briskness. The climb grew steeper and the undergrowth thicker but shorter. The path began to switch-back up the side of the cone–we were on the side of the volcano now. The climb was backbreaking and my heart was pounding harder than it had in a long time when we crested a hill and broke out of the undergrowth. We scrambled up through barren, rock strewn hills; one after another. Finally we reached the summit of a hill like the rest but instead of another hill beyond it we saw that we were now on the backbone of a ridge leading directly to the crater. Beneath us was a flat field strewn with rocks of all sizes thrown from the mouth of the crater. A few tents were being set up there for other pilgrims to spend the night. We speculated about how awesome that would have been to do (but when we woke in our beds that night to a massive earthquake we were grateful to be safely away from the power of the mountain). Ahead, looming over the boulder field was the massive crater, the sun just behind it, veiled in a thin cloud of smoke and outlining it to make it look even larger and sharper.

The narrow foot path lead on through the boulders and up towards the crater, and so we followed. No signs showed the way or told where not to go. No barriers to stop those who made this pilgrimage. At the end the path grew very steep and we scrambled excitedly, anxiously to the top, to the rim. When we reached the level ground around the rim we walked slowly forward, slack-jawed in amazement.

Our friend directed us to a rock at the edge where it was “said” to be safe to stand. We all stood in silence staring into the vastness before us. The opening of the crater created a sheer cliff dropping away hundreds of feet to the floor of the pit. As the smoke shifted you could sometimes catch gray glimpses of the rocky bottom far below. The crater produced a mind-filling, brain-numbing noise of its own. I cannot quite describe it–whether it was a roar, a hum, a whirring. But it was there nonetheless and combined with the fumes and the enormity of it all I felt off-balance–as if I might at any moment pitch forward head-over-heels into the abyss.

We morbidly speculated over what would happen to one who fell in–would they die first of impact, heat, or suffocation–as we peered into crater. As we looked into the shifting depths and our eyes tried to focus on some end point something gradually began to appear to us–a glowing red-orange orb. We could not believe our own eyes at first. It could not be, could it? The orb grew larger, pulsing, unmistakable now, then vanished in a swath of smoke.

My eyes searched for what they were sure of a moment before, but was now gone. And then again, out of the swirling depths a glow appeared–faint, but unmistakable. The veil of smoke that threatened to hide it once again from my eyes did not lessen the effect–it made it feel all the more real, and threatening; a monster in the shadows. I knew then that I was seeing the living world beneath our feet and it looked back at me, and I trembled. I felt naked and vulnerable, but also more alive and aware of my own being than ever before. I was looking upon some mythical, primal force, some power I did not know until that moment that the world possessed. I knew of magma, yes, but when I looked upon the exposed, pulsing heart of the world I knew I would never be quite the same again. The world was a new place for me–more terrifying and wonderful than before. I felt that I had been looking for dinosaur bones and instead found a living, breathing dragon–looking for the incredible and finding the mythical.