Pikes Peak is the most well-known mountain in Colorado, but that's not because it's the tallest. (In fact, there are 50-odd mountains in the state that break 14,000 feet, and Pikes Peak is ranked only 31st in height.) Pikes Peak is famous because it is positioned on the front range, easily visible from much of Colorado Springs and the surrounding area. Most of the other fourteeners (as they are commonly called) are nestled deep within the Rockies, and therefore less accessible and less visible to the public eye.
Two Saturdays ago, Daniel and I and our four housemates climbed this famous mountain. Although the Service Adventure unit does the hike every year, this particular trip marked a new record for the Springs SA unit: This was the first time that every member of the household made it all the way up and back down. (There is a road that goes all the way up, so it is actually possible to have someone meet you at the top in a car and snag a ride down.)
Because of the danger of thunderstorms at high elevation, hiking groups generally try to make it to the summit by noon in case an afternoon storm blows in. This meant crawling out of bed at 4:30 a.m. to drive to the trailhead near Rocky Mountain Mennonite Camp.
Before recapping the actual day, there's something to know about me: I'm not one to easily admit physical weakness. If I'm with a group on a hike or a bike ride, and the pace is faster than I would have chosen, I usually just push myself harder to keep up rather than asking to slow down or take a break. I hate being underestimated or thought of as weak.
(In contrast, though, emotional vulnerability is easy for me. I have no problems crying in front of people or baring my feelings; I find that to be totally worthwhile and believe it to be a sign of strength rather than of weakness.) But physical vulnerability is different. And I avoid it whenever possible.
I went into this experience expecting it to be a challenge, but a good one. I love to be active and spend a lot of time exercising, especially biking and hiking and occasionally running. I've taken lots of pride in my passion for good health, strengthening my body through eating carefully and challenging myself in workouts. I've even done a bunch of hikes since we moved to CO, which should have helped me adjust to working out at high elevations. So although I wasn't under any illusions that Pikes Peak would be easy, I thought I was pretty well prepared.
We hit the trail at 6 a.m. before the sun rose. I'm not sure of the exact temperature, but it felt like below freezing. We were ready with lots of layers, though, and we were excited. The first stretch of the hike took us up through forested terrain, as the sky was lightening. After a couple of hours in the woods, we ascended past the treeline, or timberline, meaning the point at which trees cease to grow. From about 12,500' to the 14,110' of Pikes Peak's summit, there is too little oxygen in the air for trees to survive.
In this next leg of the hike (my favorite part of the entire day), we were climbing steeply up the mountainside to get to a ridge at the top (nowhere near the actual top of Pikes Peak, but an intermediate top), and the sun was starting to break through for real. In front of me the ground was still darkened, in shadow, but the top of the ridge was starting to glow. Behind me the mountain fell away into layers upon layers of other mountains, hills, trees, and eventually the city. The first sunbeams touched the very heart of the valley and set everything aglow, and the air sparkled with the energy of dawn. And instead of the forest landscape I usually hike through, we were now in a terrain called alpine tundra.
Alpine tundra was not something I had ever experienced firsthand before, and it was memorable. Instead of trees, the terrain sported small rocks, tiny scraggly shrubs, and dry, crunchy grasses. But not the kind of grass you'd find in a yard. The colors ranged across every possible earth tone I could think of: the browns and light greens and tans of grasses melded with the wintry blues and deep greens of the frosty blades of grass, all so seamless and perfectly blended that to look across the field was to be in awe. It was the subtle, introverted cousin of a wildflower prairie, but every bit as arresting. It was a rainbow, on the ground.
It looked like this, except way more breathtaking.
Meanwhile, as I was taking in the staggering beauty of this ascent, the reality of what we were attempting was sinking in. The trail was extremely steep and I knew we had several hours to go before reaching the summit. I distinctly remember thinking,
This may end up being the hardest thing I've ever done.
Around this time I realized something else: My previously held illusion of my own strength and readiness was falling apart. I wasn't one of the better prepared members of the group - I was one of the slowest. While I wasn't the very last one, I was still lagging behind the majority of the group.... and I hated it. Because where I normally would have pushed myself harder to keep up, to avoid looking slow, I had to accept my pace - I was already pushing as hard as I could. Unless I figured out some way to release a bunch of adrenaline into my system, this was as fast as I could go. I felt like my body had betrayed me. It had lulled me into thinking I was ready, that I was strong, only to become weak when I most needed it to be strong. And I had to let 7 other people see it happen.
Humbling, to say the very least.
Because I was faster than the slowest person but considerably slower than everyone else, I was left with my own thoughts for hours. And so I thought for hours about why this was happening to me; why my perception of myself and the reality were at odds. I came up with theories to explain it, none of them reasonable. Maybe it's just my slighter build, with less natural strength than some people, that's holding me back? (But there were two other women on my hike with basically my same body type.) Women reach their physical fitness peak at age 16, I reasoned, so maybe at 23, I'm already too old? (I know plenty of women much older than me who can do this.) Maybe I've deluded myself into thinking I'm in shape, when in reality I'm a lazy couch potato? (My regular 8-10 mile bike rides through the city would indicate otherwise.)
My casual ideas about hiking many more fourteeners over the next couple of years were cracking under a razor-sharp reality check.
This circular thought pattern occupied my mind for much of the day, but I also had to focus a decent amount of mental energy on actually shlepping my pathetic excuse for legs up the mountain. After we crossed the first ridge, the trail more or less alternated between semi-flat and super steep sections. It helped a little bit that we (except for our two leaders) didn't know what was coming or how difficult it would be. Several of us agreed later that if we'd known the extent of the difficulty at the start of the day, it would have been even that much harder to finish.
Hours later (around 10:30 or 11:00) we reached the final stint: the boulder field. At this point some of my housemates were feeling the affects of the altitude, with headaches and nausea, but everyone soldiered on with admirable determination. We were seeing a lot of other hikers, some ascending with us, others crossing paths as they headed back down, and it was a pretty encouraging atmosphere. Luckily I wasn't really feeling any altitude symptoms other than the fact that my heart rate had been super high for the entire day, and my legs had turned into jelly a few hours previous. Climbing the boulder field at full strength could have been pretty fun, but at that moment it felt more like the rocks were mocking me mercilessly. Finally, at about 11:45 a.m. (almost 6 hours after beginning the hike) we made it to the summit.
I mentioned earlier that Pikes Peak is pretty famous. It's also pretty touristy. The summit of Pikes Peak sports a gift shop and restaurant with indoor plumbing, as well as crowds of people who come up on the cog railway. So we found a sunny spot outdoors to eat lunch, refilled our water bottles inside, took a picture next to the Pikes Peak Summit sign, and tried not to be too disdainful toward the tourists who had taken the cog train up.
The descent should have been a lot easier than the ascent, but because I was already so exhausted, it still felt like a major challenge. My heart rate hadn't lowered much since before 6 a.m. -- thanks to the high elevation at the summit, my heart was still working hard even when we were resting. My legs were wobbly, and my ability to balance well (already pitiful to begin with) had left me hours before. I hate going downhill even under the best of circumstances because I have a terrible sense of balance, and this was worse than any downhill hike I'd ever done. It probably goes without saying that I was by far the slowest one on this portion of the hike, and my mind was still berating my body for its failures. Frustration and disappointment are heavy things to carry.
3 hours later, we were getting close to the end, and the phrase "everything hurts" had never felt more accurate. My feet and knees were killing me from the stress of steep downhills; my head and chest hurt from the altitude and exertion; my shoulders and hips were tight from the weight of my hiking pack. And that's not even getting started on the muscle situation.
We got back to the parking lot at about 4:30, ten and a half hours after we'd begun, a lot worse for the wear. I'll spare you the rest of the details, except to say that I have never in my life felt the way I felt over the next hour or two. (That weekend was also the only time I've regretted living in the basement of our house - stairs can be brutal.)
It was a difficult day for me on every level. A lot of things I believed about myself were thrown into question. But I generally believe that no day in which I learn something new about myself is a day wasted. I don't know how these new thoughts will change me or my future hiking endeavors, but I do know that I should feel glad to have accomplished something that many people would never attempt.
For many reasons, I won't forget this day. I certainly won't forget the way I hated myself for being weak. But I also won't forget the triumph of all four of our girls for not only finishing, but keeping up positive attitudes and laughter the whole day. And I know I won't forget the indescribable, rough, craggy, stark beauty that is the Rocky Mountains. Even in the most awful moments, that was still there.
My pain is so small to these mountains that have been here for generations upon generations. While I agonize over the minute problems in my speck of a life, they contemplate the millenia.
In a way, it's comforting.
