You may remember my story of this experience a year ago. It was extremely difficult: not only the most physically difficult thing I've ever done, but a huge mental challenge as well.
Surprisingly, I found myself looking forward to the day. I haven't forgotten how hard it was the first time, but neither have I forgotten the stunning views and the sense that I came out of it stronger than I was before. In addition to that, I also know that I'm in better physical shape than I was a year ago.
So I was excited. Apprehensive, too, but the butterflies in my stomach were anxious-excited, not anxious-dreading. (As a music performance major, I'm well acquainted with the many types of nervousness.)
We left the house at 5:00 a.m. and were on the trail soon after six, the landscape dark, but the sky beginning to hint at dawn. It wasn't long before we were in that tremulous pre-dawn stage where it seems that every time you look up, the sky is lighter than it was the last time. At 10,000 feet, the air was crisp and cold, but with movement we were plenty warm in our layers.
I love hiking in the forest, but there's nothing like the feeling of seeing the landscape transition from forest to alpine tundra. The trees shorten, become sparse, until treeline where they fall away entirely, somewhere around 11,500 feet of elevation.
Alpine tundra supports very little life, and it is so beautiful.
I love this part of the hike. It's so steep, but the view to the west is indescribable. In late September, the foreground holds many aspen trees glowing yellow, and behind them rolling green hills. Then craggy mountaintops, and in the far distance, jagged ice-covered peaks. Mountains upon mountains upon mountains. Because we're climbing Pikes Peak from the back (west) side, we're seeing everything we normally can't see from the city.
Something else, too: I clearly remember last year's hike, specifically the point when we reached alpine tundra and climbed the steep, steep path up to the ridge. Last year, this part was where I began to realize how much weaker I was than I had thought, and with that came a flood of feelings. Hatred at my weak muscles, betrayal by my failing body, shame at my incompetence in comparison to my companions. Those feelings came on during the ascent to the ridge and camped out in me until long after the hike was over.
This time was different. Climbing up that steep mountainside, I didn't feel any of that. I was -- am -- so much stronger than a year ago. It was hard, yes, but I was ready. I climbed up to that ridge...not fast, but at a speed I was proud of, and knowing I was reserving a little strength, that I could have pushed myself harder. And that was so redemptive for me.
However. Coinciding with this victory and self-love was the arrival of a steady, blisteringly cold wind from the west. It seared our backs and numbed me from the waist down, everywhere except my torso, protected by my pack. Above treeline, there was nothing to shield us. We met a group of hikers descending. "You won't believe how cold and windy it is on top of the ridge," they said. "We turned around." Our group kept going, deciding to get to the ridge and evaluate.
We stumbled onto the top, where the wind was worse and the temperature frigid despite the sunshine. Normally, being in the sun at 12,000 feet feels warm, even if the temperature is below freezing, but the wind changes everything. We hunkered down behind a boulder to deliberate. In several layers of clothing, including rain pants and waterproof jacket, I started shivering once we stopped moving. By best guess, the temperature was in the upper 20s, with steady winds around 20-25 mph. Knowing that we still had 2-3 hours of hiking to reach the summit, and that the wind would not die down nor the temperature rise, most of our group decided to turn around. (Two of our group - one Service Adventure participant and one RMMC resident - decided to continue on to the summit, and we called someone to pick them up at the top so they didn't have to hike down.) I have zero pictures from this time; taking off gloves for photo ops was out of the question. My phone camera even informed me, 'Unable to use flash due to cold temperatures.'
The beginning of the descent was miserable, with the wind now in our faces, but the lower we got, the warmer we felt. Before too long, our clothing was adequate again. Disappointing though it is not to reach our goal, it was clearly the right choice. I've spent enough time with nature to know that if you have any qualms about the safety or wisdom of attempting something (other than irrational fears), it's usually best not to do it.
And a corollary to that: There was something glorious and profound about bowing to the forces of nature. At the end of it all, mountains are vast, eternal, immovable, in comparison to my tiny blip of a life. I, a fragile human, am so easily defeated, and there's something oddly beautiful to me about that. For the vast majority of human history, we have lived in complete obedience to the adamantine power of the natural forces, and many have succumbed to them. Yet we as twenty-first-century, middle-class Americans have so few chances to truly experience nature's fierce might. I find it strangely comforting to stare into the face of something so much bigger and more powerful than myself. It was thrilling to be so close, to taste Mother Nature's wrathful wind, to yield to her control.
So this hike was about two somewhat paradoxical learnings: I am in control of my own body, and I have become stronger; I cannot compete with the forces of nature, and will never be strong enough (or dumb enough) to try. This paradox, too, was beautiful.
Aside from the brief stint on top of the ridge, this was still a lovely and gratifying hike. Just not exactly the one we'd planned.
The aspen trees were in their full glory.
