Trip Report
Bring a Lung Some Air
Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, Colorado
August 31, 2001
by Dale Barnard
Crew: Aaron Miller and Dale Barnard
I imagine that most American mountain climbers have read Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer. They fantasize about climbing Mount Everest and feeling the thrill of such a grand adventure. They imagine what it would feel like to freeze to death in an icy blizzard on the top of the world or to suffocate while trapped upside-down under the immense weight of an avalanche. At some point, they try to imagine the helpless feeling of losing a footing and sliding thousands of feet down the mountain into an unreachable valley, knowing that no one could rescue them at such an elevation. And of course there’s the falling-into-an-ice-crevasse fear. I qualify as one of those Krakauer readers, and such thoughts of death and adventure certainly bounce around in my head.
However, more than any thoughts of death, I spend hours imagining what it must feel like to gasp for oxygen in the thin, cold air, feeling it burn my throat and over-expand my lungs while I power myself to the top of the world. Instead of risking my life to reach some Himalayan summit, I aim only half as high for my adventure, and I can do it in seven hours instead of seven weeks.
The adventure begins at home, though, in Texas. I can’t exactly identify where my urge for adventure comes from—nor where anyone’s comes from—but I know it when I feel it. I’ve felt it for years now, and my entire life has made small shifts toward expanding and prolonging the amount of adventure that I can enjoy.
In our culture, to feel successful, we must continuously expand. For most people, this means earning more money, living in a bigger house, securing a more lucrative retirement, accumulating assets, having more grandchildren, and climbing the corporate ladder. For the less conventional, continuous expansion might mean going beyond the secure and comfortable, pushing their limits outward, forever learning more about themselves. Some people find their adventure by leaving regular income behind to write the Great American Novel, sail around the world, walk into the Alaskan wilderness to live off the land, live in the streets, or hike the Appalachian Trail. In all of these cases, the essential ingredient is freedom of choice.
Debt, family demands, monthly financial obligations, and fear of insecurity often inhibit our freedom to choose a life of adventure. You can’t very well hike the Appalachian Trail while raising a two-year-old child or take a year off of work to write the Great American Novel while paying two thousand dollars a month in mortgage payments and other bills. However, if you have no debt, no children, no job, and you’ve saved some money, then you probably have less fear of insecurity and more of an urge to adventure. To have achieved such simplicity, you probably already feel accustomed to taking risk.
To enable my life of adventure, I started by choosing not to have children, not to go into debt for any reason whatsoever, and to live far beneath my means. These choices led me to establish a base camp, also known as a “place to keep your stuff.” I only have to write checks to pay about three hundred dollars a month worth of bills. That covers health insurance, car insurance, a phone line, electricity, property taxes, and some small stuff like vehicle registrations.
This summer, I left Base Camp to travel to Camp One, also known as “the cabin in Pagosa Springs.” Camp One enables me to hang out in Colorado, work on writing the Great American Novel, travel around the Four Corners, and backpack in the Rocky Mountains. Over the last four days, I climbed my way to the top of two of Colorado’s 14ers with Aaron Miller, a friend from Texas who recently moved to Boulder. At this moment, my knees ache a bit, my lungs feel over-stretched, my hair looks like I had an accident with a do-it-yourself oil-change kit, and I feel great. With a shower, I would feel even better, but the sun won’t heat my sun-shower until tomorrow. Oh well, stinking won’t kill me.
After more than a year of “just talk,” Aaron Miller and I finally found an opportunity to hike together in Colorado. Finding backpackers in Texas is like finding air conditioners in Oregon—they are few and far between. Like most backpackers in Texas, Aaron comes from a different state. Living in Oregon, he grew up enjoying public lands in his backyard. He has hiked just about everywhere: mountaineering on Rainier and Shasta, rock climbing in the Grand Tetons, and long-distance hiking on the Long Trail in Vermont. He had a few days left for adventure before starting a post-doctorate fellowship at the University of Colorado.
We linked up at the grocery store in Buena Vista, a cute little town about halfway between Denver and Pagosa Springs. Grocery stores are always a good place to gather because they have a bathroom, food, a payphone, and they never get angry that you’re organizing gear in their parking lots. We drove both of our vehicles up a bouncy road to our planned exit point at the edge of the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness. Aaron somehow got his Toyota Camry over protruding rocks, through a low-water crossing, up steep hills, and across eroded drainage channels, thus proving that not everyone in Colorado needs a Subaru. By this time, night had fallen and the temperature had dropped to about forty degrees. We decided to camp at the trailhead rather than driving one of the vehicles to our starting point at another edge of the wilderness area that night.
One group of mountain climbers who also camped at the trailhead told us that they planned to get up at three in the morning to begin their hike up Mount Harvard, the forth-highest peak in the state. Apparently, when you have already conditioned yourself to the high-elevation and strain of mountain climbing, you can climb some of the peaks in a single day, not needed to carry in a tent and sleeping bag. Aaron and I knew better than to try such a feat.
In the morning, we got up at dawn and drove my truck back to Buena Vista and then up Cottonwood Pass to our entry trailhead at 9,600 feet of elevation, beneath Mount Yale. We hit the trail at nine in the morning with enough food for five days. Our packs felt a little heavy, each around 35 pounds, but it took about two miles to remind ourselves why we didn’t need to bring X, Y, or Z with us. The trail leading up Mount Yale takes off to the right after about two miles. We knew that we would have to return the same way that we came so we set camp at the junction.
We had little chance of beating the afternoon lightning storms to the top of Mount Yale, but we decided to give it shot anyway. I had not spent a day above seven thousand feet all summer, so I had not acclimated to such high elevations. If we did not reach the summit of Yale, we would not feel disappointed at all since we had a late start and no time to acclimate. It would just be red blood cell exercise for the day, climbing high and then sleeping low.
From our campsite, the trail wound its way up through the trees until it opened up into Alpine tundra. To the south, we saw other 14,000+ peaks. At our feet, we saw grasses, flowers, moss, algae, pikas (whistling hares), alpine marmots (whistle pigs), and a few bugs such as flies, bees, and moths. Above us, the crumbling granite summit of Mount Yale loomed beneath the quickly-growing cumulus clouds. The large algae-covered boulders from the summit ridge break loose and cover the upper slopes, making it nearly impossible for hikers to define a trail. Since some of Colorado’s 14ers lure hundreds of climbers each year, it becomes important that each hiker does not make their own route on the steep upper slopes. One of the more tempting routes for hikers are the scree slopes. On these slopes, fist- or soccer-ball-sized rocks accumulate in a thin layer over the soil beneath. The steepness does not allow accumulation of more than one or two rocks deep. The boot of a hiker can knock loose the small rocks, exposing the soil and causing an erosion scar on the mountain that is visible from miles away. The slopes with the larger rocks make for more difficult climbing, but they remain firmly in place when thousands of hikers clamber up them. We would later see on Mount Harvard how much effort some trail crews have put in to define a non-eroding trail on its steep slopes.
After a couple hours, we approached 13,000 feet of elevation, still feeling strong, but huffing and puffing in the thin air. The trail had been fairly gradual and well-maintained as it climbed out of the tree zone at about 12,000 feet and into the steeper alpine tundra zone. At various points, we debated whether the growing cumulus clouds could develop into a lightning storm fast enough that we would not have a chance to descend to the trees in time. A good rule of thumb is to be on the way down from the summit by noon. Although the afternoon thunderstorms can be fairly-easily predicted on July and August afternoons, the time they hit can vary from ten in the morning to five in the afternoon. The safest advice is to keep your eyes to the sky.
We spotted two hikers on the ridgeline beneath the summit as the thunder started to rumble. Later, those hikers told us that they turned back from the summit with only ten or fifteen minutes of climbing to go because they felt threatened by the eminent lightning storm. Most hikers respect that kind of good judgment more than a successful summit. We turned around just below 13,000 feet and hustled down the hill to the safety of trees, not feeling sad about being so close to the top without summiting. Realistically, the last 1000 feet or so would have taken at least an hour-and-a-half to climb because it would require a steep scramble up a boulder field to the ridgeline followed by a traverse up the jagged ridgeline to the summit. We could have set an alarm for three in the morning like those other hikers did, but sleep and relaxation seemed more important than summiting Yale on the first day before we had acclimated.
As it turned out, I felt very thankful that we had not tried to summit it. Once back at camp at a low 10,800 feet of elevation, the effects of the high-elevation day hit me. I developed a terrible headache that left me barely able to function on basic camp tasks and I had to skip dinner due to nausea. I knew that hiking to 13,000 feet on the first day would press my luck, but it surprised me that the effects waited until I descended all the way back down to camp to hit me. Although Aaron acted a little concerned at my altitude sickness, he did enjoy getting to eat both portions of the beans and rice.
I reluctantly decided to take one Ibuprofen pill to try to lessen the headache. I normally try to avoid pain killers on hikes because they might mislead me into thinking that I’m stronger than I actually am. If I over-strain my muscles, I want to feel it so I know when I have rested enough to resume the hike. In the evening, Aaron read aloud chapters from Krakauer’s Into the Wild (not to be confused with Into Thin Air) that I had brought with me. It told the true story of a young man who rejected normal society and walked into the Alaskan Wilderness alone with only a bag of rice and gun where he survived by hunting and gathering for four months before succumbing to starvation. Our little Colorado adventure paled in comparison. When it came time to sleep, my appetite returned with a vengeance, but by that time, the food bags had been hung in a tree three hundred feet away to avoid attracting bears to our camp, and I had already brushed my teeth. I lay awake all night hungry.
At six in the morning, we debated making another attempt at Yale. I felt no more ill-effects of the high-elevation, but it still seemed a little too soon to press my luck. We had planned to spend at least two days acclimating before attempted any climbs, but Yale had lured us by its nearness to the trail. Instead of trying again to climb it, we headed up to Browns Pass, followed the Continental Divide for a mile, and then returned to the eastern side of it in another drainage. We passed a large glacial lake, came within two miles of our exit point from the wilderness, and then headed up a side trail a few miles to Horn Fork Basin, which offered access to Mount Harvard and Mount Columbia.
After hiking mostly in the Weminuche Wilderness near Pagosa Springs, I had begun to think that its beauty could not be matched. The Collegiate Peaks Wilderness changed my mind. In every direction, it looked like a postcard: high peaks, grassy alpine meadows, glacial lakes, and rugged forest. Tiny creeks rushed down from the high regions to collect into rushing streams that would later flow into the Arkansas River, the Mississippi, and the Gulf of Mexico. Only a small footpath gave sign that humans had ever visited the area.
The ten-mile hike had been relatively easy, but we enjoyed an afternoon of relaxation in preparation for a summit attempt the next morning. Our camp lay a thousand feet higher than the one the night before, progressing our acclimation schedule. I had not felt any ill effects of the high-elevation all day so I felt fully prepared for the climbs to come. The tallest trees around our camp stood no taller than me, but their trunks grew eight inches thick. By staying short, they could hug the relative warmth of the ground. Scrambling thirty feet down the hillside next to the camp led us to a rushing stream with reddish-bronze-colored rocks and crystal-clear water. Some creeks get that reddish-bronze color from tannins in vegetation. This creek, though, had almost no vegetation above it, so I don’t know what could have made it such a rich color that contrasted with the grayness of the rest of the rocky tundra.
We looked up to Mount Harvard in the distance and Mount Columbia right next to us. At the top of Columbia, Aaron pointed at a herd of mountain goats traversing what, from our vantage point, appeared to be a sheer cliff face. They looked like twenty or thirty white specs moving from the left to the right. I tried to zoom in to take a picture, but they still looked like white specs.
After a big dinner, the chill of the darkening night rushed us into the tent and the warmth of sleeping bags. Aaron read aloud from Into the Wild again, and then, for the second night in a row, I did not sleep at all. At 5:30 in the morning, we got up to near-freezing temperatures under a starry sky. By ten minutes to six, we had started up the trail. I postponed my breakfast until we had gotten a mile of trail behind us; I don’t feel hungry when I get up that early, and standing still to eat lets the cold creap in. The trail immediately left the small trees behind and climbed the steep, rocky tundra, occasionally crossing a soft, grassy section. The sun had risen just enough to see the trail in front of us without flashlights, but would need another hour to strike us directly in the basin.
I felt weary from lack of sleep and food, so I stopped in the chilly air, pulled off a glove, and gobbled as much simple carbohydrates as I could stand. It took only a minute to chill my fingers and urge me to move again. The trail climbed steeply upward toward the deceivingly-distant Harvard summit, but we had not yet begun the final, steepest, climb to the high ridgeline. We passed by Bear lake—another nice glacially-carved bowl high above tree line—and continued upward to the base of the steepest ascent. I ate as many bites of food as I could, having to stop chewing to suck the thin, cold air into my lungs. By now, we had risen above 13,000 feet, but the summit of Harvard had become obscured, making it difficult to know how much further we needed to go. I checked my altimeter watch, but we had climbed too high for it so it read “- - - - -”. So much for my $25 deal-of-the-day watch.
In contrast to other mountains I have climbed, Harvard has a well-maintained trail all the way to the summit. In some steep sections, to prevent erosion, the Colorado Mountain Club has built switchbacks and occasionally moved large granite chunks to form steps. Aaron and I continued enjoying conversation for most of the way up, speaking in short sentences, broken up by gasps for oxygen. Finally, he pulled ahead of me, a pattern that would continue the rest of the day. This gave me an opportunity to take photographs with a person in it for scale.
Eventually, Aaron disappeared around some rocky outcroppings and I knew that I neared the summit. The first peak over the ridgeline into the opposite valley offered views unsurpassed by any place I’ve ever seen. A basin much more vast than the one we had climbed led upwardly to countless peaks and high ridgelines. Far below, trees began hugging the stream beds before collecting into a contiguous forest broken only by some small meadows. Not one sign of civilization or human contact obscured the pristine view of wilderness. I can’t imagine that the Ute Indians a thousand years ago would have seen anything more pristine.
I turned to the right and with a few quick climbing moves with my hands and feet, I joined Aaron on the forth-highest summit in Colorado at 14,420 feet above sea level. Aaron immediately directed my attention to an outcropping fifty feet from us where a beautiful white mountain goat perched. I took out my camera and zoomed in for a couple of pictures while my breathing returned to normal. It looked so soft and fuzzy that I wanted to walk down and scratch it under the chin, but although it clearly felt some familiarity around hikers, it still had a wildness to it and looked nothing like a domesticated goat. I then turned my attention toward the highest point, a vertical boulder four feet above me. I felt almost let down by the ease at which the summit had been reached. Switchbacks and a defined path make all the difference.
The panoramic views, however, did not disappoint. We looked back the way we had come and could see Mount Yale across the valley. Two days before, we had seen it up close from the other side. To the left, we could see Mount Columbia, only a long, rocky ridgeline away from us.
In the opposite direction, we could see three other 14ers and some high 13ers. Even from this high vantage point, we could see no roads, no condos, no convenience stores, no cabins, no mines, no chairlifts, no gondolas, and no radio towers. We saw only a simple footpath with boot prints and a short PVC pipe with end caps that contained a trail register.
We took some summit photos and then knew we needed to set our sights on Mount Columbia, which we then knew we wanted to climb. I looked at my watch: 8:40am. If we returned to camp the way we had come, we would reach it by 9:45 and still have a surplus of unburned energy. Columbia stood only a couple hundred feet below us, but more than two miles away. We knew that once we committed to traversing the ridge that leads to it, we would have little opportunity to seek shelter in case of a lightning storm. The only other route back down to the treed basin where we camped would be on the far side the summit of Columbia. The only possible place to seek shelter in trees would be at least an hour’s hike into the wrong basin where we would find ourselves with limited food, no way to make camp, and many miles from a road. Between Harvard and Columbia, the ridgeline nears vertical and would offer no chance for a short-cut descent to our own basin. We looked up at the sky: Wispy, cirrus-looking clouds. Far off in the distance, the beginnings of cumulus clouds could be seen. That seemed earlier than normal, confusing our decision even more. Other hikers had told us that they had seen people make the traverse between Harvard and Columbia in two-and-a-half hours. Even if it took us three hours, that would put us on the summit before noon.
We decided to do it. Before we resumed the hike, I remembered that I needed to stand atop the highest boulder on the summit of Harvard and stick my hiking staff high into the air. “There,” I said. “I’ve reached the highest point in Colorado.” Mount Elbert lies only thirteen feet higher than Harvard. We read in the guide book that a group of hikers once tried to haul a long pole to the summit of Harvard to make it the highest point in Colorado. They failed to make it and left the pole lower on the mountain. A year or two later, they returned to finish the job, only to find that other hikers had completed it for them. Thus, atop Mount Harvard, the tip of the pole stood higher than any other point in the state. Thankfully, in recent years, the ethic about leaving human-made items in wilderness areas became more strict and the pole was removed. I would have felt very disappointed to reach the pristine summit of Harvard only to find a pole sticking up into the sky.
I had only one more thing to do before beginning the traverse to Columbia. While I stood atop Mount Harvard, my mother in Pagosa Springs was preparing to go to Durango to receive her third chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer. The contrast between our two simultaneous positions felt overwhelming. I sat down, took out my notepad, and wrote a quick note to her to at least let her know that I was thinking of her. I could think of no other way to send good vibes for her recovery. I did not climb the mountain to help my mother’s recovery; I’m not that superstitious. However, letting her know how much I love her while feeling the elation of the grandest view I had ever seen seemed like it could indirectly influence her recovery. After all, the state of our minds and emotions have more to do with our ability to heal than a nine-thousand dollar doctor’s visit for a chemotherapy treatment. Such radical medicine would have little effect on someone who had lost hope of surviving such an illness. I hope that when she sees the note, it will in some small way affect her recovery.
We began traversing the wide ridgeline toward Columbia. As long as each step took me lower on the mountain, my breathing remained normal. If I had to take two steps up, I immediately began huffing and puffing, reminding me that we still stood more than fourteen thousand feet above the sea level. I wore only a short-sleeved shirt and shorts although the temperature had not yet reached fifty degrees Fahrenheit; the exertion kept my internal body temperature warm enough, despite the coldness of my skin. Soon, the ridgeline became less rocky and a trail became once again defined on the wide, grassy slope. I saw that my shadow now appeared shorter than I was tall so I knew I needed to put on sun screen. I gooped up my arms and legs and neck, and put on my wide-brimmed hat to cover my face.
We enjoyed the two hundred feet of grassy trail, but it didn’t last. We once again clambored across boulders, tweaking our feet and ankles in a different direction with each step. Soon, we had decended to a prominent point on the ridgeline that the topographic map indicated as 13,500 feet. We knew from the guidebook that staying high on the ridgeline would require hard class-three climbing techniques, just shy of requiring ropes and helmets. We decided to decend to the left of the point into the basin opposite the one we had climbed. This would allow us to avoid the hardest section of the ridgeline.
The next eight-hundred feet of descent required more technical climbing than any other part of the day’s climbing. It required using both hands to hop down ledges, scramble down scree slopes, and try our best to avoid creating a rock slide. Finally, we leveled out in a giant boulder field, some boulders as large as a cabin. Looking down between the giant rocks, you could see dirty ice still lurking in the dark caverns. Now at 12,700 feet, the air felt much thicker, but Mount Columbia looked incredibly far away. From the top of Harvard, it looked almost like you could run and jump and land on the summit of Columbia. Now, we found ourselves an equal distance between the two summits and each looked a mile away, as indicated on the topographic map.
By 10:00, our attention had become fixated on the sky where billowing culumus clouds had already begun to form. Normally, such clouds would not be seen until around noon. We felt a rising nervousness about being caught high in the alpine tundra in a lightning storm, but we had little choice but to continue. Descending into the basin below us would take us further from camp and trees still lay at least an hour’s hike away with no trail to speed the descent. Still, that would be preferable to finding ourselves high on the mountain with lightning striking near us. I read somewhere that other than hypothermia, lightning kills more hikers in the mountains than anything else. Many times, I had experienced severe lightning storms while huddled in the short trees. By using caution, I had never been caught in the open. It would certainly be life-threatening to be up on the ridge climbing to Columbia during a lightning storm.
So far, we figured that, if needed, we could at least descend into a low area of the basin to feel a little safer. Since it was still early in the day, well before the time that storms usually become severe, we decided to press on and take our chances. The higher we climbed in the boulder field, the scarier darker the clouds became. We reached a high shelf where a grassy slope could take us to lower ground quickly if needed, so we had to make a final decision whether to continue up and over Columbia, to bale out in this opposite basin and hike all the way to civilization, or to descend to the trees and wait out the storm, hoping to climb back up Columbia later in the afternoon. Trees lay a thousand vertical feet below us and we knew that making a later attempt would be exhausting. We shared our thoughts and then decided, “Let’s haul butt up this mountain.”
We launched into a full-speed ascent over the giant boulders, my lungs now gasping desperately for oxygen. I took three vertical steps and then gasped for several big breaths of air, followed by three more steps. My head felt like it would explode with sweat and exertion. As usual, Aaron pulled ahead, soon reaching fifty vertical feet higher than me. I pushed myself to my limits climbing up boulder after boulder, the summit still far above. My watch read 13,000 feet and then changed to “- - - - -” again. Eleven hundred vertical feet to go. I climbed and climbed, stopping for no more than three seconds at a time for rest, all the while watching the dark clouds all around us. Still, no thunder had rumbled, offering the only encouragement. After thirty minutes, I reached the ridgeline that traversed from Harvard, but now well-past the most technical notches and spires that would have required careful technique and a willingness to risk life and limb. Now, all that remained were more boulders and the final push to the summit of Columbia. My lungs burned in the air and I knew that I would pay for it later. Aaron remained fifty vertical feet higher until he finally disappeared over a slight wrinkle in the slope. I reached the summit of 14,073 feet a few minutes after him, while at the same time starting to see a dozen scattered snowflakes blowing in every direction.
This time, we had no time to linger. I coughed a few hoarse coughs while I recovered my breath, took two or three quick photos, and then we continued down the other side on the same ridgeline. Still no sounds of thunder, but the chilled wind blew and the dark clouds surrounded us. After a few more minutes of scrambling over boulders, the ridgeline turned to a steep grassy slope with a defined trail. We passed some side trails that led straight down into the basin, but the guidebook had asked that hikers avoid using them due to erosion from overuse. We continued on the ridgeline as four or five raindrops fell, and then saw where some rock cairns turned the trail to the right to descend into the basin far below. We began to relax a little. At least we knew we would end up in the right basin, and still no thunder had been heard. The further we descended, the more we felt lucky that the storm had not become aggressive enough to cause lightning. The trail varied from well-defined in spots, to eroded scree slopes, to boulder fields with cairns, to no markings at all.
Once below 12,500 feet, I lost sight of Aaron. We had already discussed the route down since we had been able to study the mountainside from our camp the previous day so I continued in the direction we had planned. I reached a gradual ridgeline that opened into a large view of the basin that included the section of trees where we had set camp. No sign of Aaron, though. I should have been able to see him since I had such an open view. I continued for a short distance and found rock cairn, further indicating that I had taken the right route. If he had continued straight down the mountain instead of vearing horizontally as I did, he would have to descend an extra five hundred feet into the basin, only to hike back up the trail five hundred vertical feet to camp. I stood nearly even with the camp, although still high on the mountain. I walked until I had a better view of where Aaron might have gone and waited. I whistled a few times and thought I might have heard him yell, but I couldn’t be sure. By now, we had no reason to feel nervous about the storm. The danger had passed. Finally, I saw his red parka peak over the ridgeline where I had suspected he would eventually show up. After thirty seconds of arm waving, he saw me and then headed my way. It took him about fifteen minutes of boulder scrambling to reach me. From there, we had only an easy thirty minute hike back to camp, where we arrived just before one o’clock, only seven hours after we left.
We felt great. We had beaten the storm and summited two beautiful peaks. I retrieved my food bag and enjoyed the remaining beef jerky, feeling an urge to eat protein after a day of energy-rich simple carbohydrates. The rest of the afternoon, we went in different directions, alternately resting, eating, taking photographs, filtering water, cleaning our hands and faces in the creek, and thoroughly relaxing. At one point, I saw that Aaron had climbed back up two hundred vertical feet to an overlook above the camp. I set up my tripod for several challenging stream photos, feeling content to sit on a rock above the roar of the water for ten or twenty minutes waiting for the best lighting to make the best photograph. This usually meant waiting for the sun to dip behind the clouds to allow the bright mountain colors to be captured without the glare of mid-day sunlight.
We had a nice dinner as the evening chill returned along with a few raindrops. By eight o’clock, night had fallen in the basin and we resumed reading Into the Wild aloud. Soon, it began to rain steadily. The tent began to leak. The water reached me through my sleeping bag. I put on my rain gear, climbed out to tighten up the tent, and then lay back down, trying to avoid touching the sides. Finally, I managed to sleep for the first time in three nights. Periodically, I woke up, still touching the side of the tent, but I felt warm and no longer cared about being wet. One big thunder clap sounded, the only one of the day. In the morning, we had only to hike a short four or five miles to the car.
As usual, I felt a little disappointed to return to the land of fast-moving cars and highways. I did look forward to Mexican food at a restaurant in Buena Vista, though. We drove his car back down the rough road, scraping bottom only once on a protruding rock, and then retrieved my truck from the other trail head. Then, we set out to find a Mexican-food restaurant. Silly us to think that Colorado should have Mexican food. We were still thinking like Texans. Instead, we ate at the Raspberry Café, a cute little restaurant with reasonable prices on the historic main street. I had raspberry iced tea, a salad, a baked potato, and a bunch of tastey grilled veggies. Aaron had some sort of chicken sandwich and a raspberry dessert. After making calls to let people know that we had returned to civilization in one piece, we parted ways, promising to link up in Pagosa Springs later in the summer to compare slides.
I had once again experienced the thin air of high-elevation. I crossed no snow fields, nor did I carry an ice axe. I had no opportunity to fall to my death in an ice crevasse or to get smothered by an avalanche. I did, however, get to spend a lot of times pondering the various aspects of what makes life an adventure. I felt very thankful for my simple life in Texas at Base Camp, and for my even-simpler Camp One in Pagosa Springs.
Now, here in Camp One, I’m back to rotating the solar panel to power this notebook computer, heating up the sun shower for a much-needed cleaning, and writing down this latest adventure so that I can enjoy it again in print sometime. I can resume my other adventure of writing my first novel, and in a week, my girlfriend, Denise, will arrive on a little prop plane for another month of mountain adventures. I may not see the summit of another high peak this summer, but I will see more of that pristine wilderness that gives me more hope in the future of humanity than anything that civilization has ever built.
Civilization does not feel too disappointing, though, as my mother currently benefits from the wonders of modern medicine. She began the new school year today, preparing her classroom for another batch of my future caretakers, the day after receiving another dose of chemotherapy drugs, as if nothing in the world could slow her down. I suppose that a life of adventure must necessarily come with a great deal of struggle. Otherwise, we would not know the simple joys of standing atop a mountain on a clear day, writing the last page of the Great American Novel, kicking cancer, or standing before twenty-five new students for the first time whose lives will soon intwine with your own. Some people go to the top of Everest. Others go to the top of Colorado 14ers.
Adventure comes at all levels, but it always forms from the same ingredient: Freedom to choose adventure over a secure routine. It always involves risk. It always requires struggle. It does not always come with a plan. Perhaps it is more a way of thinking than a collection of actions. Many people have tried to understand why they must climb mountains or write music, and some people may reach that understanding. I expect that I will need to continue trying to understand how real life can become analogous to writing a novel, climbing a mountain, sailing around the world, or hiking the Appalachian Trail. It will require much experimentation, much as become a great chef requires much taste testing. Over the last four days, I have enjoyed but a single taste of the adventures to come.
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