I inhaled loudly and desperately through my mouth, like gasping for air after being submerged underwater. It was 45 degrees and windy on the steep trail, somewhere around 12,800 feet above sea level. I was now wearing all four layers I had packed in my new CamelBak, along with a fuzzy winter hat and gloves—and I was still cold. Wooziness unfurled itself in my head as I walked. I couldn’t tell whether it was from the altitude or the bottle (OK, two) of Riesling I guzzled the night before with my friends ahead of our adventure.
A tower of silvery boulders and smaller stones loomed in front of me. “Put your foot there,” says my experienced mountaineering buddy, Sean, pointing to the flat surface of a large, sturdy rock. The rock is chest-high. I looked at it dubiously. How? My leg doesn’t bend that way. Two friends helped me scramble over that single slab.
That was the moment I realized hiking a fourteener was more ambitious than I anticipated; I’ve never been on a mountain sans vehicle. I looked back at the parking lot near Summit Lake, at the base of Mt. Evans. A dozen cars beckoned me back to bed. It was 7 a.m., and we were only 10 minutes into our hike.
Climbing fourteeners is as common as eating at Chipotle in Colorado. People proudly rattle off the names of the peaks they’ve summited: Longs, Torreys, Bierstadt, Pikes, Quandary. These are the type of people who refer to a climb as a “walk” and a mountain as a “hill.”
I can walk up a hill.
Bierstadt is a breeze, they said. Opting for a challenge, I chose Evans, a Class 2 hike, the second easiest of a five-class system. The week before my hike, I bought some good-tread hiking boots, started hydrating, stuffed my new backpack with a water bladder, and used the high-altitude excursion as an excuse to pack a bunch of Snickers bars.
I had no expectations of what it would be like, but I was full of confidence. Most of the people I know have climbed fourteeners. I can too, right? (Secretly, I was thankful Mt. Evans also happened to boast the highest paved road in North America. If my first fourteener trip turned awry, I’d hitch a ride down.)
At 4:30 a.m., I was a zombie getting ready. My friends and I headed to Mt. Evans, driving on winding roads lined with trees and scarce with cars. We drove. And drove. And drove, until there were no more trees.
After the altitude’s initial shock to my organs, my body adjusted. My mind did too. My breath slowed to normal, but lumbering up the hill was hard on my legs. I trudged on and upward, encouraged by my five friends. When we reached the summit of Mt. Spalding, at 13,800 feet, we took shelter from the wind by colossal rocks. A vast meadow sprawled out below us, dotted with grass, tiny flowers and more boulders. Needing a burst of energy to prepare for the climb down Spalding and then up Evans, I unwrapped my frozen Snickers bar. Chocolate never tasted so divine.
Like a pack of pioneers near the top of the Earth, we walked and scrambled on, over rocks, and guided by more rocks. We sought out the man-made rock-pyramids that lined the trail, sometimes wandering, but we found a way to right our course. Sean carried a GPS guidance system with him and I felt safe with the gizmo around.
It took me four hours, two liters of water, a dozen rest stops, one Snickers bar and five energy-inducing gummy bears to get to the place where the earth met the sky. My friends and I celebrated our victory alongside families, tourists and even World War II veterans who had relaxed on comfortable seats in cars to get to the top. I hoped my tangled mess of hair and bloodshot eyes gave away what I had accomplished—“No,” I wanted to tell them, “I didn’t ride up to the top; I walked.”
I looked around, as far as my wind-stricken contact lenses would allow me to see. The view was all mountains, in shades of beige, brown, gray, green and the occasional white of snow. The prehistoric peaks set against the backdrop of a blue sky towered over lakes and springs. I saw a sure-footed mountain goat below me. The scene was beautiful. But all I could think about was the two liters of water in an uncomfortable place in my body and the salami and cheese in Trevor’s pack.
After resting, snacking and using the bathroom (the longest line of my life), we planned our descent. We had two choices: go back the way we came, making the hike 5.5 miles roundtrip, or go directly down the face of Mt. Evans, a distance half as long. By then, my legs were stiff, weary and shaky. We all agreed on the faster way down.
Half as long means twice as steep, I soon came to discover. I slipped on gravel many times, each time thanking my pack for cushioning the fall. I could see the road from a distance, but it was no comfort. The descent seemed infinite, and I was spent. Every wobbly and jagged-edged rock and cluster of gravel threatened to send me tumbling. I silently repeated to myself: I will not cry; I will not cry.
Three of my friends sprinted down the mountain, and two stayed behind with me. Trevor, sensing my frustration, tried to distract me. Rock climbers, he said, are the most prepared types of people for space-missions to Mars. Now I’m a qualified candidate to walk the mountains of another planet, he told me. After a light-year of trudging, I stood on the flat asphalt of the highway, bruised and shaken, but thrillingly alive.
We returned to the parking lot at Summit Lake at 12:40 p.m. I scanned the ridge I had hiked. It was inconceivable. The mountains were monumental, and I was an ant.
“We climbed that?” I asked Trevor. “We climbed that!” I was 2,000 feet lower than the summit, but I felt like the summit; I felt like the top of the world.
By the time you read this, I’ll have hopefully summitted my second peak: Mt. Bierstadt. Sometimes, a girl has to climb a mountain—or two—to know she has the strength to conquer the jagged boulders and untrustworthy gravel of life.
Three Front Range Fourteeners Close to Aurora
Mt. Bierstadt
Pike National Forest, Georgetown
Elevation: 14,060 feet
Class 2 – Off-trail hiking might be required and you may have to use your hands to keep balance. Might include easy climbs over snow, or hiking on broken rock fragments and gravel.
Elevation gain: 2,850 feet
Trip length: 7 miles
Grays Peak
Arapaho National Forest, Georgetown
Elevation: 14,270 feet
Class 1 – Easy hiking, usually on a well-paved trail, longer walk but not as steep of an incline or descent, rarely any large rocks.
Elevation gain: 3,000 feet
Trip length: 8 miles
Torreys Peak
Arapaho National Forest, Georgetown
Elevation: 14,267 feet
Class 2 – Off-trail hiking might be required and you may have to use your hands to keep balance. Might include easy climbs over snow, or hiking on broken rock fragments and gravel.
Elevation gain: 3,000 feet
Trip length: 8 miles
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