Travelers of All Ages: Rise to the Summit-Pt. 1

The Rocky Mountains are beautiful at night. I hear the soft breath of wind in the grass; see the full moon illuminating the landscape as if it were day. There is almost no one on the roads. Town is abandoned, which makes it seem a little eerie as we drive through in our noisy white car. Before I know it, we’re at the trailhead. “We’ll get a good parking spot,” my Dad says. That’s clear, because there is practically no one there. The only other person I can see is our guide, who beckons eagerly as he lights up his headlamp. As soon as we can strap on all of our gear, we start hiking.

Longs Peak. 14,249 feet. Takes between 11 and 15 hours. 14 miles round trip. Number of potentially lethal scenarios: a lot. All of these things are going through my head as I start climbing one of the most difficult mountains in Rocky Mountain National Park, and certainly the hardest one I had ever tried. Here I was, at 12:30 in the morning, strapping on hiking shoes and a headlamp in order to climb a mountain that averaged at least one death per year. How did I get into this? However, these thoughts are quickly pushed from my mind as I start to lose myself in the trail.

The first few hours pass with relatively little interest. Besides the added challenge of only being able to see a few feet in front of you, it is pretty much regular hiking.

I am amazed by how fast the minutes—and miles—seem to pass when it’s nighttime. It’s like your brain is too sleepy to realize that your body is already getting tired. Anyway, by the time we’ve gone over a few rivers and through a lot of woods, it is actually pretty fun. Before I know it, we’ve arrived at the treeline.

Despite the name, there is no real “line” where the trees stop. It happens gradually, as the huge trees start to be replaced by smaller shrubs and lichens. I start to notice this change of surroundings as we slowly make our way further up the mountain. Having no trees, of course, makes the view much better. Still, I spend most of my time staring at the ground in order to avoid harming myself on any roots or rocks. The first chance I get to take a look around is during a water break. I am not disappointed.

The mountains around us are silhouetted against the night sky. Their vast, lurking shapes are like sleeping giants. The night sky is pure, with a full moon and stars shining like cold steel. You can see beyond the mountains and into the plains of Colorado, where the twinkling lights of cities dot the landscape. Below us, more hikers make their way up the mountain, their headlamps looking like little candles in a huge religious procession. The whole scene is surreal.

I am tugged from my amazement by the sound of our guide’s voice. “Let’s get going,” he said. We quickly pack up our stuff and get back on the trail. Slowly, the top of the ridge gets closer, and closer, and closer. More hours pass as we hike closer to our goal.

I catch my first glimpse of the Boulderfield. True to its name, it is covered in humongous boulders of odd shapes and angles. Little tents are pitched for those who complete the climb in two stages.

We start crawling over the first boulders. I can still only see a few feet in front of me, and the going is tough. We pass boulder after boulder after boulder, seeming not to get anywhere. Rocks the size of trucks lie in our path

Eventually we make our way to the small camp, where a gurgling stream runs. Our guide fills up our now depleted water bottles in the stream, and puts in drops of water cleaner. Apparently, you need to do this to clean the fecal matter out of the mountain water. We carefully replace our bottles inside our packs so that we don’t drink any before it is clean.

I’m starting to quite enjoy wearing a headlamp. The 90 lumens of brightness cut through the darkness like scissors, and the light follows your gaze. Although the only thing I’m looking at is the ground.

At that point, I was actually beginning to feel tired, dusty, and altogether unhappy to be climbing that mountain at such an ungodly hour. But the sunrise made it all worth it. As I looked out over the mountains and saw the magnificent first rays of light coming over the horizon, I forgot about everything.

All of the scenery was lit up with a warm, golden light. The surrounding mountains, formerly cloaked in shadow, are now illuminated in every detail. The enveloping sunlight frames the land as if it were a painting. The new light reveals to me exactly how far we have climbed, which is a lot. We are already nearly even with the tops of the other mountains. I look out over Twin Sisters, Estes Cone, all of those mountains that were once the hardest I had ever climbed. Briefly, I smile, thinking how easy they seemed to me now.

My Dad is snapping sunrise pictures like crazy. I pose for a few of them, making sure that I look like a rugged adventurer.

Longs Peak itself is horribly exposed in the new light. The jagged peak stands out against the sky like a crow. Nearby, I can see our objective, the Keyhole. It will be our door to the other side of the mountain, from which we will make our final ascent. I can tell that it will be a long and arduous climb.

We make our way ever closer to the Keyhole, weaving our way through (and over) progressively larger boulders. It is a lot farther than it looks. We stop several times for water and rest. Closer, closer, closer. The Keyhole, once tiny, now looks monstrous. Finally, we are there.

I climb triumphantly toward the Keyhole, not knowing what to expect on the other side. My hand grips the boulders at its base, bringing me nearer to it. At last, I pull myself onto the platform. I stand at the top, under that massive rock formation, and look through. A huge abyss waits to swallow me. For a second I wonder whether to go through, whether my long prepared resolve would carry me through to the other side. I step through.

To be continued… in The Conclusion