Sunday I attended a children's birthday party.
Which was more daunting?
My first thoughts in the dark on technically Saturday morning were, "I can't believe I used to get up before this for work." The clock shone the numbers 4:35 am, which is roughly the equation for unequivocal pain (it's true, smart mathematicians have computed it).
I don't remember the drive. My body was numb and the coffee slowly nursed during a 1 1/2-hour drive didn't register on my taste buds. I never got heavy eyelids and was slightly surprised about how many cars I saw on the road at that time.
I pulled into the Grays Peak trailed and after switching into my new mountaineering boots, donning my rainpants for the glissade down and locking down my gaiters, I hosited on my backpack and was on the trail by 6:15 am.
I don't remember much on the trail. I vaguely recollect passing groups of people (tired so soon?) on the mostly snow-covered way, I distinctly recall hitting my acclimation ceiling around 12,300 feet - funny how it's gone up over the years.
With the coloring of the rising sun, I figured this might be pretty. McClellan Mountain
In about a mostly dozing while on my feet hour, I reached the base of the Dead Dog Couloir on Torreys Peak (the 11th-highest summit in Colorado, for those of you keeping score). Trekking pole was collapsed and attached to the pack, out came the ice axe, and the climbing helmet and crampons were attached to the polar ends of my body (thankfully I remembered which goes where. Why isn't there a coffee stand around here?).
My first glimpse of Torreys Peak and my route.
There were 13 people ahead of me when I started going up - way ahead of me. So the feeling of being isolated in the mountains was absent. "Okay buddy, let's remember how we do this whole mountaineering thing. Step, step, reef on the ice axe, repeat. Wow, this really gets to be a calf burner."
The cadence of my laborious breathing was broken by the calls from above of "Rock". It wasn't even 8 am yet and the mountain was exfoliating its dislodged detritus. Much of it was hand-sized or smaller. One nice slide from the right wall peppered the couloir with an impressive mass of stone. I waited for the barrage, listening to rocks make whizzing noises as they passed. A softball-sized hunk took a trajectory at me. Waiting to make sure it wasn't going to change course at the last bounce off the chopped-up snow, I pounced to the left and out of its path.
Huh, I've never played dodgeball in crampons before.
Continuing on my way, I noticed I was pulling the climbers above me towards me and eventually passed a couple of college kids climbing up with the intent to ski back down the couloir.
Still got this much to go
It was odd, about four hundred feet up the 1,500-foot couloir, things got easy. My calves adjusted to the inclination, my heartrate reached a happy beat and my mind just went blank. Step, step, reef on the axe. Pass more people, and more. Before I knew it, I was at the top of the couloir, where to the route intersects with the Kelso Ridge (which in my opinion is a very overrated climb).
Looking down the Dead Dog
It was here I passed two more climbers, but not before volunteering to take a snapshot of them and receive on in return.
A rarity, a picture of me, albeit a sleep-deprived, why-did-I drink-3 beers last night-they-didn't-help-me-fall-to-sleep me
It was here I was paid a compliment by one of them who stated, "Boy you motored up here." I didn't think I was going fast, I just thought everybody else was taking their time. I know when I push it. I just reached a good rhythm and went with it. It wasn't until I slogged up the final hundred feet to the summit did I realize that I did, in fact, "motor" up the route. I was at the top in 2:06 from my car.
I checked the time again and recalculated in my head. I checked my altimeter and counted out the elevation gain - 3,100 feet. Another summiter nearby mentioned to his buddies that we were 2.65 miles directly from the parking lot. According to the guidebook, it is 6.5 miles round-trip. It wasn't that far, was it? The couloir was not 1,500 feet long, could it have been?
Mountains aren't supposed to be this easy. There should be more pucker-forcing moments, more pain, a rest stop along the way for Christ's sake. Now dear reader, don't take this for being braggadocio. A person can be prideful about many things; their looks, their checking account, the length of their rod. The one lesson I have learned and hold true to is to be humble in the mountains, because they can snuff you out quickly.
Obligatory shots from the summit
Numbers are funny things. As I sat and munched on a Clif Bar, I looked at the congregated gaggle. I wondered how many of them would be up here if the elevation was less than 14,000 feet. Or what if 14,000 feet wasn't an aspiring benchmark to conquer? I climbed a mountain for the journey up, not to straddle upon its airy perch. Heck, I've almost been killed on mountains which were less than 6,000 feet.
The personas of the congregation were eclectic as well. Some were very business like, some were nonchalant, and some were just so eager. I liked those guys. I talked with one young guy who was so excited to be up on the top and was talking about how he climbed neighboring Grays Peak as well. Another straggler actually went up to everybody still loitering and shook their hand and introduced himself, forgetting about his huffing-and-puffing companion still making her way slowly up the standard slope on the other side.
After munching, observing and sending a picture message on my cell phone to a select few, I packed up and headed down. I cramponed down to the saddle between Grays and Torreys, staying near the edge but making sure I wasn't treading unsuspectedly on a cornice - punched through one of those once - very, very, very bad feeling.
Reached my spot, sat down to take off my crampons - more exchanging of salutations and congratulations to another climber who seemed in awe of my array of sharp and pointy metal objects.
The glissade was fun, steep and fast, in fact too fast at one point. Digging my heels in was not slowing my momentum, and, "Are those rocks I see in front of me?" Flipping over, I sunk the pick of the axe into the slope and started applying pressure. Usually this is the SOP for self arresting. However when you are sliding on top of a giant cushion of snow (Imagine flying carpet, but white), this isn't quite as effective.
I threw a glance down to see how far... wow, those rocks got close quickly. Enough messing around. I arrested with earnest this time and came to a stop about 15 feet above the rocky protrusion. Kicking steps into the slope, I traversed over 20 feet before plopping back down and continuing my gravitationally-aided descent.
My glissade path. If you click on the photo and blow it up, you can see the streak I left behind from the saddle.
Looking up from my vantage partway down and above the rocks.
I sat in the basin for a while on a weathered boulder, eating some more and enjoying the milieu. Birds and pikas could be heard in the distance. The sun warmed me and a slow procession of people ascended up the trail to Grays Peak at a lugubrious pace.
I came no closer in my reflective moment to answer any of the probing questions. I don't know why I climb things. It is more than just a respite from my dysphoria of the mundane. The mountains fit me better, I enjoy the solitude and the calm of wild places (true this pair of 14ers is a friggin Interstate). Maybe I can just adopt the old adage which was given by Mallory when asked why he wanted to climb Mt Everest. "Because it's there."
Sunday after completing some chores and being blessed by a rare occurrence - eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, I went for a 5-mile hike to stretch out the legs, got in a quick workout and attended the combined birthday party of Chad and Jen's children (boy you guys got lucky having their B-days so close together).
The most enjoyment I got was seeing Camden's reaction when he opened my gift and saw he received a baseball mitt. That is what it is all about - the unadulterated joy and unabashed excitement children beam.
Funny thing is the person I interacted the most with was the little 3-year-old. Why not? It's his birthday and he's an adopted nephew to me. We had a good time playing cars, throwing and kicking the ball around and him counting to three and me lifting him up as high as I could - I even got up on my tiptoes to get the full extension.
I'm lucky to have a couple of great friends with some really great kids. Camden, while he can be moody, can be so focused. Peyton, well, Peyton is just plain smarter than me. I feel no shame admitting that. She tells me what to do and I do it. And Kendall is the most relaxed, non-fussy 1-year-old girl I have ever met. All she wants to do is smile and walk, cause "Darn it! My big bro and sis can do it, I want to move vertically as well!"
Attending the party with the roaming hoard of kids also made me miss my little niece. Don't worry Hannah, Dude will be visiting soon.
ARTIST OF POST - REM. Popped in this CD to test out a new receiver. I forgot how solid of an album "Automatic for the People" was.
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