Air that Says Yes
Inspired by events at
Long’s Peak, Rocky Mountain National Park, which resides on the unceded land of the Ute and Cheyenne Arapaho people.
The lofty deck sported an electric-red hummingbird feeder and an unimpeded view of the mountain I was to climb the next day. I wondered if I would be able to see the house from up there but then remembered I wouldn’t be looking for where I’ve been.
This adventure required a 2 AM start. Afternoon storms swirl around the peak starting at noon, so the advice plastered on all trail maps correctly reminds hikers that we are the lightening rods once we’ve passed ten thousand feet. It’s wise to be back among the trees when everyone else is contemplating lunch.
The day before, my first attempt had gone haywire the moment I opened my eyes. Lightening arced horizontally across the sky and my heart readjusted itself to the possibility that today wouldn’t be as scheduled. Normally, I try to plan carefully enough that not much changes departure time. But as I sat on the edge of the bed watching flash after flash reveal the silhouette of the mountain range I could have drawn by heart, I conceded that this was the alpine. A quick consultation with the radar showed a thin but violent strip of green-yellow-red that might pass by 3 am. Alright, I thought, there’s a chance because I could conceivably be below treeline by noon. So I ate the protein-rich breakfast I made the night before and marked my departure time on the travel plan I left for my partner.
I drove to the trailhead through a screen of drizzle, hunched over the steering wheel as though proximity would mean improved visibility, which it did not. The trailhead parking lot was only a quarter full but a few hardy souls were unloading their outdoor-oriented cars under the cover of their hatchbacks. I scrolled through my phone waiting for my 3:15 decision time cutoff and when my watch beeped, the rain had lessened. Could be salvageable, I thought, as I stepped out of the truck.
Only to be blasted by a gust of wind that almost claimed my hat. A crackle of lightening almost identical to the one I’d seen earlier drew a line in the sky again. Alright then, I said to myself. Nature is telling me not today. It was at my own peril that I ignore her, as that power runs inconceivably deep through the cells of every living thing surrounding me. So I sighed, got back in the truck, listened to my favorite moody song for the drive back, and slipped into bed again as dawn was stretching its arms.
“A field of jagged-edged boulders stood between me and the Keyhole; a well-named portal of rock that wouldn’t have been out of place in Mordor. ”
But the next day, on the second try, the sky was brimming with stars unhindered by clouds. I smiled at my reward for prudent listening. The parking lot was twice as full which was a good sign in terms of conditions, but I positioned myself to leave between two groups to seek the quietest experience possible. Turning on my headlamp’s red light gave the trees a horror-movie tinge but it only took about twenty minute for my vision to adjust to that wavelength. Not long after, the world opened up as I emerged from treeline and more deeply understood the admonitions about an alpine start: in the darkness it meant fewer monsters lurking between the tree trunks, but the tundra would be exceptionally exposed during the day. A snake of white lights bobbed along the side of the mountain where I would be shortly. I breathed a bit deeper knowing the general direction of the trail.
Not long after, the sky lightened enough to see tripping hazards so I turned off my light. The air was damp and blue and reflected in granite soaring unhindered by the shadows of trees. Flaked bits of granite and mica crunched under my feet punctuated by the percussion of loose rock displaced by my weight. Water swished in my hydration pack, my poles clicked, my breath rasped. The silhouettes of the mountains became clearer in their own right, not just as black monoliths blocking the stars. They were larger as a presence rather than absence.
Then a hillside moved out of the way, or rather I moved out of its way, and there was the peak I would be almost-finishing. I stopped my forward progress to breathe out an ohmygod as the alpenglow kissed the top of the peak’s head. The water underneath the rocks tinkled in response. They’ve heard that one before.
A field of jagged-edged boulders stood between me and the Keyhole; a well-named portal of rock that wouldn’t have been out of place in Mordor. I made the slowest of progress playing a one-person game of Twister through the rocks, realizing that it was indeed possible to have sore triceps after a hike. A constant fear of falling against the most unflinching of earth’s substances kept my going slow and careful.
Through the Keyhole was indeed another world, a smattering of alpine lakes covered in a mist of mystery. It somehow didn’t matter that I wasn’t even the first person to see them that day, I still felt singular in my discovery. Perhaps I could blame the altitude for that too.
“I now understood why the “just a little further” that seems so obviously wrong from the comfort of a reading chair can slip away without a fuss on the mountainside. ”
Next was the Ledges, also properly monikered as it was necessary to lean into the wall of rock present on one side but absolutely not the other. Earlier, a slip earlier meant a sprained joint or broken bone; here, it meant a many-hundred foot fall. I wracked my brain to remember whether to keep the yellow bull’s eyes painted on the rock to my right or my left. Neither path seemed appreciably safer.
I was past where I promised I would stop. The Keyhole was a perfect place to turn around but I was drawn higher by a cord of momentum and longing. I now understood why in survival stories, the “just a little further” that seems so obviously wrong from the comfort of a reading chair can slip away without a fuss when on a mountainside. But soon enough, the thirteen thousand feet made my head just off-camber enough that I was resting every thirty steps or so. At a place with no particular feature that screamed “turn around!” I sat for a moment and I said goodbye.
It was immediately clear that descent was the right choice. Although moderately conditioned with runs, hikes, skiing, and rides, my legs wobbled. I relied on my arms even more. I was not jealous at all of the couple eating a granola bar and donning their climbing helmets for their own ascent.
Back through the boulder field, I was doubly careful to not allow the fact that I was in the second half of the outing to slack on caution. I didn’t always succeed but solid ground came eventually and when it did, I felt like I was flying. But an interesting thing happened when the ascending hikers had enough breath to converse - they all asked whether I summited. I understood their reasons and explained that I did not while giving them a briefing on the essentially perfect conditions ahead. They were visibly confused about why I turned around and truthfully, I shared that befuddlement. It was hard to explain in a ten second exchange.
I grew more annoyed as the trail became crowded. I felt weak and embarrassed that I didn’t do the thing that everyone is out here to do. I couldn’t figure out how to explain that this hike was principally about altitude training for an upcoming trip and the summit was never the point. Making my heart work up high, that was it. But that resolution seemed fuzzy and I was angry with myself for feeling like I needed to justify being done.
“With a sardonic smile, that clever girl reminded me that I wanted the experience to have already happened. ”
But if I was honest with myself, I was there for more than just training. Hiking early, in the dark, by myself, on an unknown trail in the alpine tundra – that’s as close as I’ll get to ideal conditions for some serious introspection, if not rub shoulders with some latent spirituality. But instead I found myself rushing down. My knee was starting to hurt, I was thinking about dinner. I wasn’t listening to the water echo below the boulders and I almost missed a marmot leaping onto a rock beside the trail.
I told myself to turn inward and listen. That I was ready for her epiphanies. With a sardonic smile, that internal clever girl reminded me that I wanted the experience to have already happened. What I really wanted was a sign this was worth it.
I descended below the trees and alternated holding my poles and using them so my hands won’t swell so much. I knew the end was near and that the “I’m already home” danger was threatening. Too many survival podcasts and articles have taught me that there’s a substantial hazard to letting your guard down in close proximity to the trailhead, believing you’re already done. I was determined not to have all this only to have a careless footstep take me down within sight of the car.
Then it was the end. I recognized nothing because it was blackout dark when I started. Three rangers stood in a triangle with their hands in their pockets politely inquired about my journey. I wouldn’t imagine how they could be interested since they must have this conversation fifty-five times a day. I tried to emphasize how safe I was because I want an A+ that they didn’t have to rescue me. When I left, someone waited for my parking spot with an insistent blinker. The drive home was an exercise in remembering how to move at the speed of a vehicle.
Back on the porch, with wet hair and a cold carbonated drink, I think - I was there. I was just up there. You couldn’t have seen me with binoculars, but I existed for a handful of moments within reach of that peak. Standing on the deck, I felt split in two.
Part of me is still up there within the circle of the footprint I made when I turned around on the Ledges.
Part of me is still there, where I turned off my headlamp and gave myself over to the eyes that have evolved to see in the early morning light.
Part of me is still there, looking up and wondering how much further I could go.
But part of me will always be up there, sharing air with the tundra that I met as a child. The air that whispered yes and that settled in my ears as the ocean does to a shell. The air that pulled me back to the mountains as often as I could. The thing that has always told me this.
Here. You belong here.
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