60horsepowerprophet

Day four. C-day, as it were. ‘C’ as in climb.

We could have hiked back up Elbert to finish the job that we started two days back, but it seemed like way too much of a drag to retrace our steps seeing all the same things with the exact same amount of pain and effort. Pure folly.

A quarter mile from our camp site is the trail head for Mt. Massive. Sounds imposing, right? The hike up Elbert is a Class 1, Massive is a class 2-2.5. Thirteen miles round trip at altitude (10,200 to 14,321). “We can pull that shit off no problem!”

Start at 8 a.m. Packs loaded with food, warm layers, rain gear and water. Trail immediately seems much friendlier than that of Elbert. Below the tree line the hike is casually pretty and best described as well balanced. Above the tree line, in the lower end of the alpine meadow, the hike increases in difficulty, not anything unmanageable, but noticeable. The lungs feel a bit shallow, the legs began to tighten. Keep pushing, team “Ginger Hippie” must summit a 14er.

The trail begins to get steeper, rockier; the air thinner and the footsteps smaller. Frequent breaks are now important. The head lightens, the stomach cramps, the legs scream in angst and equilibrium begins to fade on a treacherous surface headed up, steeper and steeper, to a ridge-scramble and finally the summit of the mountain. We meet a 19 year-old girl from Shreveport, Louisiana sitting on a large rock waiting to catch her breath. I chat Louisiana relatives with her for a bit, a certain stall. We carry on upwards slowing down with each boot-step. We meet an early middle-aged Couple from Canada, they are taking short breaks every ten steps or so. Nice people. One rarely meets an asshole on a strenuous hike. Rarely.

More breaks. More energy bars, more water, more trail mix, more pain, less oxygen. Closer.

Wind. Holy mother of shit, wind. Gusts must be at least 50 mph. Gusts that would blow my car straight off the road are pushing down on us, against us, trying to trip us up, to send us out for a little fall. The higher we go the worse they get. Nervous about the ridge-scramble and the summit. We’ll surely plummet to a rocky doom. Swallow the fear and ride it out.

We reach the ridge after a reasonable amount of mental and physical anguish. It’s not that easy to climb to over 14,000 feet having only been at altitude for two days. The view on the other side of the ridge is breathtaking, or it would be had we any breath to steal. We snap quick photos and try to find a windbreak to hang out behind before scrambling to the summit. Sweet relief. The wind whips and howls around us like the gigantic ghost of a demented lion tamer. But we have to get up, the summit is in sight.

Scrambling is one of my favorite things to do, especially scrambling to a summit. This comes from years of family vacations to National Parks as a child where the most often phrase echoing off rock formations and canyon walls was “Adam, get down from there!” Screw the hike, that’s nothing but bullshit, give me the scramble any day. The fear subsides as the concentration increases, “do I follow the path or try to find my own line?”, “Is this rock going to give?”

Success! One 14er down. Dominated. We have just enough time at the summit to continue a tradition that began in Montana two summers ago, the pants down summit photograph. Mission accomplished. Now to relax a bit before the descent. That’s the sweet stuff.

I’ve always said that I liked going up more than going down. That’s what she said? Yeah… The problem with going back down the mountain is the consistently downward angle. This may sound like no big deal, but when you’re tromping downhill you aren’t just using your legs to walk, you’re using your legs to keep your fool ass from careening headlong out of control off the side of the mountain. It doesn’t take long before the pain sets in and it only gets worse with every step, my friends.

On the way down we meet up with the Shreveport girl that I spoke to briefly on the way up. As has been the case with the majority of the girls that hung around us briefly on the trip, she wasn’t entirely attractive and after a while it is hard to focus on what she’s saying. Lack of oxygen and a building fire in the lower extremities make it difficult to tell offensive jokes – she may not be put off anyhow. She speaks at length on the death of her good friend while skiing a 14er in Colorado. Apparently this is what set her and her sister into a competition as to who could summit the most 14ers. — It doesn’t seem quite as morbid as I type this from some mental and physical distance, but it did coming down massive.

Back to the work itself. What would push a man to such acts of physical degradation? A miniscule dose of foolhardy glory? Perhaps. But what does it gain me? Women aren’t throwing themselves at me because I climbed to the top of one 14,xxx foot mountain. Men don’t envy me because I climbed to the top of one 14,xxx foot mountain. I gain no supernatural powers of any sort from hanging out at the summit. There is no hidden treasure, no sword in the stone, no lady in the lake. So why in the hell would anyone do this to themselves?

Time spent on a summit is pseudo magical. The combination of an extreme deficit of oxygen, near complete physical exhaustion, an inflated sense of accomplishment, a beautiful view and a place to finally sit down and kick back coalesces into a near religious experience (as exhaustion, delusion and/or lack of oxygen often do). Does this make it any less special? Not really. Does the user of high-powered psychedelic drugs discount his/her “religious” experience simply because he/she knows how the chemicals are working on the brain? I don’t really know, actually. But I would speculate that answer is “no” and that it probably becomes a stronger “no” with each successive trip.

If you haven’t been on the top of a mountain, do so. Get the hell out there and abuse your earthly vessel to get to a nice high spot on the globe, you wastrels. If you’ve done it, well, you know and I send you an ethereal high-five. If you haven’t, get cracking. Medical conditions are no excuse. If you’re a fatalist you’ll have no qualms on dying out there anyhow. After all, you have no choice.

There is one particular thing driving Riley and me up and back the aptly named Mt. Massive. One day earlier we had seen a billboard announcing “Hamburgers, 2 for $3! Denver Post voted #1!” Investigation was necessary; we only needed the proper motivation to guarantee the desire to pound these hamburgers into our maws with the explosive gusto suitable for such raucous advertisement. The mountain seemed like a good motivator. Yes, a good choice.

Four hours up and 2.5 hours down. Thirteen miles round trip. Boots feeling like meat tenderizers at the bottom of the trail. We soak our feet in a mountain stream until we can no longer feel them. We catch a ride from three men from North Dakota in a white Suburban. They take us the entire half mile back to our campsite.

I don’t recall the drive into town at all. In the hamburger joint things are quite clear, however. I recall walking into this tiny place and being immediately assaulted by modern “country” music. I recall the two young, feral children trying to catch the attention of the girl behind the counter, the girl with the green hair, the black shirt and the lip piercings (to match the other two visible employees). I recall saying “You guys don’t look like the type to listen to this terrible swill,” to her. “No, not me,” she replies with a giggle. And I certainly recall the food.

Riley: 1 half pound bacon double-cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake.

Adam: 1 quarter pound Avocado cheeseburger, a massive order of chili-cheese fries and a chocolate milkshake.

Both: Euphoria.

Showers at the Leadville Hostel. Brandy and Jones Soda. Two meals of canned goodness cooked under the stars. Hobo fire. Merciful sleep. Tomorrow is the last day in Colorado.

-A