Category: hiking

The Colorado Trail Pt.III

by Jen Roby, posted in America, friends, hiking, life & death, Packing, scary

I got through the mountain towns in The Colorado Trail Pt. I and have come to realize that I am embarking into the remote wilderness. The Colorado Trail Pt.II challenged me mentally far more than physically, but not really due to circumstances from the actual trail.

By this point, I was ready for anything. To be honest, I was expecting it to turn to crap by this point anyway. I was envisioning a hollow shell of my former self slowly pushing her bike up the Rocky Mountains and gasping for breath and food. However, that girl was nowhere to be found, and in her place was this fierce warrior who woke up each morning by the dawn’s light, swiftly packed her little belongings, ate a quick meal bar while skipping stretching, and mindlessly strolled onto her bike, eager for the next eight hours of pedaling, knowing it was eight hours closer to her final destination. I really was getting to Durango, even if I had a busted bike, body, or brain and needed to be wheeled there. This stubborn determination was the main driver in the following days to come.

To recap, my friend Austin came to join me for some segments in the later half. We hadn’t seen good weather for a few days now, and it was beginning to wear on me. I also realized my helmet’s MIPS were busted many months ago, which explained why I was getting so many headaches. To relieve the pain, I would place the helmet on my handlebars, and at one point, I was so frustrated with it getting in the way of my brakes that I punted the helmet clear across the trail into a nearby bush. I felt childish knowing Austin was watching my personal temper tantrum. Between sniffles, I muttered, “It’s not sustainable to leave plastic out here, right?” There is a hint of a smile as he kindly states, “Yeah, you’ll probably want that on the downhill.” This man was my emotional rock, being extra patient with me, and I was grateful for his friendship in the final segments of this trail.

Day eleven and I had lost all my bike repair gear. I didn’t realize in the haste of putting on all my rain gear that I had dropped my bike pump and entire bag of parts. We gathered flowers to create a subtle message for whomever may find my lost gear. (To my surprise, someone in fact did, and I retrieved it a month later in Eagle, Colorado). Had a quick double lunch in Silverton but needed to make miles before nightfall. These next miles were said to be brutally rocky, which is exactly where I suspected my tires would bust.

We ride the rest of the day, taking little breaks, knowing we are on track to finish by tomorrow. There are only 35 miles left to go, and then we are in the final town of Durango! However close it may sound, it still feels so far away as we watch another storm approach. We take a quick dinner break and find the tarp again, despite how wet our clothing already is.

The storm doesn’t seem to break, so we decide to just call it an early night and try our best to stay dry before we head out early in the morning. The rain is pelting us as we quickly set up camp. We are under the protection of a large tree, and Austin feels like a gentleman by giving me the most protected area. I am wary of the spot because there is a large tree root sticking out from the ground. Yet there is no time to delay, so we quickly sprawl out our tents and climb into them for the cold night to engulf us.

Ot has been raining for six straight days, and unfortunately I have no way to air out my equipment inside while riding. All my dry bags even keep the moisture in ironically. I am protecting my electronics before hopping into my wet bivy when I realize I can’t find my wool pants. Great… I guess I will just sleep in the shorts I was wearing all day. My rain gear is dripping, so that is out of the question. Disappointed, I slide into my wet sleeping bag, knowing full well it is no longer useful in 15-degree weather, let alone the 30-something degrees it would get to later that night.

I struggle to find comfort in my bivy that night. Despite which direction I moved it, I was still banana’d over that root and it felt like my head was lower than my feet. It was subtle enough to not bother fixing it due to the heavy amounts of rain still consistently pouring down. I inevitably fall asleep due to the exhaustion from the ride.

BOOM. Around midnight, a loud clap of thunder wakes me. At first, I am simply uncomfortable. My sleeping bag is sticking to my bare legs, and I’m suddenly aware of how wet my socks are. I begin to shiver uncontrollably, but when I try to warm up in the fetal position, I am restricted by the narrow seam of my sleeping bag. My breathing has increased to shallow breaths, and I try to focus on counting deeper breaths. Nothing is working, and after ten minutes of rapid panting, I realize I am having a low-key panic attack. I try not to think about the lack of oxygen in my bivy and begin to focus on counting in hopes of controlling them. I can’t even sit up as I am forced to understand the bivy is much smaller than it already is.

I am slowly being asphyxiated. A quiet, helpless sob escapes me as I pretend I am in front of an open fireplace. I need space, I need warmth, I need air. The sobbing grows louder, and I am hoping Austin is sleeping through it all. His tent is far enough away that he possibly cannot hear me through the rain pelting down. I open my bivy wall enough to let some fresh air in, but I am rudely disturbed by the brisk cold that seeps in.

I am shivering more, and my breath is still shallow. The tears stream down my face, freezing on my cheek as I question if this is how I am going to die. One single cold night, just a day before the finish. Panic continues to swim across my body as I fail to get my fragile body under control. Then blackness consumes me.

BOOM. Another rain cell passes overhead and I awake to the same bad dream. It is only 1 a.m. and I don’t recall falling asleep an hour ago. My body must have been so stressed it completely shut down to reset. By the crick in my neck, I am able to deduce that I passed out suddenly from fear. My body was still freezing, and I felt the beginning of another panic attack approach. My sleeping bag gathers more water with each frustrating turn of my body. The root under my back is digging into me, forcing me to balance on a downward slope as I feel the pool of water collect against my wall. This is my life raft, and I am so close to letting go. Minutes feel like hours as I fight for warmth and oxygen. The rapid shallow breathing returns, followed by the inevitable hopeless sobbing.

Austin calls out from the other tent, “Jen… are you okay…?”

I am not okay. I attempt to speak in between the tears, “Not really… I don’t know how to make this stop.”

He tries to reassure me that it will pass, and I go back to counting my breaths in distraction. No use. I am so desperate that I plea out into the darkness. “Can I come over to your tent?” There is a silence as Austin says what is on both of our minds. You can hear the pain in his voice as he states, “No, I don’t think that is a good idea, Jen. You will just get colder walking into the pouring rain. You need to stay put and keep whatever heat you have. If it helps, I have water in my tent too.”

I wonder if I should use my GARMIN GPS to call for a rescue helicopter- however my past experience with this device failed me. They had to wait until the storm blew over to land on the mountain, and even if they could get to me, it would still take a few hours to organize. I had to accept this was my fate and that even someone as prepared with equipment, test trials, and devices for maps/location could find themselves in this situation.

I feel helpless and at a loss for words. Austin is right. But I don’t know how to ignore everything that is happening right now. I am begging for my life. I once read that hypothermia takes only a few hours to set in. At this rate, I know I wouldn’t last long. Not if my breath continued to stab my heart. I return to my uninterrupted breathing and crying saga until darkness consumes me again.

BOOM. It is now 2am when a third thunderclap wakes me. I can’t believe this is still happening and am convinced I already died. That’s what I get for always chasing type II fun. I just had to feel the rush of living on the edge, and now I am departed, yet trapped in my undertaking.

My neck is now throbbing in pain – I clearly passed out again. I hate this so much. I can’t be dead because the shortness of breath is returning, telling me I am still fighting for what little is left. I am more aware than ever that I am in a coffin being waterboarded. Each pelting drop is felt through my thin walls, and I cannot retain any heat. These final minutes pass ever so slowly as I contemplate how I will actually survive this.

I am cramped on my side to create space for air. Suddenly, there is a warm palm on the small of my back as I feel heat surge through me. My breathing stops, and I am in a fuzzy, peaceful haze. I accept the delirious state I am in as I hear a voice inside my head, soft yet clearly saying, “It’s going to be okay.” I wonder if it is Austin, but I know he is too far away to sound this close. Something, someone is here with me. This tent is so small, but someone is inside here with me. I must be hallucinating or possibly having the worst dream of my life. The peaceful dread is temporary, and my breathing is uncontrollable again. I am so scared as I feel myself slipping away from reality.

I am in limbo, and this is my personal hell.

Flashbacks of all the times I have managed to escape death in the past appear. He has visited me so many times and over so many nights. Yet this time I fear he is finally coming to take me. Everything has led to this point, and I feel the pain of nostalgia recalling that I’ve seen this coming years ago. I am convinced that death must be in the tent with me. I am not sure why he would be so kind as to reassure me, but I am pretty certain that if some light appears, I am totally walking toward its warmth.

Death is beginning to feel like a strange embrace, and in this moment, I would surrender to the whispers of anything that offered solace. My chest aches relentlessly, each breath a tumultuous battle—IN OUT IN OUT IN OUT—like a mother enduring the raw intensity of labor. I ignore the tears that freeze upon my cheeks, my desperate search for oxygen overshadowed by the weight of despair. I crave a reason to cling to life, or perhaps a reason to surrender to this inevitable fate. I am weary of the fight, yet my body resists fiercely, and I am left questioning why this relentless struggle rages on within me. The lightning is within a mile overhead yet now the idea of getting struck by electricity sounds dangerously inviting.

Then I am reassured by a name. Michael. Who is Michael? My nervous system takes over again, and blackness embraces me a final time.

I am greeted by the song a of a single bird as morning light finds it way across my thin wall.

My body is incredibly stiff, and my neck is throbbing in pain. But I am still here. I rip out of my bivvy and sit upright for a long time. I am paralyzed by the senses that flood me. I somehow survived the darkest night of my life – AND WHO WAS MICHAEL? Deep in my gut, I know who he is. He is Saint Michael. I’m not even Catholic and know it was Saint Michael who came to me. In that moment, I recall a second name – Brandon – and quickly brush it off because I know so many Brandons.
I focus on the songbirds and the gentle wind, but I am numb to the perplexing confusion. Did I really make it through last night? Austin steps out of his tent to hand me my wet shoes, and I am aware that this is reality and that I have been given the gift of another day.

I snap out of it as he says, “We are getting the hell out of here today.” I am convinced by those words because I know I would never survive another night in that alpine cold with my damaged gear.

Our spirits lift along with the fog as we start seeing signs that we are 20 miles, 10 miles away from the exit. I am soaring through fields of wildflowers as I recall every night on this trail. Twelve days later, I am able to say I made it. I’m not sure how I did it, but it is almost all over. Just a few more miles and I will be on a real road again, heading toward real food once more. I no longer feel like a machine as my body slowly passes the finish marker. DURANGO. I am finally here and blissfully aware that I have a new life ahead of me.

I took one last photo of myself, a before and after on the trail. While I did not ride in underwear, I really needed to see what the weight of this trail did to me. A lot of people don’t talk about the struggles of someone trying to gain weight, but I honestly tried months prior during training to gain at least 15 more pounds. Despite the 20lbs of protein in my backpack, I knew I would never take in the right amount of calories. The trial was complete, and with it, took a piece of me.

I remember sinking into the longest hot bath that night after finding solace in a cozy bed and breakfast. As I released the tight braids that had confined me, I felt an overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity, as though I had stepped into a different reality. That same day, many miles away, someone else was fighting for their life. It was hours later that I would receive the heartbreaking news about a dear friend who had passed away the same hour, coinciding with my own exit from the wilderness. I find myself still grappling with the questions of when and why people leave us. It feels so unjust that some of us are granted second or even seventh chances, while someone I cherish like a brother has faced a sudden accident. I can’t shake the deep connection to him, both here and beyond, especially since I heard his name, along with that of Michael, echoing in my thoughts that morning. Life can be so cruel and fleeting. Though it is not my story to tell, Brandon will forever hold a place in my heart, and I will always remember that heart-wrenching August night.

Attempted Murder in Missouri

by Jen Roby, posted in Colorado14er, Fourteener Mountains, hiking

Let me first start this off by saying I rarely like to plan out adventures. I enjoy scoping out the overall terrain, but I get this sense of surprise by not looking too much into these class 2 routes. I figure the mountain is there, and I will find the trail.

The morning started just at sunrise. I was still new to hiking on my own, and certainly did not want to encounter any animals at dawn, especially mountain lions. I couldn’t tell you how many stories I’ve heard of morning traill runners encountering their scare of stares.

My personal goal was to hit Missouri mountain, summit, and cut across to the trail that connects to Oxford and ending on Belford. Most hikers would summit this in reverse order, but I purposefully wanted to knock out the most difficult climb first.

I slowly found myself above tree line. While I did not see anyone on the trail all morning, I could see the few spots of people on the ridge of Belford, climbing up.

The climb up Missouri was an endless switchback. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily miss the cairn along the talus rock, and find myself on an entirely new face of the mountain.

It took me a couple hours, but I was finally in the home stretch. I cross the south ridge feeling like I landed on mars. The sand was red clay, and lovely curves cut off to drastic edges.

I slowly found myself above tree line. While I did not see anyone on the trail all morning, I could see the few spots on the ridge of Belford, climbing up.

The climb up Missouri was an endless switchback. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily miss the cairn along the talus rock, and find myself on an entirely new face of the mountain.

It took me a couple hours, but I was finally in the home stretch. I cross the south ridge feeling like I landed on mars. The sand was red clay, and lovely curves cut off to drastic edges.

Found myself on the summit just a few moves later. I was alone, but I was accompanied by the views of the land. I cannot begin to describe the joy I felt a top my tower of solace.

Everything in life just aligned so perfectly in that moment. Until it didn’t.

The trail downloaded from my alltrails app indicated a clear cut across the north face couloir. I later found out this heat map was most likely based on mountain goats.

I slid down the scree with uncertainty. It was a fun speed and I didn’t have to climb back up, so I didn’t see the harm in this route down.

It did not take me long to look ahead and address the MASSIVE 1000+ feet of ICE SLAB that would soon become my life. In a fast approaching panic, I desperately reached around me. The rocks were so loose that I couldn’t find a single one sturdy enough to support my weight.

The sheet of ice was quickly below me and by some miracle, my single poorly-treaded hiking boot stopped me from falling below to my death. I caught my breath, looking at the plunge below me with dread. I knew the foot hold would not last long, and quickly found a jagged, knife-like rock to carve out a hand hold above me.

My life depending on this weak, little foot hold as I found a second rock and utilized it as an ax. Primitive, but effective, I was able to use these two rocks to ax diagonally toward the safety of some slab 400ft away.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I was finally on stable ground, but when I looked above to the distant, VERY distant trail, I was cliffed out. I took off my shirt to use as a towel to wipe off the entire pool of sweat that was now my body. I never sweat. My body must have suddenly went into shock as I used ever inch of concentration and energy to quickly get myself out of the scary situation I was not completely out of.

Frustrated with my lack of knowledge in mountaineering, I was loosing hope and reassurance that I would get out without a broken bone at best. I had to pep-talk myself for a solid twenty minutes that I would get out of this unscratched. It was then that I turned to look above and assess my climb up that I saw a human being above me on the trail. Words cannot express how grateful I am to that one stranger whom I never saw again. Seeing that dark figure of a person above me was enough. I was seen, spotted and accounted for on this mountain. They were simply a symbolic reminder that help is easily on the way should I hurt myself.

With a bolt of energy, I started with my first two hand holds. Then one by one, found my feet. I zoned out into a trance as I spent the next hour climbing into the rest of my un-lived life. To this day I cannot tell you how or what brought my mind and body to jump into this muscle memory. If past lives exist, surely I had summited Everest.

The next hour was the best hour of my life. I made it down the mountain, embracing every moment with gratuity. I had so much to see and conquer and this was just the beginning.

However I did loose an hour and was doubting if I could finish the other two summits before nightfall. It was then that I encountered a trail running blazing from the meadow up Missouri. As we crossed paths, he stopped to greet me. I was a little frazzled from my recent dance with death, and he clearly noticed. This kind man took the time to ask what I did, and where I was going. After sharing my story and my hopeful goal to summit the other two, he was the final push I needed to validate I could do it.

So I picked up my pace and spent the next hour in pure bliss, reminiscing on past life and excited about future. The clouds were drifting away into a blanket of blue around me.

From the saddle, I could see the long stretch of elevation decline and gain I would experience before hitting Oxford. I was game. BRING IT.

With a new sense of step, I hurried my way up to the second summit. It was so much better than the first, and I’m pretty sure they were the same views.

I made it across to my last summit of Belford by 4:30pm and celebrated. The weather was completely on my side all day, despite my decisions going against me. I was low on water, after all I packed 16 oz to wet my mouth between summits. I was training myself to drink lots of water before and after the hike, but during just under 20oz.

Anyways, I met a nice old man on my last summit. He offered me water after we spoke about our days and our evenings ahead. He was my moral support system to help me get down and chase darkness out of the woods.

Lesson learned today: never again will I underestimate the power of a pile of rocks. These mountains are majestic and can trial you in many ways.

Some still say its organic shapes were a reflection of the constant movement of thoughts on never-ending ideas. It was remarkable but prudent, complex but minimal, and it’s geometrical lines contrasted beautifully with the curly waves that defined it.

This was my sanctuary, the place where I could go to rest, but also to celebrate. You only have to walk a few steps into the woods to understand the mysterious peace of the valley. Was it the endless organic shapes? Was it the assurance of its geometrical lines? Or was it simply the mountain?

Capitol Peak

by Jen Roby, posted in Colorado14er, Fourteener Mountains, hiking

Aside from Little Bear Peak, Capitol Peak, is considered the state’s most difficult 14er to climb. Scraping the sky at 14,137 feet, this is Colorado’s 32nd highest mountain. Don’t let that number fool you, the fatalities are sharp and quick.

I was already glowing with glory as I drove away from Little Bear heading toward Capitol. I couldn’t turn down the invite to climb the hardest class 4 the Colorado Fourteeners have to offer. While Capitol Peak was planned for weeks, I wanted to put my body to the test and climb them back to back, less than 24 hours apart. I’ve climbed 3 and 4 mountains in one day, so theoretically I felt prepared for this boomerang.

Began the drive into the trailhead with an exciting surprise – I SAW MY FIRST COLORADO BEAR. Only took 4 years of living here. I suppose climbing Little Bear that morning must have opened some mystic portal to all the bear viewing. Anyway I was grateful for the close encounter and found my friend Jenny. We set up camp in her fancy Tepui and quickly found sleep.

That night was restless. I tossed and turned in my sleep as my stomach growled. I had enough food. I thought I had enough water. Why did I feel so nauseous? Almost feverish, experiencing hot flashes but writing it off as the amazing insulation of Jennys’ Tepui tent.

The four of us set out at 3am, well before sunrise. Lillian gracefully lept across cow patties in the pasture, meanwhile Jenny and Brandon stared at the meteor shower above. Our goal was to meet our two friends, Dan and Katie, camping at Capitol Lake. My stomach was still hurting, as if I had food poisoning and was carrying a stone.

We found them just after 6am, when they were scheduled to leave without us. I rejoiced as we approached them waiting on a rock off the trailhead. We look behind us and another hiker is quick on our trail. Who was it? JEFF! The fun California botanist who was invited to join our group to avoid going alone.

Sunrise found us quietly and we watched the lake below wake up from our saddle perch. The group somehow grew to eight as two others from the trailhead teamed up with us. I wasn’t expecting, nor hoping for a large group, but the personalities vibed on the same frequency.

We started out giggly and eager. Each step was a brisk, yet slow roll into the morning. Meanwhile my hands were sweating and I felt much slower than normal.

We spent almost an hour crossing this field of talus. The talus turned into large boulder slabs, and we joyfully bounced across them. Everyone spread out and made their own adventure through the valley, always waiting for the group to catch up on major segments. I took a look around our group on the mini snack break and knew I had enough in me to carry on with them. The air filled with positivity and I couldn’t let myself or them down. Clearly I wasn’t sick enough to turn around, or I would have.

Eventually we approached K2 – a brief taste of exposure that requires technical climbing down. The rock was solid compared to Little Bear Peak, but we each helped one another spot the loose slabs just in case.

One tricky move before touching the lower trail toward the knife edge was to stretch your body down a few feet, hoping to find a decent foot hold before letting go of the secure slab above.

Today it was this type 2 kinda fun that kept me going! I was monitoring my breaths, but aside from that, didn’t really know what signs to look for that would make me stop and turn around. Vomiting? No way.

The knife edge found us with open arms. Literally. We hugged that skinny slab of rock like our lives depended on it. Actually, they really did depend on it.

A few weeks prior, a young man died at this exact point. Some speculate it was during the floods and the rock was slippery. A rescue team of three came to search for the body, however they were each injured by falling rocks (from climbers above) and helicoptered out. It was a tragic accident that left the body uncovered.

Needless to say, I did my best to avoid thinking about the poor guy resting below me as I battled my own health. I slowly scooted across, finding renewed energy in each burst of adrenaline. One should make it across if they straddle the rock across the entire 600 ft stretch.

After the knife edge, you mentally feel like you are already at the summit. Our group continued on for another hour or so, climbing rock after rock.

The routes are not easily marked at this point, but if you look hard, you can spot the cairns, or as our friend like to called them, “Rock Ducks”.

My stomach was not letting up despite the water, medicine, electrolytes and salt tabs my friends gave me. I had never felt this way after or during a climb and assumed it must have been something I ate between climbing Little Bear to Capitol.

My energy levels were lower than normal, despite training my body for years to survive on so little water. Something was wrong, but I was determined, and to be honest, too far to turn around now. So I sucked it up, and slowed down my breath, focusing on each step.

We made it to the top by 11am, and what felt like my last lung. It was so rewarding to soak up the blue skies and lakes below. I found my seat and sprawling across the rock, ready to fall into a deep sleep. The group trailed in, one by one, and the eight of us had the summit to ourselves!

Throughout the years hiking fourteeners, never had I found a crew so dial-ed into summit snacks. Jenny came prepared with her chocolate-dipped dehydrated fruit, twizzlers, and mini peanut butter pretzels. Dan arrived with sardines over salted crackers and wasabi peas. I felt so basic with my apple and had to laugh feeling like we were comparing elementary school lunches.

We spent a good hour at the top, enjoying each others company and cracking jokes. In all honesty, we probably were just dreading to climb back down. Eventually another group approached and we took our queue to scramble out. Somehow climbing down a summit always feels longer than climbing up. We achieved our greatness, we peaked, and now all that is left is go down.

The nausea was not fading, and each step became difficult. My stomach pounded in unpredictable pain, so much that it hurt to talk. When I finally approached the knife edge, I was actually concerned. I’ve been on 53 summits now, and never had I doubted myself on a mountain. I was scared to black out mid-straddle across the cliff. It certainly was helpful to have seven friends ahead and behind me, silently supporting as we each made our way through the trenches.

There was only one difficult spot where I became dizzy and saw spots. The mountain moved all around me and I had to stop crawling on the knife edge. I was practicing all five points of contact (hands, feet, and chest) as I took in deep breaths. I knew I shouldn’t linger long, so I kept moving, and reached the side of safety with a big exhale.

We carried on many more miles throughout the day – I started to realize that maybe it wasn’t my lunch and that I was possibly experiences symptoms of severe dehydration. I didn’t notice because I skipped the moderate signs of headaches and went straight into fight or flight mode. Yet the end was more in sight that ever, and that kept me going with each step closer to home.

We all made it back to the trailhead parking lot around 5pm. After 20+ miles of hiking that day, including the Little Bear summit and road hike down, I was spent. I bolted to the nearest town of Aspen to resupply on water and food, hoping to set myself up for the four hour drive home to Denver. I started driving only twenty minutes when my eyes began to blur and I swerved my car over the median more than twice. It was clear I couldn’t drive, so I pulled over in Glenwood Springs to car camp until morning.

I was grateful to know when to stop and rest. The next morning I awoke with 110% energy again and found myself in a nice coffee shop around 6am. Coffee in hand, I got back on the highway to make the 3.5 hour trip home. To my surprise I SAW ANOTHER BEAR CROSSING THE ROAD 20ft IN FRONT OF ME. There were no other cars on the highway when the fluffy black/brown big guy ran across the empty road. Pretty sure Little Bear Peak took my wish to see a bear and granted me with two big bears, back to back.

Moral of my story. Drink more water?

When do you make the SOS call?

by Jen Roby, posted in America, Colorado14er, Fourteener Mountains, hiking

🚨
My voice echoed throughout the gullies as I shouted for @sturgeon.dan – my hiking bud had been missing for 30min.
🌨
We were last together on Kit Carson, our attention on the clouds. They were unlike anything I’d seen, playful pillows hiding behind the summit. I saw another cluster in the distance. Were they closing in on us? I warned Dan that we had about 30min – whatever was coming, we would be in the eye of it.
🌪
I paced the avenue as 1/2 blizzards dumped, debating on if I should go back to search for him. The snow was hitting from all directions & I lost vision. My heart pumped as a memory of my CapHill 1BD entered; Matt and I playing rummy in front of a fireplace. I could hear the fire cracking as my toes soaked through a 2nd set of socks. I could feel the purr of Chip as my fingers became numb from scrambling. I wanted so badly to be on the couch with them.

🚁
The 2nd blizzard hit & the reality of the situation settled in. Dan may not get off this mountain. If he is in need of help, rescue could take over 12hrs & the snow could cover him. Screw the fees, how can you put a price on someones life? My hands shook as I held down the SOS button on the Garmin InReach. Then watched the 20sec countdown commence.
🆘
Better to search for 1 person than 2. I marched across the ridge line, bullied by wind. It blocked all sound, except for the GPS device, which synced morbid beeps to my heartbeat. I constantly looked behind me for a silhouette. BREATHE. Finally saw a figure & broke down in tears. HE IS ALIVE! I quickly cancelled the call for emergency rescue.
🗻
3/20 hikers summited this snowy class 3. The other guy began at 2am. 15mi post-holing over 14hrs.
Looking back I am not regretful nor wiser. We had the energy & skill to accomplish, but losing a hiker is unspeakable. A truly remarkable, memorable hike that left my bones rattled and mind full of gratitude.
🤯
𝟷𝟺𝚎𝚛: Challenger + Kit Carson
𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 14,081’ + 14,165’
𝙻𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: Westcliffe, CO
𝚃𝙷: Willow Creek
𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎: 15 miles
𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙶𝚊𝚒𝚗: 6,250’
𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜: ♦️♦️♦️