14,005ft.
Sawatch Range
18/58

I wrote about my tumultuous history with hiking during my Spain trek, you can read about it here: https://thedandelionforest.wordpress.com/2018/03/31/3-31-my-hiking-autobiography-178912-steps-customer-service-matters/

Here are a few more details …

2010: Two of my high school friends hiked a 14er, I thought they were insane. We’re in high school I remember thinking, high schoolers don’t do that stuff. And I distinctly remember thinking it sounded miserable and that I had no interest, ever.

July 2013: A good friend mentioned she would be attempting her first 14er later in the week with two other friends and said I was welcome to join if I wanted to. I was terrified, but despite my hesitancy, I knew deep down I would opt to tag along.

July 28th, 2013: Before I left, my parents lectured me about the potentially dangerous and unpredictable weather we might face, I probably rolled my eyes because you’re on a mountain, you can see the clouds coming in, right?

The four of us met up to pack the car and we were on our way. I’d never heard of Mount of the Holy Cross before; in fact I’d never heard of any 14ers besides Mount Bierstadt, the ones my crazy friends climbed in high school. Honestly, I didn’t know anything about what I was getting myself into.

We car camped at the trailhead and woke up in the pouring rain, surrounded by darkness and fog. I somehow decided to bring a rain jacket, another friend ended up with a make-shift garbage bag poncho. Rationalizing that we were over three hours from home and there was a chance the weather would burn off, we opted to hit the trail and “see how far we make it.”

We kept putting one foot in front of the other until we were two miles in, at which point the trail began steeply going down and down and down until we lost all of the elevation we had gained within the third mile. And then up again for what seemed like miles. We were slow, we were drenched, we were tired and we still couldn’t see further than twenty feet in front of us. Just as we began to break tree line, which gave me the (retrospectively) false illusion that we were close, two men came running down the mountain. They warned us of the lightening they had just encountered and advised we turned around.

We took their suggestion. I remember realizing what my parents meant as we hiked down (and then up and then down) and I remember thinking they’d probably be even more proud of our decision to turn around than they would have been if we had summited. I felt okay with our decision because I was exhausted and way out of my physical element and because the mosquitos were awful, but I also spent the following five years believing I had been within steps of summiting my first 14er.

June 26th – 27th 2018: Mount of the Holy Cross had been a giant mental block for me since my first attempt; but it was on my list for this summer and I resolved I needed to tackle it independently. That summer I’d already hiked a 14er on my own (Mount Yale) and I had encountered car trouble and a mountain lion; two of my three greatest fears going into the summer. As I began crafting my plan for this trip, I decided I would backpack and stay in the established campsites three miles in, so I did, making it my first solo backpacking trip.

Arlo and I hiked up and then down, picked a campsite and I set up the tent. I was fairly certain I was the only person around until a group of six guys about my age strolled past and said hello. I was admittedly pleased with their surprise at the fact I was there by myself, I was also admittedly releived to know there were other people nearby.

On par with my last Holy Cross attempt, the mosquitos were awful, actually the worst I’d ever seen. Although I was hungry, I retreated to my tent and decided I’d make dinner with my headlamp after it got a little bit darker, a little bit colder and hopefully a little bit less mosquito-y. I journaled, read for a little bit and the next thing I knew, I woke up to my 0400 alarm, I snoozed for an hour an a half, rationalizing that I didn’t have far to go and began my hike around 0600.

I reached tree line, roughly the spot where we had turned around last time, and quickly realized how wrong I had been in my estimation of how close we had been the last time I attempted this mountain. The summit wasn’t even in sight yet and in that moment I knew there was no way I would’ve summited back in 2013, lightening or no lightening. I felt particularly weak this day as well, but I chalked it up to my lack of dinner and allowed myself a slow pace.

During one of my frequent rest breaks a guy from Kansas caught up to me. We made small talk for a few minutes until he jetted off ahead of me. I continued on at my turtle pace and bumped into my six friends from the night before, who had begun their hike much earlier than I had and were on their way down. We exchanged hellos again and continued on our ways.

I finally summited and found my Kansas friend literally waiting for me on top. “Congratulations!” he genuinely said, “I waited for you because I thought you might want a picture at the top,” he told me. I was simultaneously incredibly thankful and embarrassed as I thought about my pace and how long he must’ve been waiting. He took summit photos for me and gave me coffee and then I exchanged a few extra minutes at the top for a companion on the way down. We talked the entire way about our jobs, snowboarding, our siblings and our favorite Disney movies and we were at my campsite in no time.

He stayed and chatted with me while I packed up camp and he offered to help me carry things out. I initially declined, wanting to finish the experience on my own, but ended up giving him my empty daypack. I had shed all of my layers due to heat and didn’t have room to squeeze it into my pack. It hardly weighed a thing, I rationalized, it was just awkward. As we began walking out of camp and towards the mile of steep incline, I told my friend to continue ahead of me. He had been talking about swimming in the river once we got to the trailhead, something I had no intentions of doing, and I knew I’d be taking the next mile slowly. I said he could leave my backpack at my car if he needed to leave but he told me he’d be there and ran off without waiting for an explanation of my car.

When I finally made it back to the trailhead, I found my backpack nicely and obviously leaned against a tree with a kind note explaining he needed cell phone service but to call him if I wanted to grab food in Vail. I did, we did and a friend I hiked Longs Peak with, who lives in Vail, met up with us as well.

As the unlikely group of us ate pizza and laughed together, I thought about the people I’ve lost touch with over the past few months. Some because life keeps going on and others with more painful, sometimes explanation-less, exits. (Quick tangent about how I think ghosting is one of the most patronizing things you can do to a person. If there isn’t a place for someone in your life, that’s okay, but allow them closure, be a decent human being and tell them so. Please.)

And then I thought about the two people I was sitting with. One, a bosom friend, I’d met through instagram just two weeks prior and another I met and maintained a friendship with because he chose to extend me multiple, unnecessary but deeply appreciated, acts of kindness.

In that moment, I remember condoning my decision to run to the mountains because the consistent quality of people I’d been meeting in them were the quality of people I long to surround myself with.

It’s been three months since I hiked Mount of the Holy Cross – my first 14er attempt and then my first solo backpacking trip and eighteenth 14er five years later – and I’ve talked to both of those two people within the week, as well as the friend who invited me along on Mount of the Holy Cross the first time.

Forever thankful for my mountain community; you all are a unique breed and I can’t say it enough. Thank you for being one of the reasons that keep me running back (or walking slowly, because I didn’t eat dinner the night before).