14,092ft.

Elk Range

The day before this trip commenced, I stopped by a good friend’s house to pick up some gear he was letting me borrow. I had a rare moment to spare in this unsustainable life style I’m currently living, so I sat on his porch, drank a cup of coffee and pretended to actually have a summer for thirty minutes. My eyes welled up with tears as I confessed to him that I was dreading my upcoming plans.

They welled up even more as I processed through the truth that popped out of my mouth: I was dreading doing one of the things I love most in this world.

As I sat in the doctors office a few weeks prior listening to my prognosis and making a game plan, he mentioned I could do whatever I could tolerate without increasing my risk. I instantly latched onto that form of permission and was thrust into this odd security-less peace of mind rooted in being able to dive back into my favorite activities without increasing the damage I had already done.

But as the plans I made got closer, it was the other side of that reality that began weighing on me: there is damage already done. Damage that is inherently irreversible. Damage that makes my back look like it shouldn’t belong to someone within their first several decades of life. Damage that causes me tolerable but nagging pain 24/7.

Tolerance is relative, but MRIs don’t lie. And at the end of the day, I want to enjoy my mountains, not “tolerate” them.

Regardless, the plans were made. Work was rearranged, gear was borrowed and my companionship was promised. I didn’t know if I’d make it over a mile, let alone a few steps, with my forty-ish pound pack, but I resolved I would attempt to follow thorough. I hate being in pain, but I hate sitting around even more. And I’ve done the latter, more or less, for nine months, now.

I got home from work at 2am the night before we were going to leave, went to bed at 3am and woke up in a panic at 7am. I yanked myself out of bed, hopped in the car and drove to yoga, thinking it would serve me better than an extra hour and a half of sleep. My friend showed up to my house just after 10am and we were off to pick up friend number two.

These two pals didn’t know each other beforehand but I’d adventured with each of them several times and knew they’d get along. One is a co-worker and dear friend, the other I met on top of a different mountain and he quickly became a routine hiking partner. I trust each one of them, their knowledge of mountains and their ability to take on what we were about to encounter, entirely. They were both well aware of my ongoing condition and preemptively generous with patience, understanding and carrying a few extra pounds each.

I spent the car ride “foam rolling” my leg with my water bottle, anxiety steadily rising. I had no idea what to expect, maybe I’d get ten steps into this adventure and opt to hang out at the trailhead for thirty hours while they pressed on without me.

We arrived at the trailhead and made our final preparations. I put my pack on my back and hesitantly put one foot in front of the other. And kept doing so, over and over. To my surprise it felt natural, as if this is what my body was craving all along. In an inexplicable way, I felt less pain walking at an incline with a forty pound pack on my back than I have walking my dog this entire year (or sitting in a classroom or laying in bed, for that matter). I was both elated and skeptical and I kept quite about how well I was doing for fear of rapid deterioration or jinxing myself.

As if my condition didn’t pose enough variables, the route we were attempting had no recent condition reports. A recent local news article suggested that because of record snowfall this year, “14er season” would be pushed from the usual June-start to August.

“Unless you’re equipped to trek through snow and climb over ice, don’t plan on summiting a 14er anytime soon.” — Rachel Leuthauser

We were prepared to trek through snow and climb through ice. We had the ice axes, harnesses, helmets, crampons, shovels, avalanche probes, beacons, gaiters, layers and snow shoes to show for it. What we weren’t prepared for were the giant avalanche debris piles we frequently encountered. We found ourselves routinely climbing over, under and around wobbly branches enduring repetitively scratched up legs, ever careful of the well-being of our ankles, trying to avoid the inevitable snaring of our packs as they caught on branches.

Due to a late start and the unexpected debris piles, we found ourselves miles from where we intended to be as it began to get dark. Around dusk we necessarily strapped on our snow shoes and continued navigating with the aid of head lamps and a trusty GPS. We finally neared what was supposed to be a “creek crossing” and to our dismay stumbled upon the largest avalanche aftermath of them all (see photo #11). The entire creek and distal lake were flooded with trees and it was difficult to discern debris on sturdy ground from floating debris, especially in the dark. Due to the safety concern and the fact that it was nearly midnight, we made the decision to find a place to set up camp. Somehow, in the midst of the wreckage, we managed to find a patch of cleared mud just big enough to pitch our tents.

We set up camp, prepared our coveted freeze dried meals and talked of tentative plans for the following day. And then we crashed. I have never slept so well in a tent in my entire life and according to my friends I sleep-mumbled to prove it.

The next morning we all turned off our alarms without touching base with each other and woke up slightly later than planned as a result — probably due to an underlying pessimism of our summit odds given the previous days conditions.

Eventually, we all poked our heads out of our tents and took in the grandeur of what surrounded us — both the distant mountain peaks and the rubble we were encapsulated by.

My body was stiff with the predictable backpacking aches and my legs stung from scratches induced by sticks and a few unfortunate episodes of thigh-deep post-holing, but it seemed nothing more than that. “Maybe this is what I needed to heal me,” I whispered to my friend with continued disbelief and skepticism.

The three of us decided we would press on and see what the morning brought. We packed our day packs and began walking along towards where we thought a path should be. Eventually, we made it to ground untouched by avalanche.

But what the proceeding section of the trail lacked in avalanche debris, it made up for in a steep ascent on deep, sticky snow. As we switchbacked up this section, I quickly realized my legs were not strong or healthy enough to support my weight, or catch me should I start to fall, when my feet were on uneven ground. Thusly, I did most of this traverse with my back facing downward, sidestepping along rather than putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time we made it out of that switchback section, I was achy and fatigued enough to accept there would be no summit for me that day. Regardless of what my friends chose to do, I planned to make it to the lake at the base of Snowmass Mountain and then head back to camp.

I shuffled along at a distance, weighing the reality of what was going on, saddened by the short lived respite I’d had. But also maintaining feelings of peace about my decision to do what was best for me, hope about the treatments and strength training I will soon be seeking and pride towards everything I had endured to get me to that very moment.

I thought about the mountains I climbed and the lessons I’d learned the previous summer. I thought about the sights I’d seen and the people I’d met through those endeavors — one of which I was presently hiking with. I thought about how I’d spent the past year working full time and in school full time — how I would be finishing with no debt and all A’s. I thought about the roller-coaster my personal life has been on and the 24/7 physical pain I’ve endured through those efforts. I thought about how I’ve managed to maintain relationships with people I care about during the chaos of these months. And I thought about how I’ve continued to hold my head high despite all of it.

When I reached the lake and saw the surrounding mountain silhouettes and my two friends enjoying each other’s company in the distance, I began to cry. They were mainly happy tears because at one point this past year, when my pain was at its worst, I sincerely wondered if I’d ever be able to see a sight like this again. But here I was. I didn’t know what the next day would bring in spite or because of my decision to be here, but for now, I was here and that was all that mattered.

As I approached my friends to gauge their plans for the rest of the day, we found ourselves quickly surrounded by un-forecasted storm clouds. We snapped a few photos as snow began falling and then an instant flash occurred. We all looked around in an attempt to figure out why one of us had taken a picture with a flash, but a giant clap of thunder answered that question instead. We quickly gathered our belongings and collectively made our three mile journey back to camp under occasional thunder claps and a mild drizzle.

The trip was filled with several unpredicted and unwelcome nature curve-balls, but we managed to make it to camp before it began pouring. We yelled to each other over the sound of raindrops on tents and agreed we would wait out the storm for thirty minutes — if it hadn’t cleared by then, we’d pack up camp and make a break for it.

The next thing I remember is waking up to the welcomed warmth of sunshine radiating through the tent.

We packed up our pitiful but perfect little campsite and began the six mile trek out. The miles passed with laughter, quality conversation and, of course, talk of what kind of food we were craving most.

I don’t know when this pain will go away, but I know that mountain will always be there and I know I’ll reattempt it again someday when I feel fit to do so. I know my priority now is my internship and continued recovery so that I can continue standing on top of figurative and literal future mountains. And I know I’m surrounded by the best people a girl could ask for while I do all of those things.

Here’s what else: I know debris in your path doesn’t mean you have to turn around. Sometimes turning around might be the right thing to do, and that’s okay, too. But other times it’s okay just to sit in it. To pitch a tent right in the smack-dab middle of the mess and stubbornly wait out the night. The sun will come up, because it always does, and you can poke your head out of your tent and clearly see where you’re going — remind yourself that what your working towards and striving for is, in fact, in the distance even if there are still a few more miles of floating tick-infested pine trees to obstacle-course yourself over first.

“Some of it you learn the hard way, some of it you read on a page, some of it comes from heartbreak, most of it comes with age. And none of it ever comes easy — a bunch of it you maybe can’t use. I know I don’t probably know what I think I do, but there’s something to some of it.” — Eric Church