14,092ft. | Elk Range | 43/58

I spent the second half of April and the first half of May participating in a restrictive diet called Whole30. If you haven’t heard of it, mainly all you need to know is: you can’t eat anything convenient or anything you normally crave and Crumbl cookies are definitely out.

I loved it. But I also really love those cookies and you better believe the second I could eat one again, I did.

And I don’t really know why I’m even saying this except to say something along the lines of: multiply walking in the front doors of Crumbl for the first time after thirty days by one million and that comes a little close to how I felt about being in the presence of one of these massive piles of rock again.

The mountains have become a piece of who I am over these past few years. So much so, that I feel like a piece of me goes missing when I’m injured or stuck inside or coronavirus changes my plans or any significant amount of time passes without running off to play (/ hide) in them.

But then I set foot on a trail and I instantly find what felt missing. There’s a synergy present that I haven’t encountered anywhere else — my phone is on airplane mode, my legs know what to do, I breathe a little deeper, I smile a little wider. I crave it and if I could bottle up how I feel in those moments, I would; because even if it isn’t, at that moment, everything feels right.

This hike was no exception.

I first attempted Snowmass Mountain the first week of June 2019. But due to lingering snow, extensive avalanche debris covering large stretches of the trail and the overall grandeur of this mountain and the 22mi trek that accompanies it, we turned around at Snowmass Lake, approximately eight miles in. It was the right choice for that trip. (You can read more about all of that here).

Something I’ve been working on embracing recently is the notion that you can’t base your expectations for a present climb off of one that happened in the past — even if it’s the same trail, it’s a new day with new conditions and circumstances and characters and one million other factors that will never be reproduced in that exact way ever again. I’m using that as a metaphor for a lot of life-things these days and in light of it, I try to go into each adventure with a fresh mindset. That being said, I found myself blinking and rubbing my eyes on this trail an absurd amount. In mid-May 2020, there was a fraction of the snow early-June 2019 maintained. It felt like an entirely different place on the map.

I’ll be honest, in light of my experience last year, I went into this climb with low expectations for summiting. I even joked with a friend or two about how an unsuccessful attempt at Snowmass Mountain would be my 14er-season-kickoff tradition.

But then we passed the place where I had to put on my snowshoes last year and there was no snow to be seen. And with each mile gained and each difference noted from there, I felt more and more hopeful about actually standing on top of Snowmass Mountain this go around.

And one thing I knew to be true the whole time? If I had any shot at summiting, I was in the right company. I can’t say enough praises about the people I climb with and consider mentors in my outdoor endeavors — they are patient and humble and kind, they believe in me and they challenge me and for some reason most of them keep inviting me back (even though I’m a slow poke and I fall in tree wells face first and catapult my phone into icy rivers and make them put my food away because I don’t feel like putting my boots back on).

This climbing partner was no exception.

Despite the better than expected trail conditions, this was a tough climb for me. I completely lost any semblance of a workout routine during current world events — in the past two months I’ve live-streamed yoga three times, “hiked” a few insignificant local trails and I didn’t eat cookies for thirty days — and here I was attempting a 22mi round trip with a heavy pack, too little sleep, nearly 6,000ft of elevation to be gained, unbroken-in shoes and a mostly good attitude.

All of that to say, after it was all said and done and I finally drug my achy, stubborn, windburned self onto that funny looking summit boulder, I turned down a summit beer. It’s not that I felt unsafe (because I never did). Or that I was out of my element (because I was 101% in my element). Or that I was too far from my comfort zone (because I was always the perfect amount out of my comfort zone).

I think it’s mostly that I felt like, despite standing at 14,092ft, the real time to sit and celebrate and take in everything would be when we were back on solid ground.

And we did just that. After the calculated steps along the snowy ridge and the snow climbing down grades as high as 60% and the packing up camp and the post-holing and summoning all of my balance for the creek crossings (and not hurling my phone into the creek, this time), we sat in the sunshine on a rock overlooking a lake, watched a beaver swim around and I drank my summit beer approximately 4,000ft below the summit.

I didn’t want to leave, and I think I even voiced that multiple times as we sat there. But shortly afterwards, we arrived at the trailhead to a bear-paw-print covered truck and drove home — because all adventures come to an end. I’m just so damn thankful to know that, knowing me, it won’t be long before the next one comes along.

And on second thought, I think I’m glad I can’t bottle up those feelings I wrote about earlier, because chasing them keeps my adventure spirit strong, my motivation high and my fervor for life sustained.

___

A few weeks back, I took care of a kind elderly man on the ambulance. “You know, until I got sick, I rode my bicycle every single day,” he told me at one point “.. and in my lifetime I’ve climbed forty-three of Colorado’s fourteeners,” he continued, with notable nostalgia. “No way?!” I said. “I’ve climbed forty-two!” and then his eyes lit up and we talked favorites and mountains and the importance of being able to look back on your life and know you made the most of it. I thought of him a lot during my time spent on and around Snowmass Mountain.

I included that sentiment in an instagram post of me on the summit. And then, completely by chance, I encountered that same man at the hospital a few hours after I posted it.

I went in his room and asked if he remembered me, he did. I told him that as of the day before we were tied and he responded by telling me he needed to get better so he could catch back up to me. I quickly showed him a few photos of the hike, including one I’d snapped of the alpenglow from Snowmass Lake. “I wish I had a copy of that,” he marveled.

One emergency trip to-Walgreens-before-it-closed later and we both had a 5×7” copy of that photo in hand.

What a funny, full-circle, wild life. And wow, I really love it.

___

I suppose I’d really quickly like to address the fact that I haven’t written about any of my November – March hikes here; writing was kind of tough for awhile there. I still might scrounge up some words about them. But if I don’t, know they fall right into place with all of the usual mountain sentiments — they were just a little colder. Okay, here’s some Snowmass pictures now ..

“To be prosperous would not require much of me — you see contentment is the one thing it entails. To be content with where I am and getting where I need to be, and moving past the past where I have failed. You see, I’m finally catching onto it: the past is just a conduit. (I’m on the up and up and I haven’t given up on what I know I’m capable of).”

Relient K (Up & Up)