Sure enough, climbing a 14,000-foot mountain is harder than running a marathon. How's that?
Running 26.2 miles is merely putting one foot in front of the other. I covered the Dallas White Rock in just over four hours. Climbing Humboldt Peak in Colorado was putting one foot in front of the other, but with each and every painstaking step landing at a different elevation and meticulously placed as to not plant on a jagged rock or, worse, off a wind-swept ridge.
My final score: 12 miles. 4,200 feet of elevation. 11 hours. 1 giant appreciation for climbers.
And, yes, it's extremely likely that while writing this I'll get a cramp in my calf or foot. Or both.
My guide/trail boss was a high-school buddy who's climbed all 53 of the 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado. He's a proud 14er. But for most of Wednesday, he was my worst enemy.
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Stayed Tuesday night in the quaint little town of Westcliffe - complete with its quilting festivals and white-bearded prospectors - at the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Range of the Rockies in southern Colorado. The alarms went off at 4:45 a.m. After a breakfast of granola-infused yogurt, we made the 45-minute drive up to Humboldt Peak's trailhead.
Gorgeous sunrise. Zero humidity. Temps in the 50s, topping out around 80. Not a breath of wind. And not a hint of noise. All good.
Or so I thought.
To train for this excursion I worked my way up to 45 minutes on a stair-climber at Lifetime Fitness, covering a little more than two computerized miles. In retrospect it was the equivalent of playing catch with Nolan Ryan, then digging into the batter's box thinking I could subsequently hit him.
My guide estimated the round trip would take eight hours. Less than 100 steps in I knew I was in for trouble and a much longer day. Because nothing can replicate the oxygen-deprivation you feel, even at our starting point of around 10,000 feet. Or the uneven, unpredictable surfaces your feet - and your brain - are forced to navigate.
Armed with six bottles of water, a Gatorade, multiple pouches of Gu energy gel, trekking poles and a 16-pound backpack, I started up the 2.6 mile road that would lead to the trail up Humboldt Peak. I was out of breath within 200 yards. Altitude acclimation is not a gift. And there are no shortcuts.
Gorgeous sunrise. Zero humidity. Temps in the 50s, topping out around 80. Not a breath of wind. And not a hint of noise. All good.
Or so I thought.
To train for this excursion I worked my way up to 45 minutes on a stair-climber at Lifetime Fitness, covering a little more than two computerized miles. In retrospect it was the equivalent of playing catch with Nolan Ryan, then digging into the batter's box thinking I could subsequently hit him.
My guide estimated the round trip would take eight hours. Less than 100 steps in I knew I was in for trouble and a much longer day. Because nothing can replicate the oxygen-deprivation you feel, even at our starting point of around 10,000 feet. Or the uneven, unpredictable surfaces your feet - and your brain - are forced to navigate.
Armed with six bottles of water, a Gatorade, multiple pouches of Gu energy gel, trekking poles and a 16-pound backpack, I started up the 2.6 mile road that would lead to the trail up Humboldt Peak. I was out of breath within 200 yards. Altitude acclimation is not a gift. And there are no shortcuts.
(continued from page 2)
After about 45 minutes I caught my breath and thought I was doing okay, until I was briskly passed by a 20-something girl ... and her dog. There was something both beautiful and eerie about the scenery and the sounds. Only thing you can see at the start are Snowshoe Hares, unfathomably tall Aspen trees and the ominous backdrop of mountains that look photo-shopped onto a green screen.
It is beautiful. It is terrifying. I've never been here before. And I'm not certain I belong here now.
The first four hours were actually tolerable. Slow, steady and taxing, each step higher than the previous. Imagine climbing two stairs at a time, until you're at a point so high the trees stop growing. But after passing three lakes, numerous deer, elk, chipmunks, ptarmigan and pika, we traversed the countless switchbacks and arrived at the 13,000-foot "saddle", which served as the ramp-up to Humbolt Peak's summit.
"Almost there," my buddy says. "Just a straight shot."
Can't tell you how hard I wanted to punch him and his Texas A&M 12th-man jersey. "Straight shot" was actually 1,000 feet of pebbles, rocks, boulders and zero trace of a path. Where once there was a defined trail with identifiable steps, there was now just a boulder field as high as I could see.
It is beautiful. It is terrifying. I've never been here before. And I'm not certain I belong here now.
The first four hours were actually tolerable. Slow, steady and taxing, each step higher than the previous. Imagine climbing two stairs at a time, until you're at a point so high the trees stop growing. But after passing three lakes, numerous deer, elk, chipmunks, ptarmigan and pika, we traversed the countless switchbacks and arrived at the 13,000-foot "saddle", which served as the ramp-up to Humbolt Peak's summit.
"Almost there," my buddy says. "Just a straight shot."
Can't tell you how hard I wanted to punch him and his Texas A&M 12th-man jersey. "Straight shot" was actually 1,000 feet of pebbles, rocks, boulders and zero trace of a path. Where once there was a defined trail with identifiable steps, there was now just a boulder field as high as I could see.
(continued from page 3)
And for the next two hours I put my poles away and climbed - not hiked - like Spiderman. On all fours, tediously navigating from rock to rock. All the while knowing - but trying to forget - that a mistake or slip could lead to a fatal finale. It was at this point that fatigue, frustration and altitude combined to serve me a confusion cocktail. For about 30 minutes - as I neared the summit and as a cold wind kicked up to around 30 mph - I began stumbling around like Fred Sanford about to have "the big one." Seriously, a couple times I also lost my balance and went tumbling down ... forever.
As I painstakingly climbed about 20 more boulders to the peak, I saw the dirtiest trick in climbing. False summit. That's right. I wasn't standing on top, merely at a spot where I was looking up another 100 feet of intimidating rocks to the real summit.
I'd like to write the obscenities I yelled in the general direction of my buddy and the mountain, but at that point I was just making up illogical sounds more than words.
Somehow I climbed atop the summit after six hours and was able to bask in the glow of accomplishment. Just me, my buddy, several marmots and a breath-taking view of nine 14ers and another 25 13ers.
As I painstakingly climbed about 20 more boulders to the peak, I saw the dirtiest trick in climbing. False summit. That's right. I wasn't standing on top, merely at a spot where I was looking up another 100 feet of intimidating rocks to the real summit.
I'd like to write the obscenities I yelled in the general direction of my buddy and the mountain, but at that point I was just making up illogical sounds more than words.
Somehow I climbed atop the summit after six hours and was able to bask in the glow of accomplishment. Just me, my buddy, several marmots and a breath-taking view of nine 14ers and another 25 13ers.
(continued from page 4)
And then, I had to get down. It wasn't harder, but it was more dangerous.
As my buddy so eloquently reminded me, "Getting up is optional. Getting down is mandatory."
For the next five hours it felt as though I had a ghost shoving me in the middle of my back. With each step I had to lean significantly back or else give in to the momentum of the mountain and go speeding down out of control and potentially face first into the boulders. Back at the saddle, I looked up at the city of boulders I was forced to conquer. Seriously, it looked like a 1,000-foot tall pile of boulders. Still can't believe I'm alive to tell about it.
The trek down was totally different. It was an endless series of two-foot stops, each jarring your ankles, feet and knees more violently than the last. I fell three times on the way down and, honestly, was lucky not to sprain an ankle or impale myself on a rock. My only war wounds: A bloody shin and a sunburned neck.
Passing the Colorado Fourteeners Initiative - a group of volunteers who work daily on the mountains implanting stepping rocks on paths, etc. - was uplifting. So was knowing that there 10 climbers from Midland on the same mountain. But only until walking down the 2.6-mile road to the trailhead. After being met by a sixth consecutive turn in the road that looked exactly like the previous five, I seriously thought I was caught in a Blair Witch zone where I just endlessly walk in circles.
Most prominent lesson of the day: Our bodies are much stronger than our minds. And climbing is as much psychological as it is physical.
One of the prettiest sights of my life: The babbling brook I knew was near the bottom, and the red Hemi truck to would take us back to flat-ground civilization.
Six hours up; Five down.
In the moment it wasn't fun. But in the aftermath it is rewarding. The coolest, hardest thing I've ever accomplished.
One down, 52 to go?
As my buddy so eloquently reminded me, "Getting up is optional. Getting down is mandatory."
For the next five hours it felt as though I had a ghost shoving me in the middle of my back. With each step I had to lean significantly back or else give in to the momentum of the mountain and go speeding down out of control and potentially face first into the boulders. Back at the saddle, I looked up at the city of boulders I was forced to conquer. Seriously, it looked like a 1,000-foot tall pile of boulders. Still can't believe I'm alive to tell about it.
The trek down was totally different. It was an endless series of two-foot stops, each jarring your ankles, feet and knees more violently than the last. I fell three times on the way down and, honestly, was lucky not to sprain an ankle or impale myself on a rock. My only war wounds: A bloody shin and a sunburned neck.
Passing the Colorado Fourteeners Initiative - a group of volunteers who work daily on the mountains implanting stepping rocks on paths, etc. - was uplifting. So was knowing that there 10 climbers from Midland on the same mountain. But only until walking down the 2.6-mile road to the trailhead. After being met by a sixth consecutive turn in the road that looked exactly like the previous five, I seriously thought I was caught in a Blair Witch zone where I just endlessly walk in circles.
Most prominent lesson of the day: Our bodies are much stronger than our minds. And climbing is as much psychological as it is physical.
Six hours up; Five down.
In the moment it wasn't fun. But in the aftermath it is rewarding. The coolest, hardest thing I've ever accomplished.
One down, 52 to go?
