Counting my way to the top

I wasn't even at tree line when I thought to myself, "you know, if you just turned around and went home, no one would be the wiser."

For the eleventh annual Emma climb, Christin and I had decided to do Mt. Elbert. The big kahuna. The tallest one in Colorado and the second tallest in the lower 48 (by, like, 65 feet, so whatevs, Mt. Whitney). 

Early start in the dark

Colorado types tend to talk about Elbert being easy (which in local parlance just means it's not a technical climb with too much exposure), but I call bullshit. 

The lack of oxygen makes it so hard for me. It's brutal to try to breathe when there's no air in the air.

But another factor with this one was that the elevation gain was about 4500' - a full 50% more than I've ever done in the past - but over only 4.9 miles, so the average incline grade is around 18%. 

That is really steep. 

And it was. It was relentlessly steep in a way that I hadn't anticipated. 

I mean, I can do math. If I had done the math I would have known that number, but still. Reading a number and actually living it on the trail are two different things. 

And at just above tree line, I hadn't even reached the steepest part yet. 

Plus I was alone. 

Poor Christin injured her leg really badly back in February (skiing accident) and was still recuperating, so she wasn't able to climb with me. I was so bummed to not be able to do it without her - we have done every one together and it's really meaningful for both of us.

Zeke had indicated he was interested, but as it got close he begged off because of homework in his AP Bio class. I think he was also nervous. Greg's family was in town, plus his knees don't really allow for fourteeners anymore.

So it was just me. No one to talk to the whole time, as Christin and I tend to do. No one whose energy I could feed off of when I needed it. 

No one who would know the difference if I decided to bail.

I didn't bail. The idea of bailing sat in my brain for a couple of seconds before I dismissed it. I was never going to bail. 

What I did was count. 

"I'll take 100 steps and then stop and take a breather for a minute."

"When I hit 12,500 feet, I'll stop and take a breather."

"When I've gone another two tenths of a mile, I'll stop and take a breather."

Any metric that seemed managable was all I would focus on, because looking up and seeing how much more there was to go was crushing. 

Bit by bit, step by step, breath by breath.

I'd see what looked like a summit and think, "I just have to get there." 

But I'd get there realize it's a false summit and think, "motherfucker."

I'd look up again and see another crest that looks like a summit and think, "there is it."

But this bastard of a mountain has two false summits, so I'd get there and think, "what in the actual fuck." 

Finally, finally, I reached the actual summit. That's what happens when you don't turn back. 

The view was spectacular. Just unreal. So worth the effort. 

Of all the fourteeners I've done, this view was the most awe-inspiring. 

I ate my sandwich and drank my can of Arizona Iced Tea. I sat and thought about Emma, who would be 28. 

I took out my list - 111 names!!! - and said the Kaddish for all of them. 

I may have shed a tear or two.

After a while, I steeled myself for the descent, which can often be just as punishing as the ascent, but in a different way. 

The relentless effort of the ascent was the down payment. The descent is the interest, paid in exhaustion and lactic acid build-up and aching joints. It's not so much walking as controlled falling on shaking quads, and a desperate dance to avoid a trip or a slide. 

On the long descent, you think, damn, how did I walk up this? 

But again, each step and each breath and each drop in elevation adds up, and then you're back at the parking lot and laughing as you wonder how you're going to manage the step up into the car so you can drive home. 

You have persevered. Your middle-aged body has held up. You can do the hard things. 

You have honored your loved ones and those of so many people who have entrusted you to do this ritual for them, year after year. 

It's an extraordinary feeling.