On Friday morning, my dad and I left at 4am and drove for over 2 hours to hike for 6 and see only one other person all day. It’s a very, very thin slice of the world’s population who will ever stand where we were on Friday – between the remote location and the 4-wheel drive roads and the amount of physicality one has to employ to get there, you have to REALLY mean to go.
But we had an opportunity, and we grabbed it. We really meant to go.
The hike was long and steep, but my daily walkoftriumphs have paid off, and we kept a good pace. Nearing the top, the summit looked so close.
But when we actually got closer, I realized that we were going to have to scale this (see here for another perspective):
Now, listen. I’m no rock climber. I have no triceps, remember? Plus, heights and me? We don’t get along so well. It’s not so much the heights that bother me – it’s more of the plunging to my death that really freaks me out. I don’t even like to skin my knees, let alone break bones, lose limbs, chip teeth, etc. And wouldn’t you know, the first really scary part, when my dad assured me that the rock was secure, and if I just put my hand *right there*, I could get a good grip – the rock BROKE OFF IN MY HAND.
But there was only one way to the top, and I wasn’t walking off that mountain without a summit.
Despite my fears, and freezing a couple of times, unable to move or breathe, starting the stressed-out-whistle-breath thing, after a long, slow climb, I made one last quick hand-over-foot movement and scrambled my way onto the top of Wetterhorn Peak.
Fears: faced, engaged, overcome.
First 14er of the season: conquered.
(Now go read my dad’s post about what HE did the next day. AAAAGH.)