4 a.m. Foot on the gas. On this deserted mountain highway, the only light pollution comes from my car brights. Above, the stars monopolize the sky. Trusty Polaris beckons in the distance, the longtime companion of adventurers, explorers, and navigators at sea. Unlike any other celestial body, it’s speared on the Earth’s axis. Viewed from the North Pole, Polaris never tilts past a perfect 90 degrees.
A soft symphony plays on Classical 88.1, but slowly fades to static as I approach a radio dead zone. The white noise crescendos, and I become hypnotized by the banked turns carving through inky valleys. Rock formations rise to meet a silhouetted ridgeline in the distance. It’s difficult to envision myself standing there in a few hours, this being one of Colorado’s famed 14,000-foot peaks.
As I approach the trailhead, a vehicular hierarchy emerges. I offer a ride to a mustached man who ditched his gray sedan on the shoulder, but quickly the ruts in the road deepen too much for my grandmother’s trusty Volvo and I’m forced to pull over. My hike begins at this nondescript location between a bird’s nest and a squirrel’s burrow as I traipse behind the occasional Jeep or high-clearance Ford Bronco that continues valiantly uphill. At some point, a wooden marker points toward Columbine flowers lining a mellow path. The leather of my dirt-caked boots begins to relax, and I cross a river by headlamp.
In the distance, bobbing lights give a glimpse into the future: those are the bearded guys who will say ‘howdy’ on their way down, having reached the summit by sunrise. I catch up to an orange jacket, a wiry-haired woman who trudges in defiance of past knee replacements and a bad hip. Then, a trail runner passes us both, his calves bulging as if to declare that this is nothing but a morning jaunt. A few others join the throng: an adventurous couple, a father-son pair, and a border collie with its owner. Don’t be fooled by the Denver woman wearing Lululemon––she’s from the Mile High City.
Eventually, I reach tree line, where the conifers surrender. A few brave ones continue to speckle the terrain, but they’re wind-mangled and stunted, stripped naked on one side. For now, I smirk, proud to outlast the ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. On the afternoon descent, however, I’ll take refuge here under the canopy, when the Rocky Mountain thunderstorms roll in.
At 11,000 feet, threads of colorful wildflowers poke through a patchwork quilt of grass, moss, and shrubs. From afar, the alpine tundra is soft and welcoming. I hear the siren song of a nearby rock begging me to rest for a few minutes. I’ve fallen asleep on rocks like this many times, with the sun on my face and spongy arctic moss beneath my fingertips. The rest of the landscape is jagged: prickly Rocky Mountain willows, clumps of spiky red bearberry, and rocks jutting out at random. The sun grows stronger, smoldering in the thinning atmosphere. I remove my puffy down jacket, although I know I’ll need it again as soon as the wind breaks. My cheeks burn, but don’t sweat. Cells wither. I lick chapped lips and feel where small ridges have formed.
I plant one pole, then another. At this altitude, my strides shorten. My breath, too. The lack of oxygen makes respiration a conscious meditation. Hypoxia soon sets in, afflicting every part of my body. My head aches, my appetite disappears, and I grow sleepy. Perhaps these are the consequences of trespassing on terrain historically reserved for the gods: places like Olympus or Sinai or Kailash.
At 13,000 feet, the trail disappears into an inclined rock field. I’m now perched on a trash heap of boulders, talus, and scree. It’s time to play Queen of the Mountain. Like a child, I scramble on my hands and feet, gambling on which rocks will teeter and which will tolerate my weight without flinching. Some are misleading. The squeak of a pika, a furry four-ounce mammal, carries over the rattling wind. Hoping to see one, I peer between the rocks in the way I imagine sailors used to search for glimpses of a mermaid’s tail.
Nearing the summit, I focus intensely on each step, avoiding the temptation to lift my gaze and spoil the ending. When the rocks flatten, I give in. Looking up, 180 degrees of previously obscured scenery comes into view. Barbed ridgelines and plummeting slopes sprawl out in every direction until they grow hazy on the horizon. From this vantage point, entire forests look like moss. I feel tall standing here, atop a gold medallion drilled into limestone. And yet, I’ll be so small after descending below the trees.
Nowadays, hikers boast about “bagging” 14ers, as if these peaks could possibly fit inside a 30-liter pack. I contemplate the colossal glaciers that carved the valleys below me and wonder why more pilgrimages don’t go up mountains. Squinting into the blue sky, I try in vain to overcome the sun’s glare and see the stars. They’re asleep, for now, but I know Polaris’s altitude hasn’t changed. Despite this trek towards an Arctic climate, I know that the North Star is indifferent.
