Last Saturday, I decided to drive up to Mt. Charleston to hike in preparation for my summer volunteering. Since I like to actually look like I am fit and since the mountain is more difficult than my regular hikes, I like to make a few trips up to the Bristlecone loop and carry a backpack with rocks just to get myself in shape for the more arduous terrain. I was also tired of the people down in the valley and thought it would be hot, and knowing the mountain to be cooler even without snow and cheaper since you don't need a pass to get in, I decided to drive up and stick to my routine. Except the day was anything but routine. This was probably the most difficult hike I've ever done at Charleston Peak. Last year, we hiked up in April at night to watch the sun rise, and as dangerous as the dark is, at least the trail was clear. This was not. It wasn't just blocked, but it was iced. I told myself I'd hike to the snow line, but in truth the snow line was visible from the parking area, so I went further than that of course to stave off boredom, and that's what I did. At least it was only I. Nobody else was put in jeopardy because my brow was brass, and even I wasn't hurt.
I knew there would be obstacles, but obstinately went anyway. It was maybe a half mile in when I felt for the first time the full impact of low oxygen levels. Since that trail starts at 8200 feet and the top of Red Rock is 6700 feet, any amount of summer hiking fails to adequately prepare me for the elevation. I stopped a lot more often than I like. Sometimes I stopped for literal obstacles in the path, but not willing to take that as a sign, I decided to climb over the giant ponderosa pine that came up to my waist and continue on, and so at about a mile in, I already cut my leg. When I arrived in the parking lot it was a balmy 38F and breezy, and I was woefully underdressed in shorts and a short sleeve golf shirt, but I had my heater (backpack) and just told myself I'd walk faster, and the last half would be in the sun anyway. Well, the snow made walking faster impossible, and the snow or really ice meant that the air all around me was cold, and I burned more calories in the six mile loop than I usually do in a day, probably just shivering to keep warm.
Although I knew the dangers, I pushed on. I probably should have turned back when I hit that first switchback and had to grab a tree to keep from sliding down the embankment, but I told myself that it would be fine in the sun, that the snow wouldn't be so bad. Well, it got worse, and it kept getting worse until going forward was just as bad as going backwards. There were about a half dozen stretches where the trail was completely covered with 1-3 feet thick drifts of ice, hard enough that I couldn't use my boots to kick in for a better footing, so I hoped that the footings from others headed the opposite direction and days before would accomodate my path. Several sections the ice stretched so far that I couldn't see the end, anywhere from 10-30 meter sections, and although I used my hands to steady myself, I found my hands go numb through my gloves. It was cold enough my camera stopped working. My stupidity never failed me. Despite all of that, I said a quick prayer to God and then trusted that if this was my final day I'd at least die doing something I liked, even if I did freeze to death in a cell phone dead zone.
Unwilling to change my plans to accommodate others, I went alone. I hike all the time. What could happen- so you die a little? Nobody really knew exactly where I was, and my family would have wondered if I didn't show up Sunday to get them at the airport, but I really didn't feel like I should put my life on hold even for safety reasons. When I finally encountered people, I warned them, but if they disregarded my warnings, I can't blame them. I essentially said, "Do as I say, not as I do" since I'd already crossed *successfully* the section I advised they avoid. "Well if that idiot can do it, we can..." One looked relieved. Some looked disappointed. The last couple, the oldest people I met, looked like they took it as a challenge. They probably made it. So, I came across as that feral hypocrite who wanders the woods aimlessly and warns people of spooks in the elderberries. There was neither anybody young on the trail or anyone attractive. It seems like the elements dissuade all but the most foolish or dedicated from making an attempt to conquer nature. True, it's rare to still have this much snow in April here, but we did have a banner year, and the mountain has snow above 8400 feet in more places than you think. It was beautiful.
All too often, in life, we get in over our head. Unable or unwilling to see the dangers, we press on into paths unknown or unadvised because we can or because we think we're the exception. Unable or unwilling to forsee things, we go unplanned. Unable or unwilling to admit our faults, we go it alone. What need have we for a Savior? People warn us. People teach us. We have our own experiences. We know we've had close calls. We get into trouble again. Still all too often we don't reach out and insist that this is something that we can do. We're amazing, and even if we are, sometimes the mountains conquer us instead. This past week, some mourned the loss of a veteran Swiss mountaineer who was defeated in Nepal. Of course, he liked to hike in record time, but the principle remains the same. Eventually we get in over our head and either die or need rescue. Fortunately, I got down without incident, but that's not to say I didn't receive a rescue effort. I can't with certitude say that God didn't help me. If He decided not to, I wouldn't be surprised. I wasn't that stupid in Alaska. At church yesterday, one of the leaders admitted some deep-seated faults and asked me if I didn't like him. I told him that we all need the Savior. Just because you don't know my faults doesn't mean they don't exist. Doug does dumb things too.
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