What If I Don’t Make It?

On climbing out of hell and hiking my first 14er

“Which trails are hikeable right now? Do you think we can hike Mount Princeton?”

The concierge looked at us wide-eyed.

“How comfortable do you feel with four-wheel drive?” she asked us. “Towing is really expensive out here.”

On a good day, the drive to Mount Princeton—one of dozens of 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado—is narrow and rough. And after last night’s snow, the first of the season, who knew what the road might be like. Not to mention the potential of snow covering the trail we needed to follow… or snow making the notoriously rocky top even more unstable.

In other words, she wouldn’t recommend it.

Determined to hike something above 14,000 feet, we kept researching—carrying our phones with us into the hot springs as we researched trail conditions and kept our ears open for fellow pool-bathers who sounded like they might know something. After finding just such a local, we settled on Huron, a peak two hours north with an easier drive and probably far less snow. We crossed our fingers, ate our iron-rich steaks, and went to bed early hoping for good trail conditions.

Admittedly, it is not the brightest idea to try to hike a 14er during a short, three-day jaunt clear across the country. The weather, fickle, is crucial. (Lightning storms or blizzards when you’re fully exposed above the tree line are not exactly recommended.)

But after the summer I had—gut-wrenching, mind-boggling, paralyzing—I was damned determined. I wanted to breathe and to sweat. Hard. I wanted to do something challenging that in its twisted way would make me happy again. Something that, through its difficulty, would make me momentarily forget—or at the very least, remind me of my resilience and power.

During the weeks leading up to my first 14er, I tried pumping myself up by looking at the elevations of previous trails I’d hiked, thinking that my previous best was around 10,000. (It wasn’t. More like 7,000.) Which only made me more nervous than I already was. Would I be able to handle it? Would I make it? I really wasn’t sure.

The trickiest thing, so I had read, about hiking at high altitude is the potential for altitude sickness, which is a potentially life-threatening condition caused by thinner air and ascending too rapidly—essentially not giving your body enough time to adjust to reduced oxygen and air pressure.

And the thing about altitude sickness is, it can affect anyone at any time. Even if you’re in good shape. Even if you’re prepared.

It is, like so many things in life, completely out of your control. And the only way to fix it is to go back down. So, in our case, that would mean that if we started to get bad headaches or feel nauseas, we would need to stop hiking and give up trying to make it to the top. We would need to quit and turn around.

Needless to say, the idea of going from 200 feet above sea level to 5,000, then 8,000, then 14,000 in a matter of a long weekend (and potentially having to admit to myself that I couldn’t make it, that I wasn’t as strong or capable as I thought I was) had me on edge.

We went overboard controlling the only thing we could (that is, our hydration, one of the only mitigating factors shown to prevent altitude sickness). And then slowly, we made our way up. Through the tree line. Then above it. Then through the one flat meadow. Then along the switchbacks up the ridge. Then up and over the rocks.

I was feeling good until I got to about 13,000 feet. And then, it wasn’t the highly anticipated altitude sickness that got me. It was unexpected leg cramps.

At one point, my right calf and hamstring would catch, hard, every single time I took a step. I paused and downed some electrolytes. I tried to stretch, which only made the cramping worse. I tried to relieve some pressure by turning around and facing down the mountain (flat ground was nowhere to be found). I felt stuck. I felt paralyzed.

In my final act of desperation, I started climbing up the last thousand feet of rocks while devouring a banana—holding a disintegrating, rock-broken banana peel in one hand, and remnants of wiped tears in the other.

At the last catch of my hamstring, I stopped, my legs shaking on the rocks, and I could feel myself borderline panicking—my breaths instantly becoming emotional and labored, my eyes welling with tears behind my sunglasses. It pained me knowing that I had come all of this way, and I might not even make it.

“We’re right at 13,500 feet,” said a man, startling me, just a few yards above me on the trailhead. “You’re almost there.”

He paused.

“My daughter and son-in-law left me and are already at the top,” he said, “waiting on me to meet them.”

I looked up and could see people relaxing and celebrating at the peak. He was right. We were almost there. I thanked him, composed myself, and kept going, one small step after another.

So, did I make it?

Why yes, I did make it. 14,000 feet as planned. (So did the older man, by the way.)

But does that mean that 13,500 feet wouldn’t have been “making it”?

I’m afraid I won’t make it. I’m afraid I won’t be okay without it.

I can see, in retrospect, how my panic wasn’t actually about the 14,000 feet or the hiking.

It was about unexpected loss.

It was about feeling out of control.

It was about my godforsaken summer.

It was about wanting something so badly—and quite possibly not being able to have that thing because sometimes, what you want doesn’t want you, and there just isn’t anything more you can do besides surrender and let the fuck go.

The mountain isn’t about the top or fulfilling some rigid set of expectations.

It’s about the beauty and the grit you experience along the way.

The mountain is about strength, especially the inner kind.

The mountain is about stripping away all the unnecessary crap so that you can experience what is wholly, unabashedly, and unmistakably you.

The mountain is about accepting the cramps, the tough moments, and not letting them mean anything—not about what you’re capable of, and definitely not about what’s coming next.

The mountain is about knowing that you went after something—and knowing that the trying, the effort, is enough.

Before hiking my first 14er, I was afraid I wouldn’t make it. Now, I know I will.