“Leif Steps”
A flatlanders first attempt at climbing 14,000 ft. Wilson Peak
Matt paced back and forth on the ledge in front of me as if he were walking on the edge of a sidewalk. “You wouldn’t die if you fell,” he tried to explain to me while he toed the line of a several hundred-foot fall. Unconvinced, I squinted down my nose for another look over the ledge as a gust of wind blew across the peaks above. Just inches from my feet the ground disappeared, plunging into a seemingly endless slope of crumbling mountainside. Matt’s years of climbing experience were nothing to scoff at, but everything in me wanted to call “bullshit.”
Besides, I wasn’t sure surviving such a fall was a better alternative.
“If you fell,” he said, “I’d just walk up the ridge to call for help and say, ‘hey, my buddies hurt, can you come get him.”
A nervous laugh came snorting out of me as I suppressed the urge to tell him to get away from the ledge. Instead of revealing even more of my unease, I looked once more at the summit that loomed over our heads and sighed. Was I really about to turn around after making it this far?
In a cloud of dust, we came barreling down the hill to the trailhead, bumping New Zealand reggae through blown-out speakers. Mountains I had never seen before slowly grew into view; rolling and green, then jagged and peaked. Three of Colorado’s 53 14ers lay at the center of this wilderness, a core of crumbling summits, ringed in a necklace of pine and aspen.
This was my first trip to this more remote section of the wilderness where the trailhead alone was far from any hint of humanity and where we were likely to encounter more 14ers than people. As we wound through the forests and meadows, I marveled at what waited for us outside of Van-janski’s bug-splattered windshield.
When I had suggested we try to climb one of these 14,000-foot peaks my friend had proposed we “bivy camp,” a concept that was admittedly new to me at the time. When he explained this just meant sleeping on the ground with no tent I immediately envisioned being stepped on by an elk or waking up to a marmot chewing a hole in my sleeping pad (a foam pad it is). Where I’d recently moved from, if you slept without some sort of cover, you might get carried away by the “swamp angels” (aka mosquitoes), but I wasn’t in Florida anymore and the thought of having nothing between myself and the mountains seemed like exactly the experience I was after.
Stepping down onto the gravel parking lot we were quickly greeted by the sound of water racing south and birdsong heading north. Mountains hunched in the distance and somewhere between their jagged folds sprang the headwaters of the West Dolores; a river that would eventually join the Colorado, flowing from reservoir to reservoir, before finally quenching the thirst of some sun-scorched city.
For right now though, the river was full, pouring down from the thawing mountains above. Matt offered for me to take the lead and though I knew he was much better suited for this endeavor, excitement was high, and I reluctantly agreed. A thick layer of clouds masked the sun as we shouldered our packs and headed out.
The trail steadily pointed up as we wove in and out of pine forests and open meadows; no sight or sound of people, only the blooming contrails of jets melting into the sky above.
For as long as I can remember I’ve been plagued by a “grass is greener” mentality, a longing to look around the next bend or over the next hill, a displeasure with what’s at hand. When the walls of daily life close in, that fever spreads. Responsibilities hang like weights from my neck, and I burn to run. For the past eight months I had been working a new job in eye-popping field of customer service, an experience that had all but obliterated my fuse.
Stepping into the wilderness went from a nicety to a necessity. For me, exposure to the woods is like slowly releasing a pressure valve. With nothing to directly remind me of my struggles, thoughts slowly fade to the back, like someone’s turning down the volume allowing me to turn my thoughts outward again.
After two hours of hoofing it up the trail we had arrived at our destination. Red-faced and out of breath I stepped into Navajo Basin, the final line between trees and rock. Matt had passed me long ago and he waited at the top of the trail for me to catch up. Creating the ridge I spun around to take in the view and catch my breath. Naked mountain peaks loomed all around us with snow still clinging to the shadows and steep scree fields that ended at the edge of the trail.
In an instant, I felt like I had entered a museum.
Giant pines quickly gave way to stunted dwarfs as the explosive remains of an avalanche came into view. The bones of trees stood all around us, their crowns snapped off high overhead. Only the snow-buried trunks remained, protected by the very thing that killed them.
Tiptoeing on through the woods we spooked a lone cow elk and watched as she floated over the rocky slopes. The clatter of rockfall echoed between peaks, dancing off the glassy surface of Navajo Lake as she disappeared. This valley was alive, a place of constant change, and it was where we were going to spend the night.
Birdsong floated through the dark as we lay in our sleeping bags.
“I finally made it,” I thought to myself with a wry smile glued to my face. For years I’d been researching trips and drooling over photos of remote places I couldn’t get to. But not anymore. The spear-shaped silhouettes of pine trees circled round me, framing the night sky above. I watched stars wink in and out of holes in the clouds and listened as the rushing creek sifted through pine needles, thinking “this is exactly where I need to be.”
To have met like-minded people like Matt, whose abilities and experiences dwarfed my own, was a stroke of luck. The nonchalant way he rolled over and said “good night,” as we lay on the barren ground miles from another human, was completely wild, yet oddly calming. It’s all too easy to fill the dark with boogeymen. To most people, the woods are crawling with danger; flashing teeth and golden eyes, waiting in the dark to pounce. In reality, though, the most dangerous thing out there was me and the fearful thoughts I drag around that bring boogeymen to life.
Then I heard it…
That all too familiar sound that had haunted my time on the Gulf coast. The whine of a lone mosquito. After years of being chased into tents and covered to the point where I could kill ten in a single slap, I laughed at the fact that there was only one as I pulled the tarp over my head and went to sleep.
At 3:30 AM our alarms buzzed, but I was already awake.
After “sleeping” all night on a thin foam pad I was eager for the early start; my hips and shoulders groaning as we prepped our gear by red-light. The plan for the morning was to get to a ridge three miles away and 2,000 feet up by sunrise and with fresh legs we stepped into the night.
The trail quickly pointed up once again after passing the lake and with every minute I slowly fell behind. “Take Leif steps, not Matt steps,” I told myself between labored breaths.
Clouds closed in on the moonless night and in that unbroken darkness, nothing existed outside the beams of our headlamps. All we would know before the sun revealed the scene was rock, foot, breath. We could have been walking along the edge of a hundred-foot drop for all I knew, and with a trail consisting of little more than loose scree, each step came with the very real threat of a rolled ankle or a roll into the abyss.
I’ve always considered myself to be “afraid of heights,” so I’m not entirely sure what drew me to this world of knife ridges and crowded topo lines. I knew very well that whatever crossed my headlamp next could stop me dead in my tracks, but for now, ignorance truly was bliss and I marched on through the dark.
Halfway to the ridge a pale light began creeping into the valley, reflected down by air particles high above. The gray silhouettes of peaks gradually filled with detail until the mountains blushed pink and color dripped down their walls.
Rock and sky. The revealed vastness of the landscape made every step seem trivial, but with each one, I was filling in the map of my own abilities and the land around me.
Mountains have always offered me an intoxicating openness. The room for your mind and body to roam is mesmerizing when you’ve been trapped within the walls of offices and living rooms and lulled into sedation by convenience. As we tromped our way up the trail each step seemed to push back the boundaries of and troubles back home.
Scraping together whatever oxygen molecules I could gather, we made our way up the final few switchbacks to 13,000 feet. Blood pounded in my ears and thumped at the base of my skull as I crested the ridge and looked down the other side. Within just a few short steps the ground all but disappeared as it tumbled down toward the horizon, frozen in free fall.
I had made it to our first destination, but my relief was short lived. Turning to face the summit my stomach swiftly dropped as my fear of heights came hurtling into view. I’d found my limit. A foot-wide trail flirted with the ledge in front of me tracing a ridge that ran towards a menacing collection of jagged spires. I felt like Frodo on Mount Doom, only my resolve wasn’t quite as stout as the hobbits’. One look at what was still to come and I knew I was done, but not wanting to put a damper on Matt’s Sunday stroll, I couldn’t quite get the words out. I hemmed and hawed at the scenery, and before I knew it he was across the ridge and on his way.
Up until this point, everything had gone, more or less to plan. The route was planned, the timing, the water, the food, the gear, all figured out ahead of time. But you can’t plan for everything. Weather can change. Conditions can be unexpected. Fears can surface.
Whether we realize it or not, we drag our fears and our past around with us like invisible boundaries. They bend and flex to the world we move through, shaping our every experience. When we’re comfortable they cease to exist, but when reality reminds us, they close in, coiling ever tighter, constricting common sense and consuming our thoughts.
Wind gusts ripped over the mountain tops high above as I went to follow, but stepping forward felt like walking a tightrope. My pack seemed to gain 20 pounds and suddenly I lost faith in my ability to put one foot in front of the other.
It’s hard to explain, but I felt this immense draw to the abyss below, like it was alive and pulling me in. I shifted my weight away from the edge, only to feel as if my feet were being dragged towards it. No matter how far over I angled, I couldn’t lean enough to feel secure and before I knew it I was laying on my side, paralyzed by my fear of falling.
“I don’t know if I can do this, man!” I shouted across to Matt who was watching with curiosity as I fell apart. After hiking roughly eight miles without incident, I think the suddenness with which I had come to a screeching halt caught him off guard.
But that’s the thing about invisible boundaries, no one else can see them.
After some discussion, it was decided that he would push on. His limits had yet to be tested and the summit was tantalizingly close.
For me, though, I was content with making it as far as I had. This trip was never about standing on the summit, to me. It was about doing something worth remembering, and that had been accomplished the second I stepped into Van-janski’s passenger side door.
An hour or two later, as I laid on my sleeping pad watching marmots chase each other in and out of burrows in the rocks, I spotted Matt’s red jacket, a tiny dot inching its way down the mountainside. “The Great Leif Houdini!” he shouted as he came trudging down the trail. “You made the right call in turning back,” he went on. “It only got more difficult after that and even I was asking myself if I was having fun.”