In the
summer of 1929, my grandfather gathered up his wife and daughter and headed out
to Colorado so that he could climb Pike’s Peak with a friend. The two 27-year-olds picked out a sunny day and made their way up the path of the cog rail
from Manitou Springs to the summit of Pike’s Peak.
I heard that story several times
while growing up, and I was always impressed by his achievement. Though I
didn’t plan it that way, I also discovered the Rocky Mountains in the summer of
my 27th year, and, almost by accident, began to do some light hiking
in the mountains that has continued every few years since. Somewhere along
the line I began to tinker with the question of whether I could accomplish the
same feat. It seemed like an idle dream since I had already passed the "age of
athleticism."
At first it appears to be an
unrelated story, but in the summer of 1976 (July 19), my father died very
suddenly, and at the young age of 59. I was a young man at the time, but his
early death caused me to think often about whether I would suffer the same
fate. So, for many years I have lived with the dueling stories of being healthy
enough to climb a 14,000 foot peak (a 14er as they call it in Colorado), or
whether I was facing a death at an early age.
A few years ago, the two stories
came together in my mind in a way similar to how dreams often can mix unrelated
experiences and somehow make them feel logical—until we wake up. I decided that
I should climb Pike’s Peak in the summer of my 59th year. Never mind
that I was more than twice the age of my grandfather when he had done it, it
just seemed like a way to dash the demons of irrational fears. I decided to
climb Pike’s Peak on July 19, 2011. Unfortunately, my third grandchild came due
on July 21 of that year, so I had to lay the plans aside. Over the winter,
though, my son, son-in-law, and I began planning to try it again this year.
So, nearly a year late, July 15,
2012, the three of us gathered at a trailhead at about 10,000 feet in elevation
and climbed a trail that took us all the way to the summit 4,000 feet above us.
I had increased my walking in preparation for the hike, but there is nothing
you can do at 1,000 feet above sea level and in an area that has rolling hills
that can prepare you for similar distances up a mountain at much higher elevations.
The first three miles felt as if
they were straight up along a rocky path with each step sucking a little more
oxygen out of our bodies. I seriously considered stopping and turning around.
If I could do no better than this in the first three miles, how would I ever
complete what was supposed to be a more than 13 mile round-trip? Once over a
ridge at about 12,500 feet, though, the path leveled out for a while as a tease
to keep us on the hike. Soon I began trying to figure out a way to get to the
top and hitch a ride down. After all, my son and son-in-law could finish it up
and come pick me up later. Finally the trail headed up a more significant
incline again until the last three-quarters mile was a rock-climbing adventure.
The trail was only marked by rocks on top of other rocks. There was no path,
just multiple ways to sprain an ankle or go for a major tumble, pin-balling
from boulder to boulder.
I have to admit that many times on
the way up I was taking steps so slowly that it was hard for anyone else to
tell whether I was moving. I stopped for more breaks than a person committed to
stopping at every Starbucks in the city. I am very grateful that there
was no video rolling to capture the comedy of the old flatlander trying to
scale the heights. Yet, by the grace of God, I made it to the top, and tried to
act as if it was no big deal. Within minutes of our celebration however, I
quickly realized that that only real option was to go down the way I came up.
Finally, after a full day of
hiking, my son, my son-in-law, and I arrived back at our car with jelly legs, a
few blisters, and a sense that we had just accomplished something that was at
the extreme end of our capacity. On the one hand, I kept asking, “What was I
thinking?” On the other hand, I realized that by sticking with it to the end, I had accomplished more than I thought possible. There we stood at our car, my
grandfather’s story honored and passed to the next generation, and the demons
of death vanquished. Coincidentally, we not only did it the week of my youngest
granddaughter’s first birthday, but it was also the same week she took her
first real steps (standing on her own, taking a few steps, and not falling down). Now she and her brother and sister will have to determine whether
they will follow the footsteps of their father, grandfather, and great-great
grandfather.
Interestingly, the morning we left
for Colorado, I awakened to a song on the radio that concluded with a child
reading a Scripture from Isaiah 40. The quoted words were, “He gives power to
the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary,
and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew
their strength. They shall run and not be weary. They shall walk and not
faint.” Apparently, it does not matter whether we are one, or 27, or 60. What
matters is whether we walk with Almighty beside us.
May your path be blessed by the
presence of the One who does not grow weary, the One who gives power to the
faint, and strength to the powerless.
