Three days of travel to get here and this happens? “A timeless classic,” I scoff out loud while kicking the tattered flat tire of the rental car. It’s annoying enough to have the rescheduled flight—but this too? Why does it feel like the world is always fighting me? It’s always the next problem. Why can’t I ever get a damn break from it all?
I take a deep breath. I’m out here for perspective and to challenge myself, right? What better way to do that than changing a tire 5,600 feet above sea level in six inches of snow? I open up the trunk to get the jack and tire iron and clear out a sizable area of snow where I can get underneath the SUV to pull down the spare tire—only to find that tire is flat. Good God, what am I doing? Nicole leaving wasn’t enough, the firm denying my promotion wasn’t enough—why do I always make decisions that lead me to ruin? Maybe I should just go home. Just drop the act, put my head down, and get back to work. I lay there beneath the fender for an indiscernible amount of time, letting my pants soak up the melting snow as I try to come to terms with my next move.
A truck comes to a stop next to me. I pull myself up to see a frail, bearded old man leaning out the window. He’s kind; he gives me the card of the local mechanic and even waits for him to show up. His name is Henry. I tell him about my plans to climb the mountain, and he tells me about the last time he went to the top— “’round forty years ago.” Of course, he makes sure to remind me that it was a bit more difficult and not as well maintained back then.
He talks about his wife and his kids who went off to get an education and now live in the city. He speaks with such pride that it actually lifts my mood. I’d never gotten that kind of consideration from my father; with him, the outcome was always expected, rarely appreciated. It feels good to run into people who prioritize their loved ones. That kind of perspective was foreign to me growing up.
My stomach sinks. That wasn’t my attitude toward Nicole. I never put her above my own selfish pursuits. It was always work, making more money, climbing the corporate ladder. She didn’t deserve how I treated her, and the whole time I just blamed it on us “growing apart.”
Henry leaves, and the mechanic fixes the flat tire so quickly I can’t help but to be impressed. After giving the tire a quick glance, he goes into his trailer, and grabs a replacement. In less than five minutes the SUV is on all four wheels, he’s paid, and we are left to continue on with our days.
As my car warms, I rub my icy hands together and go back and forwards on whether I should leave or not. If I’m going to let a small setback get in the way of my goal, then I didn’t deserve it in the first place. Those words rattle in my head, gaining new meaning with every ricochet.
I take a deep breath and continue to base camp.
The next morning, with all my gear ready, I face the first stretch of the trail. It winds for what seems like miles until it bends behind a crest, only to continue upward for what should be another 4,000 feet. It’ll be about two and a half days up and a day and a half down. My heart races confronting this prospect now that we are face to face.
I breathe and take the first step of many.
The first leg is relatively easy, but there are technical areas that require climbing jagged cliff faces about eight feet high. Unfortunately, a misplaced foot sends me tumbling down one of them. Luckily, I land on my backpack and only get the wind knocked out of me for a few seconds. I brush it off with a laugh and decide to approach it from a safer angle.
It’s unnaturally quiet on the mountainside. The few times my father brought me here, it was for hunting, but even then, it always felt like stepping into another world. No cars, no people—just the occasional gust of wind or snapping branch, the crunch of snow beneath your feet, and your own breathing filling your ears.
It’s incredibly peaceful.
Feeling pleased with my progress, I begin planning where to camp for the night. There’s a nice sheer rock that would be perfect for blocking the tent from the wind. I remove my glove and reach for the small pouch at the bottom of my bag that contains my map, pencil, and compass. I unzip the pocket and reach in—only to be met with cold, frigid air.
Panic sets in as I see a sizable rip that has donated its important contents to the mountain. A map or GPS is paramount when climbing; it’s one of the ten essentials. Lose one, and you should turn back immediately—lest you may never return.
I’ve already lost one.
There’s no point in turning back today. The sun has already crested the mountain, and the last bits of light barely illuminate my side of it. I’ll camp tonight and plan in the morning. After finishing the climb to my chosen site, I set up the tent and light my portable stove to make some well-deserved dinner. It’s freeze-dried chili—just add boiling water. As I blow on the steaming spoonful, the smell brings a memory: Nicole and I eating chili just like this at her family cabin, wrapped in blankets watching a meteor shower. Early in our relationship, not a worry in the world.
I always thought that moment would be my happy place. Yet I haven’t thought about it in years. I put the spoon in my mouth only to realize it’s gone cold.
At first light, I get up to assess the mountainside. It’s a clear, beautiful morning, and from this height the horizon stretches for hundreds of miles. In the distance I can see rising smoke from fires at base camp about three miles away. Going down should take half a day. I look up toward the peak and see people on their climb. They must be a day ahead of me, and it didn’t snow too much last night. There’s a chance I’ll be able to follow their tracks, and by the time I reach where they are, I’ll be able to see the summit.
It’s stupid, but something is burning inside me telling me to go on. Maybe I’ll be able to follow their trail down after I reach the peak. Unreasonably driven, I continue upward. After half a day of climbing, and nearly giving up, I finally find their footprints. With newfound vigor I smile and trudge along.
Soaking in the view, I forgot what brought me here. My past fades, and I can’t help but be present in the moment, something I haven’t felt in years. The daily monotony, the seventy-hour workweeks, the letdowns and disappointments… none of it matters up here. It is truly magnificent.
Late in the evening, I absentmindedly reach for my map to check my location—and laugh at my own misfortune. The summit is in sight. I’ll have no trouble getting up tomorrow, and as long as the forecast holds, it shouldn’t be too difficult to retrace my steps.
As if the god of mischief himself heard my thoughts, my emergency radio blares: three sharp static buzzes no mountaineer wants to hear. A blizzard is approaching. Thirty-mile-per-hour winds, one to two inches of snow per hour for approximately eight hours—and on a mountain, those numbers usually increase significantly. It’s going to be a rough night.
The blizzard started halfway through setting up camp, and I nearly lost my tent three times from the gusts. I do my best to find a spot where rocks can block the wind, but this high up there are few places to hide. After a grueling hour of building a snow embankment and re-staking the tent to avoid taking any magic-carpet rides in the night, I crawl inside to warm up. My eyebrows have sheets of ice on them, and the snot in my nose has started to thaw and drip. I take a moment to collect myself and begin making dinner.
How can there be this many obstacles in everything I do?
My boss Richard always sets unreachable tasks before me, and every time I finish them, he finds something wrong—something I missed or didn’t consider. I spend my life trying to appease a man who has no interest in letting me succeed. Four years wasted, ruining my relationships and missing opportunities, only to be told I’m not trying hard enough.
Why bother?
If I died here, what would I leave behind? I can already hear my dad: “That boy should’ve learned to step up instead of daydreaming,” or “Was the promotion at the top of the mountain? Dumbass!” If he was out in nature, it was for the glory of the hunt and the bragging rights to his friends. He could never just enjoy the time he had with his son. I never understood it. I always found the adventure with him and beauty in nature the most exciting part—but he never shared that sentiment. That disconnect pushed us far apart.
As I sit listening to the tent fabric snapping from the violent winds, a somber realization occurs to me:
Have I become just like him?
I have. Trying my hardest to please those who matter so little while ignoring those who deserve my all. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s a thought that chills me far more deeply than the cold.
I must have barely gotten three hours of sleep, most of it in the early morning after the blizzard ceased. I knock off a majority of the snow from my tent, now concave from the weight. After crawling through nearly two feet of it, I manage to get outside. The tent is hardly visible under the snowdrift. The mountain has taken a new form. Landmarks are unrecognizable from the day before. My trail is gone, and I only have a vague sense of direction. I’m lucky the blizzard only lasted through the night—but what now?
As I pack my tent, I hear faint crunching footsteps behind me. Coming over a nearby crest, the same group of climbers is heading down toward me. A weight lifts off my shoulders—people means hope. As they approach, I can tell they had a rough night too; they look exhausted and ready to return to camp.
“How was the night for you all?” I ask in jest.
They laugh quietly and joke that it could have been a bit warmer. When I ask if they enjoyed the summit, their faces immediately brighten.
“Incredible,” they say. They talk about the final stretch, the view, and how, even with some clouds, the sight was irreplaceable. A tinge of jealousy spreads through me, and I’m sure a little showed in my expression.
“It should be an amazing day for you though! It’s so clear out you could probably see your house if you live in-state,” one hiker calls out, followed by chuckles.
“Unfortunately, I lost my map on the way up,” I explain, “and with the snow, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it back down from memory. I was hoping to follow you all down, if you’d have me.”
The group exchanges looks, then an older man steps forward, pulls a laminated map from his pocket, and offers it to me. It’s clearly marked with points and trailheads that will lead me down safely.
“I can’t take your map, sir. How will you get back?” I protest.
He laughs. “I always carry a spare, son. All of us have at least two. We’ll be fine! Just don’t lose that one.”
I’m so grateful, yet all I can muster is a tearful, “Thank you.” Luckily, my snow goggles hide most of it. The group continues down, reminding me I’m welcome to join them if I wanted still.
But I set out to climb this mountain—and they’ve just handed me the ticket to finish what I started.
Three hours is all it takes. I climb with fervor and ferocity and reach the summit breathless—not from exhaustion, but from the intensity of what lies before me.
The wide-open world stretches beneath, under a clear afternoon sky, not a cloud in sight.
My struggles, however prominent in the back of my mind were silenced. No flat tires, no blizzard, no work, and no doubts to distract me.
I sit down, looking out at the corners of the world where my life has taken place, the sea of choices that led me here. I weep, then smile, then laugh.
I lay back into the cold deep snow and stare into the boundlessness above.
All the world lies beneath me—yet somehow, it feels above me still.
