Every hobby has its gradations of participation. Take running as an example. For someone who doesn’t run at all the thought of completing a 5 kilometer race sounds impressive. But dip your toe into the running community and 5 kilometers quickly becomes child’s play. The 5 kilometers turns into a slippery slope of half marathons (13.1 miles), full marathons (26.2 miles), and if a marathon isn’t extreme enough there are the ultra marathons that can be 100 miles or over multiple days.
Hiking is much the same. For someone who doesn’t hike at all a 10 mile hike sounds impressive. And somehow a few internet searches about hiking and a couple clicks later the ethereal algorithm has pulled you down the rabbit hole. Hiking 10 miles, and only hiking for one day? But what about backpacking through the wilderness for a multi-day hike? And if you’re going to be camping on a multi-day hike why not do a thru-hike and complete a several hundred or thousand-plus mile route from one end to the other, like the Appalachian Trail, or the Pacific Crest Trail? And if you do one thru-hike, why not go after the Triple Crown, completing the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Continental Divide Trail? Because if you’re going to do something, shouldn’t you really go for it?
And that is the slippery slope of hiking, and every other hobby. Casual interest can turn into a quick sand of obsession for how extreme can you become. While I like to think of myself as a badass, I have one insurmountable aversion that will eliminate most multi-day backpacking trips, let alone a thru-hike. To me, the idea of camping sounds like hell.
Don’t get me wrong, I love nature. I’m not afraid to sweat. But sleeping on the ground, going days without showering or washing my hair, and going #2 in the wilderness are a No, No, and No for me. Call me bougie, a princess, high maintenance, I don’t care. For all the hiking people that camp, I cheer you on, but it’s just not for me. Look, I don’t need luxury accommodations, but my minimum requirements are daily access to indoor plumbing and sleeping on something that keeps me and the ground several inches apart. My best chance at flirting with backpacking would be a hut-to-hut route, like the Alta Via 1 in the Italian Dolomites, which is on my bucket, or backpacking list, if you will.
So how does a self-identifying badass with a love for hiking reconcile the fact that 99% of multi-day hikes will not meet my non-negotiable accommodations? Enter the 14er. For those that haven’t been pulled into the gravitational force of the internet algorithm for hiking enthusiasts, a 14er refers to a mountain peak with at least 14,000 ft (4,267 m) of elevation. It sounds hardcore and it can be completed as part of a day hike allowing for a post-hike shower and sleeping in a nice cozy bed.
When it comes to 14ers, Colorado has the most 14ers of any state with 58 named peaks. Over Memorial Day weekend 2021 I planned a long weekend flying out to Denver and completing a 14er was a key part of my itinerary, because hey, I’m a badass. Or at least that’s what I wanted to think.
To set the stage, I was living in the Washington, DC area at the time which is literally at sea-level. Denver’s nickname of The Mile High City comes from the fact that the elevation is around 5,280 ft, or 1 mile, or 1.6 kilometers for the metric crowd. But let’s be honest, The 1.6 Kilometer High City doesn’t have the same ring to it. Denver tourism wants visitors to know while many people won’t notice the effects of the higher altitude, the air is thinner and dryer, requiring visitors to drink more water to prevent dehydration. Coupled with that, physical activity will feel more demanding if you are not adjusted to the thinner air.
Living in the East Coast near sea-level for the vast majority of my life, I didn’t have a lot of experience in higher altitudes. However during this era of my life I was physically active multiple times a week running or biking or hiking. I was a regular on Old Rag, which is Shenandoah National Park’s equivalent to a 14er. Except it’s not equivalent at all, Old Rag’s maximum elevation is around 3,200 ft (975 m). The top of Old Rag doesn’t even reach the starting elevation in Denver and is 10,800 ft (3,291 m) short of 14er elevation.
While I knew that the higher elevation would add a difficulty variable I hadn’t trained for, I felt confident that my level of physical fitness would get me to the top of the figurative and literal mountain, so that I could proudly declare to I-don’t-know-who, that I had bagged a 14er.
https://www.alltrails.com/trail/us/virginia/old-rag-mountain-loop-trail
While researching for my trip I found tips on combatting altitude sickness. I also came across the statistic that on average 2 people die in Colorado every year due to lightning strikes. Last but not least I found what was to be my 14er. Perhaps the first of many, I thought, and I set my sights on the Colorado 14ers Grays and Torreys Peak. On paper Grays and Torreys Peak looked on par with the hikes I was already doing, 8.3 mi long and 3,602 ft elevation gain.
https://www.alltrails.com/trail/us/colorado/grays-and-torreys-peak
The distance was about the same as Old Rag and the 600 extra feet of elevation gain on Grays and Torreys Peak seemed negligible, especially considering I had done a 100 mile bike ride a month before the trip. Brimming with confidence and feeling validated by my Strava feed I set out to tackle a Colorado 14er.
A few days before the hike I checked the reviews for an idea of trail conditions. Reviews mentioned “light snow” and “post holing.” I didn’t know what the term “post hole” meant and wasn’t bothered to look it up.
On May 29, 2021 my boyfriend, my friend Mike, and I hit the trail in pursuit of a 14er. Our spirits started high as we set out on a beautiful day over the holiday weekend that is the kickoff for summer. At the beginning of the trail I saw some snow, which matched the review I had read about “a little snow on the trail.”
At some point in our journey we passed a father-son duo that had stopped for a snack break. I’d estimate the father was in his 60s and he was the kind of charismatic and talkative dad that within a few minutes we were well acquainted with him and his family. The son was visiting from out of state, the son was prone to sunburn and needed to apply sunscreen every hour, the dad was staying near the trail head and had an amazing fresh squeezed juice with magical nutritional properties, and of course we were welcome to stop by on our way back from our hike to drink some of the said-magical-juice. We also learned that the dad was a Colorado native, he was recently retired, and he enjoyed going on long bike rides and smoking weed. We became abreast of all of this within a couple minutes and without any direct inquiries from our group.
The closing comments from Charismatic Dad were that he saw some clouds coming in that we needed to keep an eye out for and he would catch up to us later on the trail. “That’s cute,” I thought, “Old Man thinks he’s going to catch up to us on the trail while he’s still stopped eating a snack.” Coloradoans are a different breed and Charismatic Dad was no exception. While we didn’t exchange Strava contact info, I’m sure he would have a feed that would have put mine to shame because sure enough, even with a 10 minute head start, Charismatic Dad caught up to us on the trail.
We met other trail goers and with Charismatic Dad there, we quickly became fast Trail Friends. A woman that was also on the trail had a trip planned to Mount Kilimanjaro and was using Grays and Torreys as a training ground. While my hiking crew was snapping selfies, Charismatic Dad insisted on taking group photos for us. He made sure to capture every angle possible, in portrait and landscape orientations.
Our group continued up the mountain and had now grown to my crew of 3 plus Charismatic Dad and his son plus Mount Kilimanjaro woman. Charismatic Dad continued to monitor the clouds and voiced his concern that a storm was coming in. With a combination of naivety to how fast weather can change on a Colorado mountain and stubbornness that I was only in Colorado for a long weekend so my time and opportunity to complete this 14er was limited, my crew and I convinced ourselves the clouds were just clouds.
As we got further along the trail, the incline was becoming difficult. My boyfriend and I had only arrived the day before and we were both starting to get a mild headache from this level of elevation that we had never experienced. As the incline got steeper and my boyfriend’s headache worsened he started to voice that he was “over it.” “But we’re already here!” I rebutted, feeling that turning around before making it to the top was copping out.
Somewhere along the line Charismatic Dad said there was a storm coming and he was going to turn around. He had summited Grays and Torreys before but he said there had been multiple attempts that he had to turn around because of the weather. I thought Charismatic Dad was overreacting to a couple clouds and my crew continued up the mountain at what was becoming a sluggish pace.
The little bit of snow at the start of the trail soon became snow everywhere. Between the incline and the snowy conditions my feet were slipping with every step. My boyfriend’s comments of being “over it” were becoming more frequent. He was more physically fit than I was and complaining is not in his nature. Still my friend Mike and I were fueled by enthusiasm to complete our goal of summiting the mountain.
The tipping point came while we stopped to rest and found ourselves with a group of hikers that brought skis with them to ski down the mountain. We all shared in the mutual encouragement that we were “so close” to the top. I started to hear a weird buzzing noise. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from and thought it might be my ears ringing. Was this a sign of altitude sickness? I asked everyone around me, “do you hear that noise?” One of the skiers brushed it off and said “it’s a plastic water bottle crunching because of the change in air pressure.” I didn’t have a plastic water bottle and the sound was more like the crackle of an antennae tv that was on a static channel.
All of a sudden my friend Mike pointed at me and said “Renate, your hair!” Looking around me, everyone’s hair was standing up from static electricity. “Cover your head with your hood! Run! Run!” someone yelled. We all bolted down the mountain as fast as we could. I could see my life flashing before my eyes and the statistic “2 people die every year from lightning strikes” echoed in my brain. My heart was pounding as I did everything I could to run or slide down the steep snow as fast as I could without losing control and rolling down the mountain.
Eventually we got far enough down the mountain that we could stop to catch our breath. No one needed to say it. We had turned around and there was no going back up. While I thought admitting defeat for completing a 14er and having a near-death experience was going to be the end of my humble pie, I was about to be served another big steaming piece.
As we made our return to the car I thought that the descent would go quicker than our ascent. I took a step and my foot sunk down into the snow, all the way to my knee. And then it happened again on the next step, and the next step, and the next. The sun had warmed up the snow that we had walked on during our climb up and now the snow could no longer hold our weight and we sunk with each step. This was post holing. This was hell.
My boyfriend that doesn’t complain continued to express how “over it” he was. He also sarcastically mimicked my description of the trail reviews saying there was “a little snow.” After what felt lke a glacial pace we finally reached the trailhead. My boyfriend sat on a log, took off his shoes, took off his socks, and began wringing the water out of his socks. We were tired, had wet feet, and we were all over it. We still had a couple miles to walk to get to our car because the road leading to the trail was too rough for our vehicle to drive any closer. A couple that was parked at the trail head offered to give us a ride to our car and we all enthusiastically accepted.
The final verdict is that I didn’t make it to 14,000 ft, I made it to an admirable 13,135 ft, but short by 865 ft or 0.16 miles, or 263 meters. And while on paper it makes it sound like I was so close, at that point on the mountain between the incline, the slippery snow, and the thin air, every foot might as well have been 10.
I wanted to complete a 14er because I thought of myself as a badass and I thought completing a 14er is what a badass would do. Know who is the biggest bad ass I encountered that day? Charismatic Dad. He had the wisdom to turn around because he didn’t need to prove a point to no one that he could hike up to a summit that was 14,000 ft above sea level.
Was I physically capable of completing the hike? I think so. It was painstakingly slow but I think I could of have pushed through the last 900 ft. Was it worth risking my life to get struck by lightning to prove a point that I could hike to 14,000 ft? Absolutely not. Regardless of the fact that official statistic says I didn’t complete a 14er it was a beautiful hike that I will never forget, even if it hadn’t involved a near-death experience.
Being a bad ass isn’t about having a laundry list of items you completed based on arbitrary categories. Being a bad ass is about challenging yourself for the sake of it, not to prove a point or check a box. Badass Charismatic Dad, wherever you are, I salute you.
Renate 'Renny' Flanagan -- Freelance Writer for Travel and Washington, DC Local Insider Tips 
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