I'm climbing the stairs of a small hotel in Colorado and have my own version of why this town is called Leadville. My feet feel like lead as I climb only one story into the thin air of a town that is already 10,300 feet above sea level. This is really not fun, I think with some irony. I've come here to hike to the highest point in Colorado and The Rockies: Mt. Elbert. To summit a 14er as they say out here, because it's one of 53 Colorado peaks higher than 14 thousand feet above sea level.
It's not fun right now because I just arrived and I recognize the familiar effects of hypoxia: shortness of breath, rapid pulse, a dull ear to ear headache and some slight tunnel vision. That is, a narrowing of my field of vision due to less oxygen getting to the eyes.
I've experienced mild hypoxia many times before. In the military as part of training in a high-altitude chamber, nearly every time skiing, and two years ago in Cusco, Peru - a city at about the same elevation as Leadville. Cusco was an acclimation stop on the way to hiking Machuu Pichuu. I spent about two days there getting used to the high altitude, and it was pretty much the same: Feeling like crud, pushing the limit of Ibuprofen dosage and laying in bed a lot. But by day three of loafing around Cusco, I was feeling pretty good and ready for a five day hike in the Andes mountains.
On this evening on the last day of September, I am in Leadville, once again feeling altitude sick. I crash into bed and think with a little dread about the hike I have planned for the next day: 4000 vertical feet to a summit in about 4.5 miles. It is not technical. That is, no mountain climbing skills required. Just a heavy tread on comfortable shoes, 2 liters of water in a small pack and a desire to keep walking up into thin alpine air.
In spite of plenty of the vitamin-I and water, my headache will not go away. Monday Night Football is on but I can't watch to the end. Even with tunnel vision, the Dolphin's offense tonight is not easy to watch, and I reach for the remote's off button. Maybe a long stretch of sleep will help.
36 hours ago, I came up with the simple plan: ride my motorcycle from my parent's house in Texas to Leadville and climb to the top of Mt Elbert. It is perfect fall weather for Colorado. Mountain temperatures in the 70's and the aspen leaves are aged and golden. There is newborn snowpack in silver-white vertical streaks from summits to timberline across the Sawatch Range - the region's highest peaks, roughly in the center of the state.
At 3 and 5 am I wake up again. Still noticeably hypoxic: a headache, and my pulse will not slow down. I've just about convinced myself that summiting a mountain today is out of the question and I half-sleep until almost 8 o'clock. Spending an extra day or two here is also impractical. I check out and pack up the motorcycle for a ride back to my home in Phoenix.
Like the Colorado weather, my attitude changes quickly during a double espresso in a downtown coffee shop. The headache of a few hours ago is nearly gone and I think that maybe the faster pulse is just caffeine and adrenaline. The decision quickly snaps the other way - go and climb the thing - or at least go as far as you can. You can't just say you came all the way to the Rockies to sleep in a Leadville hotel.
Three hours later I am well into climbing Mt. Elbert. The headache is gone and the other effects of high altitude are barely noticed except for one: short breath. I can respirate quickly and get enough oxygen to move one foot in front of and above the other. Just not for very long, and this is how it goes for most of the trek. I've spent the first hour hiking steadily and hardly stopping. Now I pause to rest and admire the view every 20-30 steps. Near the summit, it will be every 10 or so.
There are other climbers around and I can't help but compare my progress to theirs. I'm sure there are locals and ultra-trekkers who can easily race to the top. Thankfully, none are around today. I am not passed, nor do I pass by anyone. Slow and steady seems to be the common strategy for today's challengers of Elbert.
Did I say the weather in Colorado changes quickly? Exception this day. It is cool, clear and perfect. Not even much of a breeze to contend with as I march toward the top. I've left the forest of bristlecone and limber pine below at 12,000 feet. Now I'm looking at an exposed terrain of glacier-carved pinnacles patched with snow. The colors are grey shades to darkblood red, and everywhere scattered rocks, boulders and flatirons waiting to someday to rise, fall or both. Between them are layers of alpine grass matted by generations of snowpack and wind.
At 2:15 I arrive at a smooth peak on the mountain that I have been looking up at for 30 minutes. But it is a "false summit." I see more climbing needed along a bouldered ridge line to the real thing. It looks depressingly far away but my sense of scale is wrong. The silhouette of a hiker nearing the top rises from a shadow. I realize I am only 5 minutes or so from success. The step up and rest cycle continues just a few more times.
Two other climbers are nearby and I ask them for quick photo next to a tattered American flag marking the summit. Then I spend a few minutes looking at the other 14er peaks along the Sawatch range. To the north is Mt. Massive, Turquoise Lake, Leadville. To the south, the Collegiate Peaks and in every direction a sky of crisp, cloudless blue.
This early in the season, the snow is just inches thick and it is warm enough to slowly melt. The liquid will fall only one of two ways at this point along the Continental Divide. East to the valley headwaters of the Arkansas river or west to the tributaries of the Colorado. Only one of two ways.
I take a few short breaths and turn back down the trail. Three hours of downhill to go. But I'm smiling and grateful for good weather, health and a choice in a coffee shop that lead this way.
