I checked my compass. We were too far east, having lost the trail in the seemingly infinite patches of unmelted snow.
I glanced at my watch. 11:30 a.m. Not desperation time — yet. Tara and I strapped on our snowshoes and trudged west, breaking fresh trail with each step. I yelled back encouragement to Tara, who was getting wobbly from the altitude, still above 12,000 feet.
But I was more honest with myself, saying silently, "Please, Lord Jesus, get me off this mountain." Then my footing gave way, and I began sliding.
About seven hours earlier, at 4 a.m., Tara and I awoke to a starlit night at our campsite along the Arkansas River. I had been looking forward to the day for months.
As an East Tennessee native, I've always loved the mountains. And after several months in Dallas, where the High Five highway interchange qualifies as elevation, the prospect of summiting my first fourteener — as they call peaks higher than 14,000 feet — seemed magical.
About 500,000 people hike one of Colorado's 50-odd fourteeners each year, according an estimate by the Colorado Fourteeners Initiative, a group that works with the U.S. Forest Service to protect and preserve those majestic peaks.
Tara and I packed, ate a quick breakfast and drove to the trail head 10 miles west of Buena Vista. The sun was just beginning to rise as we unloaded and checked our supplies.
We weren't taking any chances. Time and time again, we had been reminded of the mountains' dangers by everyone from hikers posting trip reports on the website 14ers.com to the man who rented us gear at The Trailhead in Buena Vista:
High altitudes that test the lungs and fog the mind. Bears and other wildlife that roam the woods. Swollen creeks and avalanches that threaten to overtake the trail. Weather that changes in an instant.
Ten people died climbing fourteeners last year; already this year, four had perished, according to the fourteeners initiative.
Tara and I set off around 6 a.m., just below 10,000 feet. Fueled by adrenaline and the cool, early June temperatures, we flew through the initial, timber-covered stages of the 8.75-mile round-trip hike. The path was strenuous but pleasant.
After breaking through the tree line, we got our first good look at Mount Yale. The peak towered over us, stately and unyielding.
For the first time, I wondered if summiting was realistic. Stops became more frequent as Tara and I tried to navigate the confusing snow trails winding through the alpine scenery above 12,000 feet.
But at long last we reached the final, brutal ascent to Yale's summit ridge.
Then we turned around to take in the world from 13,000 feet. The sky, the mountains, the woods went on forever. It was pure, primal, even liberating. And we decided we had come far enough.
After a quick break to celebrate, we started what we hoped would be an uneventful descent. But now everything was different. Everything was the same.
Every random pile of rocks began to look like the cairns that marked the path. Swatches of dry ground and unmelted snow swirled together to form an impenetrable mosaic. The trail vanished, seemingly for good.
I tried to remain calm, but minutes quickly turned into an hour. I knew we could follow gulches and streams back to the trail head along Denny Creek. But that could take hours, and it would only push us farther off course. We needed to get to a lower elevation — and fast. The altitude was hitting Tara hard.
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