September 21, 2014

From the trailhead parking lot, the jagged shoulder of Mount Bierstadt fills the horizon to the east. Rolling hills fill the midground sightline with lakes and willows in the foreground. Moose frequent the lower land. As always from the start of hikes, the top of peaks over 14,000 feet look far away, in another world. In a way, they are.  

I write this post nearly a decade (!) after my first time climbing a 14er, but I recall a similar mix of elements that accompany most 14er hikes: excitement shared by friends, intimidation, triumph at the top, and awe from the stunning views and experience of the landscape at that altitude. At the summit, someone offered us a cardboard sign to take a photo with – a popular practice when people begin climbing these peaks. I was with my boyfriend (and our dog Hallie) and a new friend from school (and her dog Bailey); he would become my husband, and she one of my best friends. On the early fall day, we marveled at the golden pot of aspen far below to southeast.

That day, the landscape was new to me. I knew nothing of the terrain where the aspen and high lake were below. I recall there being quite a few people on the hike, but not so many as to be an overwhelming crowd. I remember how hard it was to hike at that altitude, how slow I had to move, but I was a runner so was prepared. Nearly back to the car, I felt pain in my stomach and had to run behind a bush for a surprise bathroom break. My new friend thought it was hilarious.

I loved the hike, but had no desire to join the 14er craze, to count each 14er I climbed. My passions were being outside and photographing beautiful landscapes. I didn’t need to feel accomplished from ticking off peaks I’d summitted and quantifying my hiking. The experience was lovely, but it felt complete in and of itself.  

September 17, 2020

I’ve now hiked Mount Bierstadt several times. Yes, it is a so-called “basic bitch” 14er, with its relatively small elevation gain and proximity to Denver. It is also a beautiful hike. The fall of 2020 was still close to the height of the COVID pandemic. 2020 was horrifying because of all the suffering, the fear, and the eventual disagreements about how to legislate the pandemic. I was constantly concerned about my older parents. However, for me, in my everyday life, 2020 was an exceptionally great year. I thrived the summer and fall of 2020. The ethos of staying outside so as not to spread the virus aligned with what I wanted to do. What I wanted to do was hike. All the time. I was obsessed. I think I hiked 15 14ers that summer, many of them by myself.

So, one of my subsequent climbs of Bierstadt involved a very different mindset from the first hike. In September 2020, I was busy with work, but just had to hike on the weekend. On the 17^th, I wanted to physically push myself without driving too far from Denver. I hiked Square Top Mountain (a “13er” at over 13,000 feet in elevation). It is directly across the pass from Bierstadt and the higher peak was repeatedly in my sightline.

By the time I returned to the parking lot after hiking Square Top, my mind was made up: There was plenty of daylight and I had enough water to cross the road and hike Bierstadt too.

I was on a mission and the hike flew by. I watched inexperienced hikers struggle up the steep slopes. I hurried, past them supercharged on stoke and solid physical conditioning. That day, I hiked about 18 miles and climbed 5,200 vertical feet. It felt relatively easy.

Six years after my first time on Bierstadt, I had a developed a deeper love of hiking and a much more complex psychological relationship to hiking 14ers.

My Evolution: Looking Back at Bierstadt

From the height of Bierstadt in 2020, I was full of pure stoke. My body highly functioning, muscles working hard but storing plenty of strength to get backdown. My mind filled with the beautiful views and the high spirits of fellow hikers. I was happy. I also felt a deeper satisfaction than the first hike because I had learned to know the landscape in more depth. Nearby peaks were not just points in the sky. I’d been on most of the 13ers and 14ers around. I knew their names, their curves, their forests. I’d now felt the ice-cold breeze on the high lake, Abyss, that lays between Bierstadt and Mount Blue Sky. I’d been emersed in the glow of the aspen on the way to that lake. They were still a pot of gold, but I had become more intimate with their magic.

Experience breeds confidence. It can also feed the ego and expand imaginative possibilities. I loved hurrying down the peak, still full of energy. I’d had a perfect day hiking. Yet, I also felt the tinge of self-satisfaction and wanting to already figure out the next “big” hike. It’s wonderful to seek challenges, to grow. But the flip side is a deterioration of enjoying the moment, the insertion of metrics like miles and elevation into an assessment of how good it felt to move through nature. Presently, nearly 10 years after I hiked my first 14er, I am suspended between wanting to hike simply to appreciate them versus having the drive to only complete challenging and “epic” hikes. On one hand, I want to hike just to be outside, to enjoy the company of others in the outdoors, and to relish in the beauty and feel gratitude to be able to spend my days in the mountains. Walking through forests is good for our health and souls. On the other, completing challenging and risky hikes provides an adrenaline high that is addictive and cannot be satisfied without pushing myself to my limits. This is a line I constantly navigate, but I try to take it one trail, one decision at a time.