In August of 2007 I hiked Mt of The Holy Holy Cross with my two dogs Jelly and Jam. Holy Cross and Notch Mountain create sort of a crown in the Holy Cross Wilderness, which I lived near the edge of for 5 years. This peak is visible for miles around in the central Rocky Mountains. One of the most incredible views is seen when exiting the gondola on Vail Mountain, at Eagle’s Nest. I often gazed at it, strapping into my snowboard, imagining what it would be like to stand on top of it. Dominating the horizon and towering at 14,000 feet it frightened and enticed me. Jelly and Jam were up for it, both seasoned hikers. The afternoon walk up into the saddle of Half Moon Pass was breezy, except for the 60 pound pack. Dogs roamed freely, Jam tearing through the woods chasing every marmot, and Jelly trailed, watching my feet from behind. The first vista spins 360. West, Mt. Jackson and the first close view of Holy Cross, East, The Back Bowls of Vail and the Gore Range. To the right, the north saddle of Notch Mountain, and the the south, the shoulder of Notch Itself. I sat here for a while, catching my breath and preparing for the downward spiral into the next valley, the base of Holy Cross. Here I would camp, near a water fall and babbling creek. I made a camp meal I can’t remember, I was in an excited daze thinking about the following day. The dogs were nervous too, and looking lethargic, blowing their load in the first leg. I slept restlessly. The morning took forever, I fried eggs and loaded my day pack. Jelly maued her food, Jam was indifferent, as usual, but ate nonetheless. A gentle push up from the campsite quickly opened up into a steep rock field, cairns dotting its slope to show the way. At some point in the climb, these two dudes burned me. They were wearing casual jogging gear and trucking the side of this mountain. I didn’t see anyone else until the summit. As I claimed the first ridge of the ascent, I saw a view that will stay with me forever; the west facing slope of Notch Mountain. I felt like it was watching me for the rest of the hike, looming in my periphery. On Holy Cross’s shoulder I kept losing the trail. I would be looking down, choosing my steps rhythmically, listening to Pelican on myPod and when I looked up…no trail. Wandering around aimlessly for a bit, I would always find Jelly, sitting silently and peacefully on the trail, watching me. Her look would say “What are you doing dipshit?” Ahh the pleasures of a too-smart dog. On the final push to the summit, the vistas became increasingly incredible. Looking down into the Bowl of Tears below, marveling at the perfect day around me, feeling light headed. Finally on the summit after 3 plus hours, I met some people. Jam was more than happy to make friends, while Jelly and I just wanted to try and take it all in. The panorama was staggering. As often happens to me on high peaks, I couldn’t stay long. For me the journey is the main source of enjoyment, and sitting still at the pinnacle of a rocky apex always proves a struggle for me. I took a few pictures, packed some snow into my camelback’s bladder, and started to slowly pick my way down. A keen sense of accomplishment and silly over-tired slap-happiness had me smiling all the way back to my campsite. At some point I slipped and fell and smashed myPod, but it still worked for another two hours. I regained the campsite in silence around 4 in the afternoon. Eating and packing up I filtered some water from the nearby stream, then slowly made my way up and out of the valley and toward the car. Driving home felt strange and beautiful, I was a different man, now. My relationship with nature had deepened, and with my dogs as well. Atop that mountain, I felt something best described by William Gibson in Virtual Light.
“…a fleeting awareness of something very high, very pure, and quite clinically empty; the doing of the thing, the not-thinking; that weird adrenal exultation and the losing of every more troublesome aspect of self.”
