Still chasing after all these years

We may not keep the same pace, but at least we’re on the same wavelength

Beat negotiates the talus above Ice Lake

Desperate gulps of skunky air — a fragrance from the purple polemonium flowers bursting from the tundra — lodged in my throat. The edges of my vision blurred as my nostrils burned. I pushed my ragged lungs to convert as much oxygen as possible, and still, the figure faded further up the slope. I was chasing my husband up a mountain, yet again.

Whenever I have to do this above 12,000 feet, I feel like I’m in one of those dreams, running in slow motion. There is always some terrifying entity lurking in the shadows, and no matter how fast I run, I remain stuck in place. No matter how hard I scream, no sound comes out. Beat doesn’t see my struggle because he’s far ahead, marching along without a care in the world. He’s not even thinking about how thin the air is up here or how he wishes he bought one of those supplemental oxygen canisters in the checkout line at Walgreens. What I wouldn’t give for a Boost right about now.

“I forget how anxiety-inducing it is to go hiking with you,” I gasp as I catch up to Beat at the shoreline of Rogers Pass Lake. He looks like he’s been here for hours, relaxing and munching on snacks. I haven’t caught enough wind to choke anything down since we left the trailhead and a bonk is setting in.

“I’ll always wait for you,” he insists as he turns to resume the march before I’ve even caught my breath.

No rest for the weary at Rogers Pass Lake.

The last time I chased my husband up this particular set of mountains was four years ago. It was an oddly relaxed time during the first summer of Covid, before the horrors of the 2020 fire season blew up, just as the first vaccine trials showed promising results. Beat and I did seemingly everything together that summer since he was still working from home, we weren’t meeting up with friends, we weren’t traveling, we weren’t racing, and I had nowhere to put my Covid anxiety so I obsessively planned long weekend excursions. This adventure was his idea, though. He wanted to explore an off-trail, sometimes technical ridge along the Continental Divide.

“If it was still 2010, I'd have jumped at the opportunity without a second thought, but a decade of bruises and torn ligaments have made me leery,” I later wrote about his plan for a 23-mile, 9,000-feet-of-climbing circumnavigation of James Peak. Now four more years have passed, Beat is still getting stronger, while I seem to become more busted every year.

But Mount Bancroft held a special place in my heart. It was here on July 12, 2020, that Beat reached in his pack while I was frantically stuffing my face with a sandwich (I need to choke down those calories while I can.) He pulled out a quartz rock, similar to the one that first marked our relationship ten years earlier, and said, "There's never really a right way to do this. So do you want to get married?"

Beat approaches Mount Bancroft along the narrow Continental Divide.

Four years ago, we committed to more or less chase each other around indefinitely. That’s how I viewed marriage as different from the partnership we had forged in the past decade. We still have individual interests, pursuits, and values, but we’re not simply walking parallel paths anymore. We’re pedaling in tandem.

The past four years have brought a barrage of obstacles that Beat has joined me in tackling. Yet he seems to skip over them while I bounce painfully behind and collect little traumas and bruises. My lungs, where I hold my grief, seem to become more restrained and unyielding. Beat has shown much more grace in aging. He’s still just as driven, just as hungry for a challenge, just as enamored with the intensity of life as the day we met.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever again be able to keep up. Feelings of inadequacy weighed on me as I floundered up James Peak, stumbling over rocks whenever I glanced at his silhouette several hundred feet above me. Why must he drag me on these relentless mountain marches? Can’t he tell my poor lungs have been filtering particulates all week? Can’t he sympathize that I have to battle pollen season anew whenever we enter a new growing zone? Does he feel nothing at 12,000 feet? I can’t keep up. I don’t want this pressure.

We’re both growing older. But often I feel like the one being left in the dust as Beat marches purposefully toward a forever-expanding horizon.

Clearing the scrambly section

Of course, Beat waited for me at James Peak. Where I had sensed impatience, he was happy to let me finish my sandwich as we watched for pikas. It was a hot day, even here at 13,200 feet, and the poor cold-adapted mammals were hiding in the rocks and chirping their disdain for the relative crowds on this popular peak.

Beyond James, the physical effort tapers off and the mental challenge begins. A steep descent on blocky talus leads to a short shark-tooth ridge followed by a steep scree climb up the face of Mount Bancroft. Beat stayed with me through this section. My rock-hopping has improved — I credit one-legged squats and lunges — and I was better at staying close to Beat than I had been four years ago. But he still stopped often to make sure I was following his line. He pointed out better options if he’d chosen a difficult one. After scrambling down the final class-three move, he stood below me and guided my feet to the best footholds. A warm flutter of gratitude replaced my frustration. I had to admit that my early annoyance with his pace mostly had to do with my ego, and here I could bruise a lot more than that. Beat has never failed to be by my side when it matters. Which I know should be all that counts.

On top of Mount Bancroft, we sat down for a break in the brisk wind. I took a selfie in our matching Outdoor Research sun hoodies (we think alike when it comes to gear choices and buy the same things. I usually get annoyed and change when we both put on the same shirt in the morning, but this time I tolerated the fashion faux pas. Don’t we look cute?) A couple of curious marmots crept around us, much more shy than the shameless beggars on the more popular peaks. Bancroft is trailless, distant from roads, square-shaped, and unassuming. Few hikers target this summit. For this reason, it feels like “our” mountain, a sweeping view that belongs only to us. And yet I haven’t been back in four years.

As we sat much longer than I expected, I traced the ripple of 13ers toward Berthoud Pass. If we had days to spend, we could cross Highway 40, continue along the Divide to Bakerville, cross I-70, climb Grays and Torreys, and presumably keep following the rugged ridge to Loveland Pass and beyond. If only I had the strength. If only we had the time.

Beat photographs a marmot posing on a rock outcropping.

The fantasy was enticing, but even reality had a long way to go. We picked our way down the talus to Loch Lomand, up and over the bony backside of Kingston Peak, descended the foliage-choked valley surrounding James Peak Lake, marched up and over Nebraska Hill, and returned via Rogers Pass as evening light encompassed the slopes above South Boulder Creek. We both grew tired. We both ran out of snacks. Beat forgot his electrolyte tablets and I hadn’t even thought to bring any. He took painkillers instead. I was sun-drunk and bonked. I frequently stumbled as I negotiated the rooty trail 11 hours into a hard hike but never fell on my face … a miracle.

We barely made it back to the car before sunset. My feet were pruney and sore. Beat was hungry and mused about stopping at Wendy’s, which I found funny because I don’t think we’ve been to a Wendy’s once in the 14 years we’ve known each other, and anyway our one-hour drive home crossed a food desert with no relief for rumbling stomachs. As we drove away from the trailhead, I thanked Beat for his patience during the tough miles of the hike. But I wondered if solo adventures are the way to go since our paces don’t seem to match.

He responded, “I think you can be faster next time. At least on the climbs. You used to be faster.”

The comment stung more than I expected, given the afterglow of the hard effort. My bruised ego throbbed. Beat means well. For him, being faster only means having more time to travel the ridges stretching across the horizon. After all, at one point we both relished the challenge.

“I think that ship has sailed,” I replied curtly.

But why do I believe I’m only ever going to get worse? Why can’t I let myself dream about distant horizons anymore?

On Monday morning, I awoke to a sore chest but surprisingly fresh legs — the rest of my body is much more capable than my lungs these days. I took those legs to the gym for more squats, lunges, deadlifts, and the routine of upper-body lifting so that my downhill skills could continue to improve, if not my speed. As I worked through the reps, I smiled at the memories of Sunday. Beat guiding my feet down the cliff. Beat leaning in for a kiss on Bancroft. Beat stopping to take photos of all of the marmots because he loves animals so much. The sweeping views over Nebraska Hill. The warm evening light settling over Heart Lake.

Ego has such a short memory and frustration fades quickly. I reminded myself that what matters is what remains.

Now I wonder if this memory will seem like a brief moment of peace during the fourth Covid summer, before the horrors of the 2024 fire season blew up. I know fire season was bad before all across the West, but now it’s reached the Front Range. In the past two days, two fires exploded just north of us, and another overnight on Tuesday near our friend Daniel’s house in Littleton.

I don’t know that I’ll be able to return to Colorado’s mountains anytime soon, although Beat clings to hope about his favorite peak — Chief’s Head — and wants me to come along. I’m already back on Twitter, obsessively refreshing #cofire updates, and fantasizing about places far away from this hellscape (my friends in Juneau tell me it’s been the wettest summer ever there.) Beat daydreams about all of the gorgeous valleys we can escape to in Switzerland, at least until the floods come, but I’m the only one who worries about uncontrollable threats in an imaginary future.

(Precisely as I was writing this, Beat messaged me to tell me that Daniel was okay and the Quarry Fire progress was promising but “Seriously Switzerland is looking better. At least when a mountain falls on top of you it’s over quick …”) We really do think alike.

Whatever the future holds, we’re pedaling in tandem, and for that I’m grateful.