Part Two: The Peak
We arrived at the Pine Spring campground in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park on Monday evening, my Ozona friend and I with his camper. Our Canyon Lake friend in hers. We ate a nice dinner. Made plans for the next day and retired to our quarters. We woke the next morning to a clear sky and howling winds, with some gusts pushing forty miles per hour. They felt stronger. The wind made us a little edgy as we donned our gear and set out for the Peak, four miles away and 3,000 feet up.
The Guadalupe Peak trailhead is just off the parking lot. From there, the first section of the trail, with its switchbacks and high steps, heads up a tall escarpment. It ends at a distinct notch. After a mile of walking you gain 1,000 feet of elevation. From there the trail turns left and out of sight of the campground to traverse the long ridge that takes you to the Peak. We made the notch with modest effort, but along the way we kept meeting returning parties complaining of the wind. Parties who had turned back. So, we paused at the notch to consider our future. It didn’t take long. We decided to press on.
The slope eased in miles two and three. Still up but doable. There was shade. Pleasant views. It was nice. At mile four, as we neared the peak, however, the path narrowed, steepened, and reminded me I was a long way up. At one point, right before the Peak, we turned a corner and found almost no path at all, just notches in a rock more than 8,000 feet up. Heaven was to our left. I sucked in my breath, however, hugged the rock, stepped lightly, and made the peak. At the top, I felt unbounded relief. All along the way I’d been telling myself, just keep walking. You can do this. Then I did, and I was elated with that joy and satisfaction that comes from doing the hard thing. Then we started back down, and I discovered the hard thing wasn’t here. It wasn’t nearly here.
I always thought that walking down was the easy part of hiking. It was, when I did the South Rim, even though we descended what is considered the steepest slope. It felt hard at the time, my feet hurt, but it was nothing compared to the Peak because while you descend the same elevation, 3,000 feet, coming down from the Peak covers only half the distance. That is steep. And there are steps and rocks. Lots of them. Walking a flat trail is simple. Navigating steps and rough terrain is another matter entirely. By the time we got to the last mile at the notch, with its 1,000 feet of elevation, I thought it would end me entirely. It was getting dark. My muscles ached. My feet hurt. I was coming down like a baby. One tentative step at a time.
At one point, halfway down from the notch, as the campground grew closer, all I could think of was pictures of marathon runners whose bodies quit on them right at the finish line. They were falling to the ground, twitching uncontrollably. I wondered if that would be me. There I’d be, in the dirt, unable to rise, unable to walk, unable to finish the thing I was doing. It was disheartening. I thought I was about to die. But I pressed on. Set my poles. Put one foot down, then the other. Walked to the next step. Did it again. My companions stopped to look back occasionally to watch, checking, their concern visible.
Then it was done. We were in the parking lot. The Peak behind us. It was dark. I was tired. Exhausted. We talked of all the places where we hurt. It took us nine hours to go 13 miles at the South Rim. It took us nine hours to go eight miles at the Peak. In retrospect, I’m sure most of the reason was me. I was always asking to stop. I was like sea anchor. I was an old man; I am an old man. I was feeling my age and I was tired. We retired with only a hint of dinner and no real clue about what tomorrow might bring. I was happy for the sleep.
Tomorrow: Part Three: The Canyon.