Across the River

We stepped up to the rim of the canyon and peered over the edge. Below and across the sandy hill, our gaze met the slithering flow of the river, with sheer sandstone cliffs on the opposite bank. The late November sun slanted low at midday, casting longer shadows than normal, but lighting well the face of the cliff. A swarm of black birds fluttered in arabesque sweeps through the air, then landed on a lone cottonwood tree next to the river.

This was the feeling of isolation.

Any misstep out here, and your body may never be found.

Jordan and I found a section along the rim where the rock slope was angled not so steeply, that we were able to walk down. We descended to the next level, then found a gully that twisted along the southern edge of the sandy hill. We nimbly maneuvered around prickly pear cactus before coming to a high bank that gave us a front-row seat above the river.

“That's a lot wider than I thought it would be,” I commented to Jordan. The river appeared shallow, not all of it with flowing water, but mud that stretched far to the other side.

“Isn't it going to be cold?” asked Jordan, finally with the realization that we would be crossing in our bare feet.

“Probably,” I replied, “but it's only supposed to be ankle deep.”

We found a small break in the tall bank that allowed us to descend to the level of the water where we stopped at a large bend in the river on a sandy shore.

Anxious to get across, I sat down and unlaced my shoes, then pulled off my socks and stuffed them into the toes of the shoes. With my small day pack back on my shoulders, and my shoes in hand, I set out to test the water.

I became discouraged when I noticed a small sheet of frozen water on the shaded edge of the bank. Then I watched as two chunks of ice floated down the main channel of the river.

Still determined, I stepped into the water and took five steps, then felt a jolt of pain and panic seize my body when the ice-cold fluid took hold. Quickly I backed out, my feet feeling the beginning stages of numbness.

“Aye, aye, aye!” I said as I walked around in delirium for a few seconds. “That is freezing!”

At the moment, I began to rethink my plan. I should have come better prepared, perhaps with a second pair of shoes, or maybe good bags to wear over my feet.

During my ten seconds in the river, however, I discovered a new obstacle—mud. I wouldn't have thought of mud as an obstacle before, but while in the water, it felt as if I was walking on jello, and with one of my steps my foot began to sink. I now feared sinking into a sludge of quicksand.

Jordan, in the meantime, while watching my foray into the water, decided that crossing the river wasn't for him. He would just wait here on the bank. That was fine with me.

After regaining the feeling in my feet, I decided to give it one more try. “If it doesn't work this time,” I told myself, “then we will turn around and go back.” (I knew that we still had a long drive to get home.)

“Jordan, I want you to make sure that you watch me when I cross . . . just in case I start sinking!”

That truly was my fear now—getting half way across the river and then sinking down to my chest in a mud bar.

I stepped one foot into the water, and then another. My right foot began to sink, but I quickly continued to move, and soon I was through the main channel (which only went up to my shin), and standing on a jiggly bar of mud. I trotted to the top of the bar, leaving gashes in the mud, then skipped over a small rivulet of bronze-colored water to another mud bar. I repeated this process two more times, making my way over the multiple strands of stray water that flowed outside the main channel. With one last dash to the opposite bank, I stepped onto the final bar of mud, and instantly my right leg sank down to my knee. In a panic, I lunged to the bank, and used my arms to pull myself from the mud. Finally, I sat safely on the other side.

“Did you see that? I about sank to my death in mud!” I spoke to Jordan, who sat watching me far away on the opposite bank. I used a voice slightly louder than normal, but certainly not a yell. When Jordan spoke back, it sounded as if he were next to me. The acoustics at this bend in the river, with the large sandstone wall that hung over the water, was amazing.

I sat on flattened grass and damp sand and noticed fresh coyote tracks imprinted on the wet mud in front of me. I pulled a water bottle from my pack (the only one I had with me) and drizzled clean liquid over my muddy feet. They didn't become completely clean, but clean enough to then take a t-shirt from my pack and wipe the rest of the mud off. Then I replaced my socks and shoes and was ready to go.

My location on the opposite bank was far from ideal. I still had a jungle of tamarisk to fight with. I began forging my way through, pushing the small but rigid branches forward and stepping through. Hooks on the branches snagged the leg of my jeans, ripping a new hole, and twisting them around my thigh. I couldn't see the ground below me because of the tangle of grass and branches. I prayed that there wasn't a hole in the ground like the tiger pits that you see in the movies.

I made my way to the base of the cliff, hoping to find some sort of trail, or way out of this mess. Twice I found a place where an animal had burrowed himself a hiding spot. Nearby a piece of coyote scat lay on a rock. 

After ten minutes of fighting through the tangle of tamarisk, the thicket cleared and at last I was on open ground. I now walked freely, closely examining the face of the cliff on my right, and admiring the seclusion of where I now roamed.

In another hundred yards, I found what I had come to find.

Pecked into the outer layer of the ocher-colored cliff, I saw two bighorn sheep next to a trapezoidal human figure with an insect-like face. There were others of these trapezoidal figures, most with a different style of head, and some with stick arms and stick legs coming from the corners. Others had no arms or legs at all. I didn't know if these represented different gods, or perhaps a shaman.

I counted six bighorn sheep, one of them with a ring of dots surrounding the animal's feet, tail, and horns, appearing (to me) as if there was a magic aura associated with this ring. Off to the side was a lone deer or elk with what looked like a third growth of antlers, or perhaps an arrow, or a club coming from his head. A human-like figure with feet and antennas stood near the tail of the deer, looking the other way.

A line with seven bends in its projection was carved into the rock, at the left-side terminus there being a dot. This line looked like it could be a profile of a rocky hill or mountain, or perhaps this very descent to the river. At the bottom was the depiction of another bighorn sheep. Was this their hunting grounds?

I found it interesting that many of the figures on the panel came all the way down to the sandy ground and abruptly halted—many of the drawings cut directly in half. It made me wonder if the ground was much lower back then, and perhaps there are more carvings buried beneath the sand.

I stepped back from the petroglyphs and considered for a moment where I was—a place so isolated and so removed from modern civilization that humans rarely step foot upon it. Yet it was a place called home by Indians nearly a thousand years ago. They probably hunted by these very river banks, built fires next to these cliffs, and told stories of gods and skinwalkers next to the fire.

Now it is home to the coyote, the crow, and the lonely flowing river.

Christmas Box Angel Statue—Las Vegas

We were lucky to even get there at all.

We showed up at what we thought was the right place, with just ten minutes to spare. But with no other cars in the parking lot at Palms Mortuary, we became suspicious. After a phone call and quick internet search, we learned there are two Palm Mortuaries on Jones Boulevard in Las Vegas, and we were at the wrong one. The other was ten miles away!

After a couple of miscues with Google Navigator and twenty minutes of u-turns, left turns, right turns, and straining to see street signs, we finally made it to the correct locale. (Ironically, the quickest was to the other mortuary on Jones Boulevard was not a straight line.)

The funeral home is on the same lot as the cemetery. My first surprise was the number of cars in the parking lot. All the stalls were occupied and we had to find a spot next to the exit lane of the cemetery. I expected there might be a couple dozen people, but now I guessed there were probably several hundred.

When we entered the mortuary, it looked more like an airport terminal. People lounged in soft chairs, walked around sipping hot chocolate, and chit-chatted among themselves. A few dressed in Sunday attire, but the majority in casual dress such as jeans and t-shirt. As for me, I was the only one in shorts—we had just come from the beach.

We had no idea what to expect. All we knew was that the Palm Mortuary was having a Tree of Memory Ceremony on December 6^th, and we just happened to be passing through Las Vegas at that time. (Many cemeteries have a similar ritual on this date, all inspired by the Richard Paul Evans novella, The Christmas Box, that tells the story of an elderly lady who, after losing a child, wrote her letters that she kept in a beautifully carved Christmas Box. At the cemetery where the child is buried there is a great stone angel next to the headstone.)

I noticed that a devotional of some sort was being broadcast to a television in the lobby. A choir was on screen singing “Let There be Peace on Earth,” but I couldn't see too well because we were further back. I asked one of the ladies if the program was almost over and she pointed out to me on the program that there were still two more songs.

With a little more observation, I noticed that through a door to the right of the television, there was a chapel full of people. “Is that where the program is being filmed?” I asked the lady. She smiled and nodded her head.

Quietly, I tip-toed to the doorway and peeked inside the chapel. The pews were full and the congregation watched intently the performance on stage. The organist played from the back of the chapel.

After a final congregational hymn, I found an empty seat on the back row and listened to the remarks of a man standing at the pulpit. I couldn't see him well, so I can't describe what he looked like. There was no closing prayer. Instead, we were instructed to proceed out the south door and onto the lawn for the tree dedication and lighting.

I found my family and we walked together to the lawn where two ladies handed out white roses to each person. Almost all wore heavy coats and stocking caps. Las Vegas can be cold on a December night.

The tree was a very tall pine tree that scaled several stories tall. It had been decorated with large ornamental balls that must have been placed with an extremely tall ladder or crane. Several people came up and placed their own decorations on the tree, each representing the loved one that they had lost. They were all hung on the bottom branches, as those were the only ones they could reach. Being unprepared, we didn't have an ornament for Brittany.

While people were still hanging their trinkets, a small choir from a local high school began singing hymns. The choir dressed in old English attire, the gentleman in dark suits with black satin hats, and the ladies wore red shawls that made them look like Little Red Riding Hood from behind. They sang in a small circle and their voices seemed to be a perfect compliment to the cold December air.

Next, we made our way to the Christmas Box Angel statue on the other side of the cemetery. On the way there, in the parking lot, we found a table that offered free hot chocolate to the freezing visitor. My kids happily accepted.

The path to the statue was lit up by white paper bags with dirt in the bottom and a light on top of the dirt, creating an ethereal glow. At the statue, overhead lamps illuminated the general area. People gathered around the angel with an air of solemnity.

I have always believed in angels, but since Brittany died, I have pondered them much more. It makes sense to me that there are angels all around who help us more than we realize. From a close study of the bible we learn that angels were very much involved with the life of the Savior. Angels appeared to Zacharias, Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds before his birth. In Gethsemane, an angel appeared to Jesus and strengthened him. After his resurrection, when Mary Magdalene came to the sepulcher, “the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, an sat upon it. His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow.”

The Qur'an teaches that “[God] sends forth guardians who watch over you and carry away your souls without fail when death overtakes you. Then are all men restored to God, their true Lord.” And, “For every soul there is a guardian watching it.”

In 1986, a sinister couple held 136 children and 18 adults hostage at an elementary school in Cokeville, Wyoming, with intents of blowing up the school. The bomb went off prematurely, and miraculously the only people killed in the incident were the two hostage-takers. Many of the children reported seeing people “dressed in white” that instructed them what to do and then protected them at the time of the explosion. Some of these angels were later identified as close ancestors of the children.

Since Brittany's passing, my wife and I have had a few of our own sacred experiences when we knew there was divine intervention at a time when help was crucial. It would make sense that this help came from guardian angels, and it makes even more sense that one of these guardian angels would be my very own daughter!

It is interesting that before Brittany passed away, she loved to doodle many things, including Eiffel Towers, poodles, teenage girls, and angels. Once she drew an angel sitting on a plush cloud beside a crescent moon for her friend, Lauren. When Lauren showed us the picture shortly after Brittany died, we loved it so much that we had a semblance of it engraved onto her headstone.

Our first witness that our daughter was alive and well on the other side came during the graveside ceremony at the cemetery. It was been a typical cold day for December, with occasional snow flurries and a completely overcast sky. The sun hadn't been out all day.

Just before the dedication of the grave, we sang the hymn Silent Night, of which I had fond memories from singing it at my great-grandmother's December funeral in 1978. Now, as we sang the third verse, and precisely the words, Son of God, loves pure light, radiant beams from thy holy face . . . the sun came out from behind the clouds and radiated brightly and warmly for about fifteen seconds. I excitedly squeezed Jenelle's hand. That was our sign! By the time the verse was over, it moved back behind the clouds, never to come back out for the rest of the day.

There are over 120 Christmas Box Angels throughout the world, and as far as I know, the ceremony is always held on December 6, which is the same day that the little girl died in the Richard Paul Evans novel. This makes it even more special for us, because it is also the day that Brittany died.

The angel statue in Las Vegas stands upon a marble pedestal, with her arms held in front of her and a contemplative gaze toward the heavens. The Reverend Mary Bredlau made a few brief comments, and then turned time over to us (the people) to lay down our white roses, either in the arms of the angel, or at the feet.

Quietly and reverently, those who had lost children walked up to the statue and placed their white rose next to it. Some broke down in tears when they stepped away, obviously ripped with emotion for their loved one. One by one, I and my four kids placed our roses at the feet of the angel. Then Jenelle placed hers in the angel's arms.

We stepped back and watched others come forward. Next to me a black lady dressed in a pink coat and amber-colored stocking cap, stood with her toddler daughter. She knelt down, and began to encourage her to walk to the angel, explaining, “We give the angel a rose for -------, and then we say a prayer for him.”

While waiting, I discreetly slipped out and wandered through the nearby headstones. I noticed the grave of a twelve-year old girl. “How fortunate,” I thought, “that this girl is buried next to the angel statue.” But as I glanced around, I realized that there were many headstones for little children.

I leaned up to one of the ladies from the mortuary and asked her if this whole section belonged to children. “Yes,” she replied. “Over there,” she pointed to the other side of the statue, “is our baby section. Over here are those between the ages of two and eighteen who have died in innocence.”

As we spoke, the choir had been singing and were circled about, off to the side of the statue, close enough that we could hear them, but distant enough to not draw attention to themselves. They brought a soothing spirit to the gathering.

Then they sang their final carol of the night. My back quivered when I heard the melodic words of Silent Night come from their lips. Wrapped in my coat, with my kids at my side, I listened intently to the words of this sacred hymn. Then came the final verse:

Silent night! Holy night!

Son of God, loves pure light.

Radiant beams from thy holy face,

With the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord at thy birth; Jesus, Lord at thy birth.

Venice Beach

When I think of Venice Beach, Fletch comes to mind, roving the boardwalk on roller blades, wearing a long Middle-Eastern robe and beard. Some of the scenes in that Chevy Chase movie were filmed between Venice and Santa Monica Beaches, which are only a couple of miles apart. Chevy played an undercover newspaper reporter that was following the drug traffic near the beach.

Now that I've been to Venice Beach, I don't believe that the movie was too far off—people walking dogs, punks on roller blades, and African's hawking their music. The boardwalk is alive. This is definitely a people-watching place.

We were excited to see the infamous Muscle Beach. When we walked by during the early morning, the workout arena was virtually empty, except for a lone black-man, his shirt off, captivated in his own process of pumping iron, the veins in his shoulders and biceps bulging out with the rest of his arm. Muscle Beach is a good five hundred feet from the water and is enclosed by a low blue fence. A small semi-circle of bleachers provides a viewing area for anyone to watch.

Nearby is an outdoor basketball court and next to that, a tennis court. My impression of the day was that all the tall colored people played at the basketball court, while the rich white boys and girls from Santa Monica contested on the tennis court. Not to be stereotypical, but that's how it seemed.

The boardwalk extends about a mile, with a variety of shops on one side, and on the other, there is grass, then sand, then the Pacific Ocean. That combination may vary as there may be a taco stand or racquetball court in the mixture. The shops sell churros, henna tattoos, sunglasses, souvenirs, and yes, medical marijuana. I wasn't expecting that one. “Come and get high,” they advertised.

Artists speckled the boardwalk—some painting, others playing an instrument. One such musician caught my attention. A swarthy man, dressed with a tall turban upon his head and wrapped in a robe (just like Fletch), played the electric guitar. This guy was perfect for a picture—the quintessential Venice Beachite. But he was one step ahead of me. I lifted my camera to my eye and instantly he pulled a black t-shirt from behind his guitar, unfolded it and lifted it up to cover his face, and began a rant that I can't even remember. I just walked away, disappointed that I didn't get my picture, and feeling dumb for getting had.

I should mention that I was with my family this day, and we worked our way away from the boardwalk and toward the beach. We stopped at the waterfront for at least half an hour and watched the surfers as they paddled into the ocean and attempted to catch a wave. They all wore black wet suits and appeared as if they did this every day. Some, I noticed, even rode here on their bikes.

My kids did their usual thing: run into the waves, let the water lap against their legs, then run back to the shore in a frantic trot when the splash became too high.

But the pier is where we intended to go. Nothing fancy about this one. It is no Santa Monica Pier. No roller coaster, no Bubba Gump restaurant, no cotton candy booths. Just a long walk over the ocean on planks of pine wood. An occasional fisherman. Others were strolling to smell the scent of the ocean breeze beneath them.

We reached the end of the pier, where my wife and daughter each pulled out a bottle enclosed with a message. Inside the glass was a handwritten letter to Brittany. One at a time, they launched them westward. We watched for at least twenty minutes at the small glistening objects floating atop a vast blue sea, bobbing up and down, yet surely being carried outward, becoming smaller and smaller by the minute.

Hunting Pine Nuts

The sun beat high in the autumn sky and the deer were no longer moving around. The dirt road we traveled on was miles from anywhere, the mesa stretching far on either side with its pungent sage brush and sappy pinyon pines. We decided it was a good time to take a break and start hunting pine nuts.

Dad stopped the truck right in the middle of the two-rut path and we all jumped out, garbed in full camouflaged clothing, hunting knives, and possible bags on our belts. I pulled a wide blue tarpaulin from the back of the truck and we went to work.

None of us were experts at collecting pinyon nuts. Usually there isn't much of a harvest, but every few years the trees become full of seed-bearing nuts. This was one of those years.

We found a large pinyon tree, heavy with woody brown cones. Its branches spread wide enough over the ground for me to spread the tarp directly beneath it.

Once the tarp was flattened end to end, thirteen year old Josh climbed halfway up the tree, just to the point where he could reach out and grab the branch that over-hung directly above the tarp. With both hands he shook the branch as vigorously as he could. For five seconds, pine nuts, pine cones, pines needles, and twigs fell from the tree, most landing on the tarp, but some landing just outside. Others hit the tarp and bounced off.

We gathered the tarp up at the corners and carefully funneled our booty into a plastic bag. We would sort through it later.

Now that I look back on it, it is ironic that Josh was the one to shake the branch. He is half-Navajo. Although Navajo culture is big on gathering pine nuts, it is taboo to shake the branch and force the nuts to fall. They believe this will create an early winter, thus shortening the opportunity to harvest the nuts.

Many people don't bother shaking the tree and just collect the nuts that have naturally fallen to the ground. The darker brown the shell is, the more likely there will be a nut inside.

Sometimes, the better nuts will not come loose from the cones, so a person must pick up an entire cone and knock the nuts out, or use a twig to pry them free. This usually proves to be a sticky proposition, resulting in sap all over the hands—but nothing that a good washing with peanut butter won't cure.

We spent about an hour collecting pine nuts during that warm September afternoon of the deer hunt. I took my plastic bag home where I separated the nuts from the debris.

After washing, I sprinkled them with salt and other seasonings, then roasted them in the oven on a cookie sheet.

Now, a bowl of tasty pine nuts sits on my kitchen bar for the kids to pick at. They love it when they crack open a shell and find a perfect white nut inside.

Next time, I hope to bring them with me.

Wilson Peak

I couldn't believe that we just traveled seven hours, hiked eight miles, and climbed 4,600 feet in elevation, just to chicken out!

We climbed to the top of the false summit and looked in front of us at the craggy and steep true summit of Wilson Peak. My jaw dropped.

“Are we really supposed to climb up that? There's no way!” That was my friend, Jordan, who was now seeing the difficult task ahead for the first time. Me, on the other hand, I knew that we would have a difficult Class 3 climb at the very end―and I had seen pictures―but I hoped that it wasn't as bad in real life. I was wrong.

At the very top of the summit, we could see four climbers silhouetted like tiny army men above the curvature of the crest, slowly beginning to work their way down to the false summit. They wore helmets and looked like they had the experience of Everest.

I didn't think I would give in like this, but suddenly, the thought of preserving my life felt stronger than the desire to fulfill my goal of climbing a fourteener. If I turn around and go back right now, I rationalized, I will be fine with that.

Another climber, Jim, arrived just behind us at the false summit, removed his hat, and wiped his brow, peering at the peak. “That looks quite a bit steeper than I remember,” he remarked.

“Have you climbed it before?” I asked.

“When I was much younger. About twenty years ago.” 

He was still going to climb it.  I could tell from the look in his eyes.

Just then, a married couple in their forties joined us on the narrow pad of the false summit. The wife took one look at Wilson Peak and spoke frankly, “I think we're done. We're not going up there!”

So, is that how it ends with most who climb up here, chickening out before the final ascent?

We continued to watch the four climbers very slowly maneuver their bodies down and across blocks of rock. Occasionally a wedge would break loose and tumble below where the fall was long. Every grip of the hand and every placement of the foot was calculated with precision, as the cost of a mistake could be fatal.

So this is how it would end.

For years now, it had been a goal of mine to hike a mountain that was over 14,000 feet high. Colorado has fifty-three; California, twelve; and Washington, two. No other state, other than Alaska, has a mountain that qualifies as a fourteener.

My attention became drawn to the Wilson Massif, a group of three fourteeners in the San Juan Mountains of southwest Colorado: Mount Wilson, El Diente, and Wilson Peak. Of the three, Mount Wilson and El Diente appeared to be the most difficult and out of the range of my ability or desire. So I focused on Wilson Peak.

The first factoid that one usually learns about Wilson Peak is that it is the mountain depicted on many Coors Beer cans and bottles. Even though I don't drink beer, that remains an intriguing reason to climb this iconic summit. At 14,023 feet, Wilson Peak ranks number 48 in Colorado, 60 in the contiguous forty-eight states, and 81 including Alaska.

Lower Navajo Basin, and Dolores Peak in background.

After years of dreaming and even a planned trip that never happened, we finally found ourselves camped in Navajo Basin, elevation 11,160 feet.

The wind howled as I attempt to sleep while in my tent, flapping the corners of the tarp and occasionally sending a drift of cold air through the seams. We set up camp next to the small, but swiftly moving West Dolores River, and in the dark, with gusts of wind racing through the basin, I couldn't tell the wind from the river.

I didn't sleep at all that night, instead conjuring images in my mind of being on the peak, and then being swept away by a sudden burst of wind. I also worried of a storm blowing in and halting our trip to the top.

In the morning we loaded our day packs and began the trek on the rocky trail that leads up the basin. Most of the trail is only an indention in the talus. Navajo Basin is a high mountain valley that gains elevation in steps. As we made it to the next step, we looked back and could see the sky-blue color of Navajo Lake and the lush riparian zone of the river and the golden sunlight hitting the prominent Dolores Peak, three miles to the west.

Upper Navajo Basin and the West Dolores River

Once on this higher level of the basin, the trail came close to the young river again, and we removed our packs for a moment, knelt down to the water and drank. From here, we felt the warm rays of sunshine for the first time that morning, the sun just barely rising over the bulk of Gladstone Peak to the east.

The sky was cloudless, and the strong winds from the night before appeared to be a distant dream. All was perfect in the basin for now.

Sun rising over Gladstone Ridge.

Looking back at the trail as it leaves the upper Navajo Basin.

Old mining equipment still decorates the trail at 12,500 feet.

The trail as it reaches the Rock of Ages Saddle.

The trail climbs to the top of the basin, near the base of the ridge that buoys Gladstone Peak. Then it begins to wend its way northward up the slope toward the Rock of Ages saddle. Looking down into the gully, we saw an old wheelbarrow and other anonymous scraps of metal from the old mining days. We also passed by a mining cart and an old structure. Wooden debris is strung everywhere, a testament to something that once was, but now unknown. It is hard to believe that a working mine once existed at this elevation, now nearing 13,000 feet.

First glimpse into Silver Pick Basin from the Rock of Ages Saddle.

At last, we reached the Rock of Ages saddle and were quickly met with a spectacular view of the other side of the mountain, where other hikers were ascending the ridge using the Silver Pick trail. Looking across the other side, a small trail wends its way down the slope, passing other mining structures, and eventually giving way to Wilson Mesa.

To our right, we met our foe for the first time, the craggy heights of Wilson Peak. The summit was still some distance away, and curled away on the backside of slope, evading our vision before.

I turned around, looking at the direction I just came, and saw the jagged summits of Mount Wilson and El Diente atop the ridge of the southern mountains of the basin. At one point in our trip, we passed a group of four who had just climbed Mount Wilson. After an extremely steep climb toward the top, one of them explained, “there's one part where you have to climb up and over a tall rock and swing one leg over like you're sitting in a saddle, then bring the other leg over. But it's an eight-hundred foot drop on either side!”

From the Rock of Ages saddle, we walked on the spine of the ridge along a meandering trail in the rock, but with exposure on both sides. Then it crossed below an unnamed, rough-looking peak, and onto another saddle, a junction of sorts: turn right and travel one mile on a very narrow spine to arrive at Gladstone Peak, or turn left to find Wilson Peak. We, of course, turned left.

We didn't turn left, however, without admiring our new view. Now we could look wide to the east, noticing an alpine lake below us and the prominent spire of Lizard Head Peak. In the far distance, an endless promenade of blue and black peaks lined the horizon, testifying to the magnitude of Colorado's Rocky Mountains.

Looking back toward the Rock of Ages Saddle.

Gladstone Peak from the ridge-line.

Looking into Bilk Basin. Lizard Head Peak (right), and Sunshine Mountain (left).

From here, the hike turned from strenuous to challenging. The information that I had read about this section said that one could either move in a direct line toward the summit, but it would be a more technical Class 3, or could drop 100 feet and move across the loose scree. We chose the more direct path.

Jordan was more adept to climbing on rocks than me. I am scared of heights and anywhere that I am not secure. I moved onto the rocks with trepidation, worried about a fall that wouldn't kill me, but would snap a leg.

I followed closely behind Jordan, watching the handholds that he used and placing my feet where he placed his. My legs became a little wobbly, and I became relieved when I finally passed this section and once again we were on sure footing.

Jordan on the short Class 3 section.

Peeking over the ridge into Silver Pick Basin.

Although to say “sure footing” might be a stretch. The mountain slope here became considerably steeper, and the fall to the bottom would certainly be fatal. Route finding became more difficult. Illicit paths seemed to patch together along the rocky mountain-side, some of them disappearing all together. Rock cairns marked part of the pathway, but in some ways, the entire mountain was a pile of rocks.

We worked our way up from the side of the slope to the top of the ridge and eventually to the false summit. I was terrified at what I saw. At 13,900 feet, I felt we could go no further. I watched the four tiny climbers make their way off the summit. Not only would we have to rock climb to gain the summit of Wilson Peak, but we would first have to drop fifty feet and cross a couple precarious ledges to just begin the climb.

Our new friends atop the false summit.

We welcomed Jim to the false summit, as well as a married couple from Cortez. Soon, we would be joined by another man who had left his hiking partner at the Class 3 ledges, unable to go any further.

It was now time to make a decision.

Jordan stood and looked at the ledges on the right-hand side of the slope, searching for another possible route to the top. He found nothing but a sheer drop-off.

We watched the four climbers shimmy down a narrow chute, then carefully step down a craggy wall like spider-man.

“It's hard, but not as hard as it looks,” Jim chimed in.

“Are you going to climb it,” I asked.

He gave a smug nod of the head.

Class 3 descent on Wilson Peak.

Soon, the first climber was climbing up the rocks onto the false summit where we all waited.

“How was it?” I asked. “Is it really scary?”

“It's not that bad,” he responded. “It's not as sheer as it looks. Just be sure that your hand-holds are secure and you'll be just fine.”

A few minutes later, the other climbers emerged from the cliff like refugees emerging from a sewer and we interrogated them and the response seemed unanimous: the climb was doable.

But what is doable for some, doesn't mean it is doable for all. I still doubted my ability and knew my phobias. I could tell from watching Jordan that he was having a quick change of heart, and I knew that if Jordan went, then I would go also.

“We can do it, John,” he said anxiously.

I knew now that I would go. We decided to let Jim go ahead of us, and we would watch his path. I strapped the helmet onto my head and privately hoped that I wasn't about to fall to my death.

When it came our turn, I followed Jordan down the first ledge. I grabbed a solid section of rock with each hand and slowly lowered myself down. Once secure, I let go with my left hand and found another hand-hold to grasp. Using this method, I climbed up another rock, and then back down again and was now face-to-face with the steepest and most difficult ledge.

“Think of it as steps,” Jordan told me. “Just move your foot to the next step. If this was only ten feet high, you wouldn't think anything of it.”

In some places I kept my chest and stomach flush with the face of the rock, while in other places I turned sideways, only slightly angled, and climbed in a more natural fashion.

“Don't trap your feet. Always step in a place where your other foot can get by.”

At this time, I appreciated all the advice I could get. It was kind of nice to have an on-site tutor.

Some of the ledges I had to climb were high, and I had to swing my knee to the upper ledge and then pull my body up. Although I tried not to think about it, I knew very well that we would have to return the way we came.

After losing track of time, I finally climbed to a point where walking in a normal manner was now possible. In my mind, nothing short of a miracle got me up that ledge.

Within a minute, I found myself at the top of Wilson Peak with Jordan and our new friend, Jim, from Fort Collins. The view from the top was amazing! We could now see completely around, including the hills above Telluride.

I could see the Lone Cone that I had hiked with my son only two years earlier. Of all the craggy peaks above Telluride, we surmised which one we thought to be Mount Sneffels. The east, there were so many mountain peaks, that I could hardly even begin to guess which was which.

Jim pointed out to us some metal fragments from an airplane crash many years ago. The aircraft slammed into the side of Wilson Peak in 2006, killing all four passengers on board. If Jim hadn't pointed it out, I wouldn't have seen anything. I'm sure there is much more strewn about on the mountain-side that will never be found. From what I hear, the body of the pilot has never been recovered.

The rising bulk of Wilson Peak is something to respect.

Jim snapped a picture of Jordan and I before we gathered our packs and strapped the helmet back on. Just then, the couple from Cortez came walking up the summit. I guess they had a change of heart also.

I slipped on my gripping gloves and followed Jordan down the slope to the ledge.

At the top!

Looking north-east toward Telluride and Mount Sneffels (14,157 feet).

Chilling on Wilson Peak.

Looking south-east into Bilk Basin.  Lizard Head Peak (13,114 feet) in middle.

Looking back toward the false summit.

Gladstone Peak: 13,919 feet (left), Mount Wilson: 14,252 feet (middle),  El Diente: 14,160 feet (right).

The view from Wilson Peak!