Twenty years ago last September, my late wife and I were camping in the mountains of southern Colorado one beautiful weekend. On Sunday afternoon (before my preaching days) we went for a hike. We had driven to the top of Cuchara Pass, parked in the area designated, and started for the trail head. The trail head parking lot was at an elevation of approximately 11,000 feet above sea level and any walking for these two Texas flatlanders took a little bit of effort but we were feeling great and decided to see what sort of hike lay ahead.
The pamphlet in the information box indicated that one of the twin peaks of the Spanish Peaks was right at 14,000 feet. We looked at each other. We looked back at the peak. We could see the peak from where we stood, 3,000 feet in elevation. It couldn’t be that difficult, so off we went.
The rocky ridge took us through a scraggly pine forest and across a couple of beautiful mountain meadows, grass gently waving the breezes. The path was well marked and well-traveled, easy to follow, and not very steep at all. After about an hour and a half of hiking, we came to a clearing where we could once again view the peak. It appeared to be no closer than it was an hour and a half earlier. We started to get the feeling that we may not get to the top, but we kept moving ahead and up. Thirty minutes later, we came to another clearing. At this point, we believed we had come to the tree line. Checking our time, our progress, the state of our water, and the time of day; we simply decided that the tree line was enough of an accomplishment for this trip and we would, when winter passed, plan properly, and attempt a hike to the summit.
Only Vicki’s ashes ever made it to the summit of that mountain.
In the summer of 1996, her children and I made the assent by starting at 4:00 AM. We packed the water needed, some energy bars, and the ashes in a back pack and began to climb. With the teenagers setting the pace, we made it to the tree-line stopping point in less than an hour and a half. From there, it was stepping from one large two or three foot boulder to the next, always up, always huge steps, always an effort. Seven hours later I nearly crawled over a small ridge thinking I was at the summit, only to see yet another uphill path about two hundred yards long. That was the top.
The 360 degree view was stunning. The exertion rewarded in the spirit-filled moment as we released the ashes into an updraft that carried them into the gathering clouds.
Our first trip to the tree line was only the faintest glimpse of the real struggle to get to where we were going. At the top of the peak, one of her children said, “Mom never would have made it here on her own.” Indeed, she may not have, but instead she has, with help, made it far beyond where any of us have gone so far. With the help of family, she was lofted skyward. It is the friends, the family members, those whom we choose for life companions and partners who carry us onward. With those we love gathered around, we live for all time.
Blessings Friends.
