Some hikes test your legs. Others test your lungs. But the rare ones, like the climb of Torreys Peak with my daughter, test your heart.
We started late and unhurried. Trusting the forecast that promised clear skies through midday, we planned to summit and descend both Grays and Torreys before the storm rolled in. We didn’t know yet how quickly the mountains can change their mind.
The Approach: Into the Crater
The first surprise of the day wasn’t on the trail but on the road. The last 1.4 miles to the trail head felt more like crawling through a dry riverbed than driving. Deep ruts, jagged rocks, and eroded edges. Fortunately, we had been gifted a Jeep for the trip. It carried us through with only a few tense moments.
Stepping out at the trail head, we found ourselves surrounded by steep, soaring cliffs. The kind that make you feel small in the best way. A short bridge crossed a stream flanked by aspen and pine. Anna paused and said it felt like standing inside the crater of a volcano; something ancient, surreal, and alive. I could feel it too. The air was different here. It was raw and clean. The sharp scent of pine mingled with birdsong and the hum of bees.
The first mile lulled us with its gentle slope. We moved quickly, a little cocky after conquering Mount Elbert a few summers ago. But altitude is a stern teacher. A mile in, our lungs reminded us where we were… over 11,000 feet. We stopped, caught our breath, and adjusted our pace. The mountain would not be rushed.
Psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk said
“Being able to calmly notice what’s going on inside – maintaining self-awareness – when you feel overwhelmed, is the foundation of resilience”.
Here in the thin air, adjusting our pace was an act of awareness, not defeat.
The Fork in the Trail: Carried by Courage
1.8 miles in we reached the fork: left for Grays Peak and a longer, gentler climb. To the right…Torreys Peak, a steeper, shorter path that cut across a precarious snowfield clinging to a 1,000 foot cliff. Either way, each summit loomed over us.
We sat at that crossroads and weighed our options: risk versus reward, courage versus caution. The snowfield was only about 100 yards long. It was just wide enough for two feet, side by side. There was nothing but air and stone beneath.
We chose Torreys.
Crossing that stretch was nothing short of harrowing. My fear wasn’t for me: I trust my balance and my boots. My fear was watching my daughter lose her footing, watching her fall. But she didn’t. We didn’t. Step by careful step, breath by shaky breath, we made it to the other side, hearts hammering, triumphant.
Rollo May captured this tension: “Courage is not the absence of despair; it is, rather, the capacity to move ahead in spite of despair”.
The Summit: Silence and Storms
The final ascent to 14,267 feet felt like flying. Climbing upward of 500 ft in 3/10 of a mile. At the top, the world opened in every direction: valleys, rivers, clouds scattered like sails in the distance. And silence. The kind you can only hear above the tree line, broken only by the wind and the faint echo of your heartbeat.
Then came the rumble. South of us, a wall of storm clouds was racing toward the peak, rain already sweeping the valley below.
We were exposed, vulnerable. There’s a kind of fear on a mountain in a storm that’s primal. It’s a chill that runs deeper than the rain. It is the knowledge that there’s nowhere to hide. Lightning doesn’t negotiate. Hypothermia doesn’t wait.
We had two choices: descend Torreys, ascend Grays, and add another mile and a half to our descent. Or cross the snowfield again, risking everything we’d already survived.
We chose the snow.
The Guardians: Wild Grace
And then, as if the mountain herself sent a sign, they appeared. Four mountain goats stood in our path, strong and surefooted, watching us. They moved ahead of us, as if to say: you are not alone. You are safe. We followed them to the snowfield. They paused, watched us go, then turned back to their cliffs.
I will never forget that moment. How wild grace can look like a herd of white, silent guardians leading you home.
Dacher Keltner writes: “Awe shifts our focus from our narrow self-interest to the needs of others, to the greater good. It quiets our fight-or-flight fear and reminds us we’re part of something larger.”
Those goats, in their quiet way, reminded us too.
The Descent: A Different Kind of Strength
Anna and I made it down before the storm skirted the ridge. My legs ached, my shoulders were sore, but what I felt most was awe. Not just for the mountain’s beauty and power, but for my daughter’s quiet strength. She faced fear, fatigue, and doubt… and she kept climbing.
Psychologists call this kind of resilience, adaptive capacity. The ability to endure stress, adjust to changing conditions, and keep moving forward even when no perfect option exists. It’s not built in the easy moments. It’s forged on narrow ridges, in the silence of summits and the roar of storms. As I’ve explored in Between the Ridges, resilience isn’t about toughness…it’s about presence.
In his book The End of Trauma George Bonanno defines adaptive capacity as
“The ability to flexibly adjust to changing demands in the environment while maintaining psychological and physical well-being.”
In Man’s Search for Meaning Viktor Frankl reminds us
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
There are lessons that only mountains can teach. How to move forward when both paths feel impossible, to trust your footing one step at a time. How to find courage not because you’re unafraid but because someone you love is watching.
And today, my daughter and I learned them all.
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