No Fall Zone

I'm back in that familiar, lung shredding thin air.  A year ago in Colorado's Rockies,  I had been in a similar situation.  Now as I kick steps into a steep ridge line at 10,000ft, the memories of that Colorado spring ski season flood my senses.  Sweat pools in my helmet, my base layer turns to a sodden blanket.  My shoulder aches as the skis dig in.  Both my ski poles are in my left palm, I plunge them into the heavy, broken snow and lean on them precariously for support.  Take a fall now and I'm in some serious trouble.  I can feel sweat running down the bridge of my nose, splashing at my feet.  Is it the nerves or the unseasonably warm air or just the shear exertion of the climb?  I clumsily tug at the zippers of my shell and mid layer, desperate for ventilation. 

Despite the altitude and narrow margin, I feel pretty strong.  All the cumulative miles spent at sea-level have fortunately provided me enough fitness for this climb to the summit.  I steal a glance away from my feet.  CJ and Pat Doyle are within an arms reach advancing into the fog.  The sun continues its dance through the clouds above me.  Spin drift blows snow down my collar.  We are close, 50 more steps I tell myself.  But 50 steps later I have still not topped out.  My mistake is uncomfortably clear... a false summit.  The true peak lays another 150ft in a meandering line above me.

The winds are strong this high and have violently ripped away the snow revealing the true jagged spine of the mountain.  My own heavy breathing stifles the whine of the gust.  We are close.  From the valley, the three of us are indiscernible.  At best we appear as a black smear against the sky.  My legs are thrashed and heavy. And yet, the last few steps come easy.  The steepness wanes.  It's 11:47am.  We have made the summit.