Peak experience, Part 2

A couple of months earlier, almost 50,000 acres of forest had burned in the Jemez range to the west, right down to the Rio Grande. Talk of Los Alamos, radioactivity, and the choking smoke had made the Taos valley dismal. Ashes drifted in the air and covered cars, roads, anything left outside.

Lobo Peak is 12,115 feet above sea level, one of the highest points in the Sangre de Cristos. The trail steadily rose higher and higher. It took us deep into the cool shade under the pines, then led us out into green meadows sprinkled with purple, white, and yellow flowers. Hiking there was such a contrast to hiking in the front range in Colorado. Quieter. You hardly ever passed any other people.

The trail paralleled a meandering stream for awhile. We hiked uphill for four hours. My coffee buzz had long since worn off and my stomach was growling.

Finally we stopped, ate our avocado sandwiches and sat under a tree at the edge of a meadow. Secretly, I hoped that we'd all decide to turn around and head back to the Pizza Outback in town. But I seemed to be the only one who didn't have an insatiable need to reach the top of Lobo Peak. Tim pointed out three different directions in which we could resume the hike, all leading to the top.

Several times as we ascended, I had to sit down right in the middle of the trail, just to catch my breath. I wondered, how narcissitic am I? I might just casually die up here, right in front of everyone. How embarrassing. But damned if I was going to let on. My inherent stubbornness kept me going. One foot in front of the other.

A couple of hours later when we reached our summit, I practically fell to my knees. It felt like we were literally on top of the world. Bella set her camera up on a rock and ran back to join us for a group portrait. Far below us was the desert where we all lived. The whole scene looked brown and barren. Ants were crawling all over us but I was so grateful to be both sitting down and breathing that it didn't matter.

Tim pointed to an arid-looking spot in the distance. "There's the gravel pit," he said with his characteristic matter-of-factness. "That little space down there."

I squinted in the direction he indicated. In order to orient myself from this height, I had to locate the Rio Grande Gorge, which appeared like a long, straight line from north to south, an ancient crack in the Taos Plateau. There it was. Our little community, smaller than a postage stamp. A brown thumbprint in the vast desert.