Sample from Blessed Beyond Measure

12:20, July 15, 1992, Mount Yale, Colorado We had gotten onto the mountain late, a major violation of our commitment to one another as climbing partners. Yale is part of a series of “Fourteeners” west of Buena Vista, Colorado, called the Collegiate Peaks. There are numerous routes on these mountains. We decided on the shortest route—southeast, climbing northwest—which was the most difficult. I would like to say it was because of our careful planning and experience-informed judgment. But it was completely dictated by the lateness of our start time. By the time we set out, we had just about zero Odds-In-My-Favor factor.

Our standard goal was to be up and back, a completed climb by noon. The primary reason: deadly lightning storms that are known to whip up quite suddenly from midday on in the Colorado Mountains.

Up and back by noon generally required our staying overnight at base camp and getting an early start in the morning. My son, Scott, and I had been climbing together for several years. Our goal was to climb each of the fifty-plus fourteen-thousand-foot mountains in Colorado.

I don’t recall which number this was for us, but we had plenty of experience to know better than to handle the morning the way we did. We stayed in a motel near the mountain, left late, and hung around the base of Yale just goofing off together until 10:30. That was mistake number one. The southeast route was a three-hour climb to the top and back. So even the fastest route, perfect conditions, and a very efficient climb would put us at the summit around noon. As it turned out, the conditions were perfect. It was a gorgeous day and the crisp mountain air encouraged our quick steps. Even so, the climb up took a little longer than we expected. At 12:20, under a thinly overcast sky and no apparent threat of bad weather, we were about a hundred yards from the summit—mission nearly accomplished. Scott was carrying a video camera and his walking stick. He was ten feet to my right when I heard him yell. “Dad, my walking stick is humming!”

I turned and saw the hair on his head was standing straight up. “Dad, the video camera is humming!” He looked around. “The rocks are humming!” Then I felt the humming. And with the words of alarm barely out of Scott’s mouth, sixty-mile-an-hour winds and hail exploded on us—no warning but the humming. “Dad, we gotta get outa here!”

I looked up at Yale’s summit and yelled back, “I’m going to the top to sign the canister first!” And with that, I threw down my backpack and ran toward the top of Mount Yale. That was mistake number two.