On the day leading up to Chaela's attempt to reach her 10,500th summit, I took a moment to recall a chance encounter, which had occurred some 15 years prior. The selected locale of Chaela's milestone climb jogged my memory of the occasion. In 2006, Chaela's predecessor, Chaeni Mae, and I had just descended a rugged canyon wall when we happened upon an old gold panning prospector trying his luck on the mellow banks of a rapids-filled river. With a husky voice, this quasi-cartoon character spoke tiredly but politely. He inquired about our climbing and asked where we had begun our day. I answered, and through a disheveled and overgrown beard, he smiled a respectful smile. He then remarked: "That's 10 miles from here. That's a piece. You're welcome to pull up a stool." Amused by the metaphor, I crouched down next to the miner and dipped my hands into the cool, sun-dappled river. His torn and unlaced boots were partially submerged in the river's clear water. His shredded pant legs were a fitting complement to his ripped, cotton shirt of plaid and an oxidized, dirt-stained, western-style hat. His tool of the trade, the prospector's pan, was dented and terribly rusted. The pan seemed to bear the scars of his desperate and fragile existence. He spoke with resignation about the fate of his profession. Gone were the days of gold fragments and nuggets, he lamented. This river, however, which flowed beneath the extricated tailings of a shuttered mine, seemed to have given the prospector a morsel of hope. After all, he surmised: "They could've missed something up there, and the gold might've rolled down the mountain and into the river."

 

I spent about 30 minutes chatting with the old miner, I listened mostly. He spoke of a life foreign to me and foreign to the ways of 21st century modernization. The summer sun was beginning to set as I said goodbye to the lonely prospector. I wished him well, and I meant it sincerely. I recognized through his words and through the tattered remains of his boots and clothing that his life had been and will continue to be a physical and emotional struggle. Despite his woes, he had been very kind to Chaeni Mae and me. I would've enjoyed a longer visit with him, but it was time to go. We still had many mountains to navigate on our return journey of 10 miles. Or as our new, old prospecting friend would say of the distance we'd yet to cover: "That's a piece."

 

Several miles and 15 years downwind from the prospector's panning site stands the mountain of Chaela's “Milestone Summit!” attempt. Looming high above a southern Colorado road that we frequently travel, this jagged, unnamed peak has captured my imagination for a decade and a half. The mountain consists of a series of giant, exposed, and dangerous rock formations. The peak is a treacherous antithesis to a Rocky Mountain alpine paradise. Chaela and I would certainly have our skills and courage challenged on this monumental climb to a milestone.

 

In the late afternoon hours, a day before the climb, Chaela and I had one more task to complete after an arduous day of climbing. The next day would find us engaged in a battle with a mountain, a superior opponent, so we'd have to try and level the playing field by going on a reconnaissance mission of sorts. With uncertainty as our only guide, Chaela and I headed up the milestone mountain on a pre-climb quest for valuable intel. There were two primary objectives. We had to determine the appropriate gear needed for ascent and descent, and we had to approximate the time and distance of the climb. After an hour-long grind up ever worsening terrain, we descended back down to the Jeep: moderately informed, thoroughly fatigued, and utterly concerned.

 

After a restless night for the human part of our climbing team, we arose on a cool, early April morning with the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains providing a beautiful postcard setting in the not-so-distant background. Chaela and I were just 15 county road miles removed from the beginning of a rock-ledged, craggy-walled journey up a forbidden mountain. The nervous, little springtime butterflies had arrived in earnest and taken refuge in my stomach. I was already feeling the mountain's impact. This dangerous peak would send Chaela and me on a hazardous rendezvous with unforgiving and possibly unnavigable terrain.

 

Chaela and I reached a dry creek bed, which served as our parking area. We geared up and began the adventure. My first step onto the slope was an ominous one. Down goes me! I was knocked off my feet, and I knuckled the landing. In hybrid terms, I guess you could say that I got knockled! Chaela, excitedly grabbed a stick (photo next page), ran to my side, and clobbered me with her tail on retreat. Nice start! I regrouped in time to recognize the entrance to the loose, rock-laden chute, which we had climbed the previous evening. The west-facing chute appeared even more menacing with the reclusive morning sun still tucked away in the eastern skies. Chaela traversed the base of the chute with relative ease. She confidently and swiftly bounded up, over, and across the boulders and difficult talus. Me? Well, I got clobbered again! This time, a monstrous branch from a venerable juniper pine, cracked me upside my skull. My helmet, askew from the blow, required repositioning from its resting place over my eyeballs! I made the adjustment and rejoined the fight with the chute.