The mountains were our reward ~ July 16, 1998

David Heiller

“Come on, Dad, I know you can do it. I know you’re up to the challenge.”

My son, Noah, spoke those words to me. I had to smile. He sounded like a football coach. But at age 15, he has become my superior in more than a few things, one of them being mountain climbing.

That’s what we were about to do last week in Rocky Mountain National Park. All day we had talked about climbing Flattop Mountain, elevation 12,324 feet.

Most of the time it seemed like too daunting of a task. We had carried big backpacks up steep trails. The thin air had us gasping for breath. Even bending down to tie my shoes made me wheeze like I had emphysema.

Noah

We had walked over snow fields so bright that they hurt our eyes, even with sunglasses on.

Sleet and rain pelted us. We put on rain gear, then the weather warmed up and the rain suits turned into sauna suits, so we took them off again.

Flattop Mountain didn’t seem possible then.

We made camp at a site called Sourdough, elevation 10,600 feet. After drinking lots of water, I took a little cat nap. Then I let Noah talk me up the mountain.

We walked over snow at first. Then we followed a boulder field, stepping on rocks ranging from the size of a football to the size of a car. A glacier had dropped them there about 15,000 years ago.

We left the boulders and walked on tundra grass. It was speckled with bright little flowers. We stayed on this as much as possible. It was easier walking.

At Rocky Mountain National Park.

The grass amazed me. How long had it taken Mother Nature to build up this mountain lawn over the rubble and rock? A long, long time, probably since right after the last glacier retreated.

We passed some stunted trees that marked the edge of the timberline. Then it was just grass and granite and us.

We stopped a lot, every 20 or 30 feet. Partly we didn’t have any choice, because of the thin air and steep slope.

But the walk wasn’t the only thing that took our breath away. Every time we turned around the view was more spectacular. Lakes emerged like blue gem stones. The forest flowed away to the east, an ocean of green.

Mountains peered down at us, challenging us to reach their snowy heights.

We could see the green tent in our campsite. My wife, Cindy, and daughter, Mollie, were down there somewhere. Each time we stopped, the tent got smaller, the size of a dime, the size of a pea, the size of a pinhead, then gone altogether.

It was tough going. A few times, Noah wondered if we hadn’t gone far enough. Then it was my turn to offer encouraging words. We relied on each other on that hike. I wouldn’t have done it alone. Neither would Noah. We needed each other to share the sheer heights and the sheer beauty.

As we approached the top, we started seeing marmots, which are like big ground hogs, or, as Noah suggested, like small wolverines. He has always had a grim fascination with wolverines.

We passed within 10 feet of some of the marmots. They were everywhere. We must have seen 30. Why were they so tame? Maybe they had been fed by fellow hikers. Noah suggested that maybe they had fed ON fellow hikers.

“They should rename this Marmot Mountain,” I said.

Finally we reached the top. What a view!!! Yes, Peggy Jones, it was worthy of three exclamation points.

We walked to the edge of a sheer drop off. It was right on the Continental Divide. On one side of us, the snow melted and flowed into the gulf of Mexico. On the other side, it went into the Pacific Ocean. We felt on top of the world.

Balancing on the Great Divide, David and Noah.

I put my camera on a rock, set the timer, then ran to my son. We smiled for a picture, balanced on the top of a great mountain on the Great Divide.

The sun was setting. The valleys had lost their luster. The air felt colder. We hustled down the mountain. A weary feeling hit me all of a sudden. My legs felt rubbery. But that was just my body. My mind felt nothing but pride, for me and for my son.

When we reached the bottom, I shook Noah’s hand. I couldn’t believe how big it was. It was the hand of a man. I guess I hadn’t shaken it for a while.

When I was a young man, I did a fair amount of backpacking. I usually went by myself, because I didn’t like to be slowed down by other people.

I remember once in Yosemite National Park, having a day dream about owning a weekly newspaper and having a family and a house in the country.

That dream has come true. So has its reflection of returning to the mountains with my family. We did that during four days at Rocky Mountain National Park from July 3-6.

It was a joy to see our kids get along as well as they did. Teenage brothers and sisters sharing a tent could have been a disaster, but it wasn’t.

Taking the kids 
backpacking was a GOOD call.

We all carried our own heavy packs, pulled our own weight. I was as proud of Cindy and Mollie as I was of Noah and myself. Our climb up the mountain was just one example of the challenging beauty of the trip.

We struggled on some days. It was rough going. The nights were cool, the ground hard. We got wet from rain. Our camping gear was old and worn and begged and borrowed. But those things can make a camping trip all the sweeter. Things that come easy don’t mean as much.

And the mule deer and elk, the rushing streams, the millions of trees, the mountains, the snow, even the man-eating marmots, made it worthwhile, made it rewarding, made it possible.

Cindy and I would like to thank the staff of the Askov American, Hazel Serritslev, Cindy Jensen, Donna Cronin, and Tammy Olson, for putting out the paper in our absence, and allowing us to have such a fine adventure.