Conquering the Mountain: Humphreys Peak

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Nestled among the San Francisco Peaks north of Flagstaff, Arizona, Humphreys Peak would be of no consequence to me if I did not regularly pass it enroute to visiting out-of-state relatives. Standing at 12,633 feet, Arizona’s tallest peak is visible for nearly one hundred miles from any direction.

From the time that I first travelled west in 1977 on a tiny motorcycle, I have been fascinated by mountains and made it a point to climb the most prominent of them wherever I lived: Utah, Idaho, California, Colorado and Arizona. Now, at age 61, Humphreys Peak was calling to me. Overweight, out of shape and well beyond my prime, climbing it seemed an impossible dream. Nevertheless, numerous hikes up lesser peaks during the previous months spurred me on, even though the tallest of them paled by comparison.

Over the years I’ve come to appreciate that our limits are self-imposed. We are capable of achieving much more if only we would apply one thing: grit. Grit has been my favorite term this year as I have tested my limits more than ever. Besides the many interesting and challenging hikes, I traveled 1300 miles through India, a country I never dreamed I would visit and explored Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona for nine days on a solo motorcycle ride. Now, it was time to apply grit once more and conquer Humphreys.

Not only is it unwise to undertake such a challenge alone, it’s more fulfilling to share it with a friend. Therefore, I asked Kaihao to join me. Kaihao and I met in 2016 under unexpected circumstances. Having heard that I was a writer, he stopped by my desk at work one day to ask me for an autographed copy of one of my books.  At the time, he was a newly hired engineer whom I had never met. Subsequently, I invited him to join me on the most grueling hike I had ever attempted. Despite formidable challenges, nothing seemed to rattle Kaihao. I deeply respected his indomitable spirit and surprisingly, our shared misery of that day forged a strong bond. Kaihao accepted without hesitation and we made plans to scale Humphreys on July 30, 2017.

Although I love to hike, it’s difficult to do so in Phoenix from May through September due to the blistering heat. In fact, my last hike of consequence was three months earlier up 2500 foot Maricopa Peak in South Mountain Municipal Park. The trail to Humphreys begins at 9200 feet and then climbs 4.75 miles and 3421 vertical feet. I hoped that the heat would provide a training edge and began walking outdoors in 106 degree temperatures, increasing my distance to four miles a day. As July 30 approached, I added mile-long hills to my route.

I knew from hard lessons learned while climbing 14,000 foot peaks in Colorado thirty years earlier that my worst enemy would be altitude sickness. I had never before climbed above 11,000 feet without succumbing to it. If I managed to scale Humphreys and not get sick, it would be the first time. In recent years, I’ve learned two keys to prevent altitude sickness naturally: super-hydration and managing your heart rate. Those would be my only ammunition against altitude sickness and keys to completing the hike.

As our departure approached, the weather turned ominous. Humphreys has its own peculiar climate and fierce storms can envelop the mountain without warning. After a young man was recently struck by lightning and killed on the peak, it was determined that lightning struck the same location over one hundred times in a single hour. Fearing the worst, Kaihao urged me to reschedule and I reluctantly capitulated.

Postponing crushed me, but Kaihao’s positive attitude kept my hope intact: “It’s okay, we will do it another time when the weather is better.” I studied Flagstaff weather history and noted that the rainy season, which was then at its peak, would subside by mid-September. I rescheduled for October 1.

By the end of September, the relentless Phoenix heat had driven me indoors. My training had dropped to weight lifting and a half-hour on the treadmill or elliptical machine three days a week. Two weeks before the climb, I braved the plus 100 degree temperatures once more, armed with a backpack loaded with seventeen pounds of steel weights—double my expected pack weight. Nevertheless, walking three miles a day, five days a week with a heavy pack and brutal heat paled in comparison to what lay ahead.

At 3 p.m. on September 30th, Kaihao and I left for Flagstaff where we had reserved a hotel room. Upon arrival, we ate dinner and then went to bed early so that we would be well-rested when we reached the trail head at 7AM the following morning. Although both nervous, we felt confident that our undauntable spirits would carry us through.

When we arrived at the trail head, I was surprised by the number of vehicles already there. Many hikers had opted to witness the sunrise from the peak. As we began our hike, we ran into a few of them returning, having started their climb at 3 a.m. I couldn’t imagine hiking for hours in the dark across such rugged terrain, but I am sure that the view was worth it.

For the next two hours, we forged our way through stately pines and aspen groves whose leaves had recently turned golden. Tree roots that laced the steeply sloping switchbacks eventually gave way to boulders and the trees grew more sparse and disfigured as we neared tree-line.

By 11,000 feet, the altitude burned my lungs relentlessly and the least exertion left me breathless. With the trees all but gone, a howling wind with gusts of up to eighty miles per hour struck us full force and numbed our exposed flesh. We hurriedly donned winter jackets, gloves and balaclava ski masks that covered everything but our eyes. From then on, the trail climbed steadily upward through a barren and rock-strewn landscape.

As the route steepened, the altitude began taking its toll. Desperate to prevent dreaded altitude sickness, I stopped every hundred feet, leaning heavily on my trekking poles and taking deep, labored breaths until my heart slowed. As we neared the peak, that distance shrank to thirty feet and I began to wonder if my body would survive the continual abuse.

By the time the peak loomed a quarter-mile away, I had nearly fainted several times from overexerting myself. It was difficult to gauge how hard to press on in such an unfamiliar environment. I had slipped while climbing and been saved from falling backward onto jagged rocks by Kaihao’s quick response. The sole of my left boot—torn almost entirely off—was held on by a grocery sack twisted into a makeshift rope and tied around the toe of the boot. Perhaps it was time to call it: find shelter from the merciless wind behind an outcropping and let Kaihao continue alone.

A year earlier, Kaihao and I had set out on hike that took us straight up a mountainside through a boulder-strewn wash, some as big as a house. After hours of scaling giant boulders and fighting intense heat, we ran out of water and were forced to abandon our final objective. Remembering that failure, a voice eclipsed the doubt seducing my mind and screamed “you can do it!”

Goose bumps raced down my neck and arms and a burst of adrenaline vaporized my uncertainty. The goal: a weathered wooden sign with the words HUMPREYS PEAK 12,633 FT. engraved upon it suddenly seemed much closer. I scrambled across the remaining rock-strewn slope without pausing for breath and collapsed at the verge of unconsciousness behind a hand-built stone wind break next to the sign. Moments later, Kaihao joined me and we gleefully high-fived each other.

As I savored a store-bought sandwich and chugged a bottle of Gatorade, I gazed in awe at the cloudless blue sky and incomparable view, grateful to have once again stepped outside of my comfort zone to explore the limitless capacity that we all share.

The Three-letter Word That I Will Never Forget

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Years ago, after an unexpected surgery, I became manic. At the peak of mania I experienced life like a child living it for the first time.  Back then, I frequently felt goosebumps, chills and wonder despite the fact that I was confined in a high-security psych ward.

Eventually, court-ordered medication “cured” me by thrusting me into an emotionally flat state I referred to as “the verge of tears.” Under the drug’s influence, my world lost its former vibrancy. Adrift and dispirited, I longed to feel goosebumps, chills and wonder once more.

Desperate to escape my passionless prison, I sought passage back to those manic pleasures. I read books, watched videos and browsed the internet to find a pathway. Was it the touch of God? A spiritual awakening? What contemplative sages had sought for millennia? Months passed without an answer and I eventually accepted my numb life—until my heart began to fail.

Without warning, I found myself in an ambulance with sirens wailing and lights flashing rushing toward an emergency room. Upon arrival, the medical staff whisked me away as if I were at death’s door. Tests revealed that my heart rate was a mere thirty beats per minute—when it beat at all. In no time, a doctor delivered the diagnosis: the atrium of my heart had ceased functioning.

With defibrillator pads affixed to my chest and side and a plethora of electrodes tethered to the lifesaving equipment surrounding me, I gravely awaited the root cause. When the answer came, I was not surprised: the medication I had grown to hate was killing me. A cardiologist abruptly discontinued it and admitted me to a telemetry ward where nurses monitored me for three days while my body detoxified.

Once freed of the medication, my mind soared once more and I relived the feelings I had so obsessively sought. I told no one for fear of being committed again or forced to endure yet another poison. When I finally stabilized, I described my temporary ecstasy to my wife as “a state of grace.”

No longer numbed by drugs, I subsequently felt the feelings regularly. As I basked in their glory, I wondered: could meditation take me increasingly heavenward? Or would I, like countless addicts, wind up chasing an unsustainable high? Reluctantly, I eschewed temptation.

Over time, I noticed what triggered them: seeing a beautiful photograph; reading a moving story; watching an inspiring movie; riding a motorcycle through snow-capped mountains; standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon; witnessing the splendor of the Taj Mahal.

Recently, I read an article in which people described similar feelings: being unaware of day-to-day worries; a deepening of the senses; a feeling of oneness with life; goosebumps; chills; tears of joy… The word that they universally used to describe their experiences jumped from the page and I knew that my search was over. I could not believe that three simple letters could embody what I felt: awe.

Are Indian Drivers Crazy?

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Recently, my family and I had the opportunity to experience many modes of transportation on the crowded streets of northern India. Our two-week journey took us through six cities and five states. As our travels began in Delhi, one question immediately came to mind: are Indian drivers crazy?

Nothing can prepare you for the sensory overload of driving in India. In addition to drivers’ wanton disregard for such universally accepted standards as stop lights, lane lines, and direction of travel, you never know what you will encounter. Sleeping cattle, trees in the middle of traffic lanes, herds of water buffalo or sheep, human, horse, or oxen powered carts, monkeys, elephants, goats, dogs, pedestrians, and inanimate objects are commonplace. Adding to the mayhem, a cacophony of horns blares non-stop.

“You need three things to drive in India,” a driver, Hari, informed us, “a good horn, good brakes, and good luck!” Another driver, Vickie, cheerfully shouted “India, India,” each time he narrowly avoided disaster, sometimes adding “I love my India,” after an especially close call.

I longed for the calm, order, and safety of roads back home in Arizona where pedestrians cross the street only at stop lights that display a white hand when it is safe to do so and large, orange numbers count down how much time is left to cross; where Animal Control picks up strays, and fences hundreds of miles long prevent wildlife from entering freeways on which one can easily exceed eighty miles per hour (130 kmh); where car horns are seldom heard.

Nevertheless, after observing Indian drivers for days, a different picture began to emerge.  When one driver, Ashok, wished to overtake lumbering trucks that sported “HONK PLEASE,” or “USE DIPPER AT NIGHT” on their tail ends, I noticed that he would honk or flash his high-beams. If the road ahead was clear, the truck driver either flashed his right turn signal or waved a hand out of his window indicating that it was safe to pass.

More and more I noticed that honking, waving, and high-beam flashing were not signs of anger, but communication. They were a courtesy extended not only to other drivers but to animals and pedestrians as well.

As I adjusted to Indian driving, I grew to deeply appreciate the communication, compassion, and skill of drivers. Never once did I witness anyone angry or uncooperative. Vehicles missing each other by mere inches highlighted not carelessness, but a keen awareness of the vehicle’s dimensions and how it fit into the limited road space available. More importantly, in almost two weeks of congested driving, I never once saw an accident or a dead or injured animal.

I learned that when people respect life and each other, when they share space instead of trying to own it, and when they are engaged and focused instead of distracted, there is little need for rules.

Then, I considered the differing reality of my homeland. A plethora of enforced rules has made drivers complacent, bored. They plod along like cattle, distracted by technology and entertainment when they should be dedicated to driving responsibly. If an animal or person steps into the road anywhere but at a stop light, they will almost certainly be gravely injured or killed. Instead of being used to communicate, horns seem reserved for expressing outrage.

In the U.S., I’ve witnessed as many as six accidents an hour while driving on a perfectly sunny day on a straight, eight-lane freeway with moderate traffic. We’ve become lazy, irresponsible, uncaring, and selfish drivers. If we offend someone (by taking a bit of their space), instead of honking at us, they may harass us for miles or threaten our lives with a handgun.

Rules can never replace common sense. Increased regulation robs us of skill. A lack of compassion and commitment kills countless thousands of people and animals every year.  We could all learn something from Indian drivers who somehow make unimaginable situations work seamlessly.

I am thankful that we made the decision to skip the tour bus in favor of cars and rickshaws and experience Indian driving intimately. The drivers who shuttled us everywhere showed infinite patience for my ceaseless questions about India and Indian driving while they skillfully avoided disaster from moment to moment.

Despite my shock over situations we routinely encountered, I felt safer in a tiny rickshaw crammed with six passengers and having no safety equipment whatsoever than I ever felt surrounded by airbags and restrained by a seatbelt in the U.S.

Kudos to Indian drivers who, as it turns out, are not crazy after all. In my opinion, they rank among the best drivers in the world.

 

Image courtesy of Hugo Cardosa, Flikr Commons

Why I Ride

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“Motorcycles are dangerous. I know of someone who died from head injuries/lost his leg/is a vegetable.”

Yes, motorcycles are dangerous. I figured that out in the 90s when I moved to Phoenix, Arizona and experienced frightening incidents with traffic routinely. Certain that my days were numbered if I continued, I reluctantly donated the motorcycle to my older brother and retired from riding. For the next twenty years, I didn’t give motorcycles much thought.

That all changed when a homeless man stole an acquaintance’s 49cc Honda Metropolitan scooter. Although he never got the scooter running, he damaged it extensively with a claw hammer and screwdriver while trying. Why would a homeless man even have those tools?

In the process, he made such a racket that neighbors eventually peered through window blinds to investigate the commotion. Shortly thereafter, the police arrived, and reminiscent of a Charlie Chapman film, gave chase to the homeless man.

Sometime later, the police returned the scooter to its dismayed owner, who relied on the diminutive machine to commute to college. With no insurance, tools or the knowledge necessary to repair it, he found other transportation. For the next few months, the broken scooter gathered dust. I am a sucker for potential, however, and that broken scooter soon caught my eye.

I bought it for a song and fixed it like new, spending much more money and time than I could justify. During its return from brokenness, I fell in love with that quirky and admittedly cute machine.  When I finally tightened the last screw, fired up the engine, and twisted the throttle, the feel of the wind in my face and the purr of piston and valves between my legs reawakened a dormant passion.

Before I’d even sold that scooter, I convinced my wife to allow me to buy another for my sixtieth birthday: a 2011 Yamaha Zuma with a top speed a shade under 60mph—with a decent tailwind. “It’s all the motorcycle I’ll ever need,” I promised.

That Zuma transported me to heaven as I drove it hundreds of miles over the next few months. I had not been so happy in years. However, its limitations soon became apparent.  After an ambitious hours-long ride to the top of South Mountain and back, I needed a nap to recover.  It was one of the harshest motorcycles I’d ever ridden. The suspension was bone-jarring stiff and to make matters worse, the small size and limited power restricted me to pothole ridden surface streets. The more I rode, the more painful it seemed. It wasn’t long before I reminisced about more capable steeds:  motorcycles that formerly carried me thousands of miles through fifteen states.

Nonetheless, I feigned contentment, that is, until I encountered a website proclaiming “Tour the PCH on a Motorcycle!” The Pacific Coast Highway: a two lane strip of asphalt hugging the western U.S.  coastline from Seattle to San Diego. As adrenaline coursed through my veins, the scooter quickly lost its appeal.  I longed to ride farther, and longer, to see the world again as I once did: as a free spirit awash in the natural elements.

Shortly thereafter, I found myself at RideNow Powersports in Chandler, swinging my right leg over one motorcycle after another. Eventually, I spotted a perfectly outfitted model: A Suzuki V-Strom 650 Adventure bike.  A-d-v-e-n-t-u-r-e.  Now, that’s what I’m talking about. I salivated as I the word reverberated through my mind. After noticing that it was the previous model year and on sale for 40% less than the current model, I was sold. Much to my wife’s chagrin, I drove the V-Strom home the next day. “Motorcycles are dangerous,” she reminded me.

I think about that all the time. Have I lost my marbles? I’m 60 years old, not twenty. What the hell am I doing riding a motorcycle? Loving it, that’s what. Once you’ve spent time on a motorcycle, it becomes a part of you—a rung on your DNA ladder.  And when you put on your leather jacket, sporty helmet, and gloves that fit like a second skin, you are twenty again. I rode and rode. As I did, I had plenty of time to think and here is what I realized…

We are lulled into a false sense of security by fractions of an inch of glass or steel separating us from catastrophe as we drive our automobiles. Oblivious to the dangers surrounding us, we distractedly text, converse on cell phones, joke with friends, tend to our children, or sing along with the radio.

We fly on jet airplanes at tens of thousands of feet at insane speeds approaching that of sound. Any number of events could end our lives in the blink of an eye. Can a jet even land safely anywhere but a major airport?

When I ride, I acknowledge danger constantly. One wrong move, one animal crossing my path or debris falling from a truck could be the end of me. I am connected with my mortality, my fragility, my vulnerability. It doesn’t make me fear, it makes me feel alive. What I am experiencing is real and involves all of my senses. Riding is completely immersive requiring both hands and feet to brake, shift, apply the clutch, throttle or turn signal while keeping a close watch in both mirrors and ahead for potential trouble.

On the other hand, I hear everything from the sound of transmission gears and rev of the engine to the muted or aggressive exhaust note in response to my bidding. I accelerate or brake more swiftly than all but the most exotic automobiles. The wind in my face communicates my speed without need of a speedometer. I feel the temperature drop when I pass green fields and the heat of the engine when the wind shifts. My panoramic view is unhampered by steel beams or tinted glass and the only music I hear is that which I hum in my head. Despite the fact that only gravity holds me on this machine, I feel more grounded than ever.

Roads that I’ve traveled uneventfully for years suddenly come alive. Every crack, pothole, change in texture, and whether the road widens or narrows becomes a life-threatening concern. Animals scampering in the brush along the road side—jeopardizing my existence should they leap unexpectedly in front of me—never escape my watchful eye. A bird swooping across my path could render me unconscious or at the very least, knock the wind out of me, and a single well-placed bug splat on my visor could rob me of vision.

I notice much that I previously missed:  the vastness of the desert southwest, the raw beauty of Arizona sunsets, the intimacy of a winding mountain road on which I lean so sharply that my foot pegs nearly scrape, the sheer delight of flawless new asphalt, the luxury of having roads to myself while everyone else eats dinner, sits glued to video games, or vegetates to a television series.

Riding makes me appreciate our world like nothing else, and when the ride is through, I can hardly wait for my next adventure. One thing that I especially enjoy is the fact that more often than not, fellow motorcyclists will wave at me in acknowledgement of our shared passion. I wish that more people could share such a connection.

Already, I am planning my first road trip: 1700 miles from Phoenix, Arizona to Fort Collins, Colorado and back. I’ll witness some amazing scenery from a viewpoint that can’t be beat. Until then, wish me safe journeys and please, be watchful for, and considerate of motorcyclists. If you encounter one of us, feel free to open your window, extend your hand into the wind to share a bit of our world, and then wave.