Come Not to Conquer…

No mountains were harmed in the events that make up the forthcoming tales.

“Come not to conquer. Come not to conquer. Come not to conquer,” I repeated to myself again and again in a muted voice on my way up the Northeast Ridge of the tallest mountain in Colorado. Mt.Elbert’s traditional route is about ten miles, and about 4,500ft in vertical gain, and is lovingly described as a “royal lump,” by 14er legend, Gerry Roach. It’s a beautiful hike, and a mountain whose trails receive amazing tending to by the trail crews of the CO 14ers Initiative. It wasn’t my first trip up this big lump, though, and things felt a little different from my last visit.

Typically, when one sets foot on a trail going upward from the base of the mountain, the goal is to reach the summit. To prove to yourself you’re willing to embrace the suck for just one more step, one more push, one more ridge, in exchange for some jaw dropping views, a wild sense of accomplishment. And that was my goal on my first trip up Elbert, a year prior. Last season, that view was socked in with fog, and the skies were spitting something between rain and snow down on my partner and I. 

Not this time, though. I’d spent the better part of the last two calendar years theorizing, planning, researching, dieting, prepping and training for the most intense physical and mental challenge of my life. Finally, the day had come where I’d get to see the intended route this challenge would take me on, just a little over a month before the attempt. I could pull it up on Google Earth a million times and lay out every Topo map I could find of this corner of the Sawatch Range, and did just that plenty, but today would force the scope of this trek into focus for me, for real. If you’re going to slay a dragon, it helps to see what the dragon looks like first, right?

The goal this time was to not only make it up to the summit, but to acknowledge that this would mark the half way point of my endurance trek a month from now. If nothing else, I hoped setting my eyes on the whole course would help me to determine whether this was worth even trying to see it through ’til the end. I hadn’t told many people yet, so if I was going to bag out of this and scrap it, this would be my chance, and I could spend the rest of the summer pretending like I was just fine with walking away. 

My body was doing well with the altitude, and I could feel the effects of that ridiculous training regimen paying off; I felt like I flew up the mountain. I always moved a bit faster when I was solo, but not usually a couple whole hours faster. Tree line turned to ridges, turned to false summits, turned to, yep, more ridges and false summits, but man, I was having a day.

Blue skies, no weather, and a very empty trail had me feeling like a lucky guy. Marmots hopped around, flowers in the alpine were putting on a show of colors, and before long, I came up to a ridge I jokingly dubbed “F*** That” Ridge, that climbers stare at the last 500 feet of elevation gain or so, thinking that mean looking S.O.B. is waiting for them next. 

I knew better. Swing left around “F*** That” Ridge, scoot on down the trail a little ways, and just like that, you’re the highest person in the state of Colorado. Well, unless there’s someone else up there that’s taller than you.

Bird’s Eye

From the summit, my eyes followed a ridge that tracked down the south side of Elbert, sloped down and disappeared above Twin Lakes, which glistened in the morning sun. Along that same ridge was a few more peaks; South Elbert and Cosgrove. Following the Black Cloud Trail would take me all the way down that ridge, and over a second 14,000ft peak in South Elbert. Drifting my gaze to the right a bit, an unwelcoming looking mountain stared back, unamused. La Plata Peak, another 14er, dubbed the steepest in the Sawatch Range who bore a similar milage and vertical gain to summit.

My eyes drew north, admiring the gorgeous valley and seemingly endless mountains between me and eternity as I turned, until my eyes fell on another ridge. This one looked like some monstrous camel’s back with a few extra humps. It was the unmistakable, and aptly named Mount Massive. The second highest peak in Colorado didn’t need to flex to look scary, size did the trick.

La Plata Peak, as seen from Mt. Elbert Summit

Mt. Massive, as seen from Mt. Elbert Summit

I was awestruck for a few minutes, moving my eyes between La Plata Peak and Mount Massive. Knowing I was standing on the tallest peak in Colorado, looking out at the second tallest in Massive, the fifth tallest in La Plata, and reconciling with the reason I was standing in that exact spot, I started to feel very small. I was here to see for myself, and make a choice. 

The wind on the summit whipped the sweat off my skin and the natural cooling process was setting in. I didn’t linger, just shoved some sort of goop or gel or chews into my mouth, took a big pull off the hydro pack and went back the way I came, knowing I had work to do.

I don’t think I ever like, formerly declared that I was locked in and this challenge was a go, but I wouldn’t have left that summit that day feeling like I had a million things to cross off a to-do list if I was going to hang it up and walk away. 

The same mantra that carried me up the hill carried me back down, spitting out the second line with more air in my lungs on the descent; “I come not to conquer. I come not to claim.”

Nope. There ain’t no conquering, claiming or beating these mountains. They’ve stood for millions of years, I knew damn well they’d spit plenty of better climbers off their backs than the likes of me, and coming at these beasts with the wrong attitude, skillset, plan or backup plan could damn well get me killed.

This wasn’t about conquering the mountains. This wasn’t about claiming a title or being a “first.” This wasn’t even about doing something people would notice or think to care about. This was about something inside of me. The mountains just happened to be the arena for that all to play out.

Wait…who are you again?

Yes, a very good question, without a very interesting answer, I’m sorry to say. My name’s Kevin and recently earned the nickname “Lord of the Flies” following a trail running incident. I’m somewhere in my thirties, and I’ve been living out in Colorado with my wife Alayna for the last few years. While she’s from CO originally, we moved out here from my home state of MA just before COVID shut the world down. So, like a lot of people during that time, I hurled myself at just about any outdoor activity I could; bouldering, hiking, camping, climbing, you name it. 

We’ve got a couple dogs that I spend a lot of time out hiking and camping with, and while they’re rugged little ladies, our hikes together are much less demanding than what the 14er experience offers. 

I’m an active dude, who tries to manage a significant health issue with diet and exercise, and the occasional assistance from the beautiful US Healthcare system. I’m a big time tinkerer, my garage looks like a collection of Nikola Tesla’s failed experiments, I love learning new things, and trying to make old things better.

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, self-learned a few instruments, and just picked up a big boy camera for the first time about a year ago. I’m a nerd, a hundred ways over, who’s proud to say he’s got the same crew of friends as he did when he was 10 still, and gets his ass kicked by them in fantasy football every year. 

Truthfully, I’m not one to talk much about myself, and wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think this was a story worth sharing. I invite you to follow along while I bring you through an abridged past forming of this challenge with all the hows and whys, up to the present, and on through the actual attempt of this challenge. Watch me try to figure out how to (metaphorically) move a mountain I made for myself. 

You can find all my social links HERE to follow along!

More soon, stay well 

-Kev (LotF)