5 minute read
LOST AND FOUND
by Christopher La Fleur
Stefano de Benedetti is remembered for a number of notable accomplishments. The celebrated, Italian alpinist logged more than 80 first descents in the Alps.
He was the first to ski the notorious West Face of Mont Blanc, the storied, second-highest summit in Europe. Before de Benedetti’s famous descent of the line, it was widely considered impossible without the assistance of a helicopter. Having an incline of no less than 50 degrees and an overall prominence of 2000 meters, it remains one of the most difficult ski descents in Europe. To put that in perspective, the route is roughly half as high as Colorado’s Mount of the Holy Cross is tall. Hyperbole in mountaineering is nothing new. Indeed, for the uninitiated, mountaineering may seem like a trivial pursuit. Why on Earth do we drive in the predawn dark to wander in circles for miles? At altitude, there’s 40 percent less oxygen. At dawn, the forest is bitterly cold and wet. By midafternoon, you’re sunburnt, windburnt, and exhausted. What reward compensates for the blisters and missing toenails? There’s no grand conspiracy afoot. I sought liberation and found volumes of truth in the apathetic embrace of the alpine. In his 1985 documentary La Parete Che Non C’e’ about the ascent and first descent of the Aiguille Blanche, de Benedetti says, “In that perfect moment, I was so concentrated there was no space for other thoughts. When you are in a situation where, if you fall, you die ... everything changes. You act like a different person. You act with all yourself. You are making a completely different experience, and, in some way, discovering yourself. That is the magic of the mountain. To live so close to the possibility of dying, you understand what is really important and what is not.” In some sense, queers have always known that brand of truth, albeit under different circumstances. Many of us grow up in hiding, occupying the perilous space between authenticity and ill fortune. In de Benedetti’s words, we act like different people. Growing up on the Eastern Plains of Colorado, I learned firsthand: self-actualization is risky business. I spent the school year buried in homework and art projects, desperately avoiding bullying and the occasional brawl. I went to excellent schools, learning with the brightest and best. My classmates were accomplished, talented, and mostly affluent. Growing up, I had the distinct impression of being on the outside, looking in. Even the blissful escapism of summer break was lost on me. I lacked money, a vehicle, or anywhere to go. While my friends and their families took vacations to exotic locales, Photo provided by Christopher La Fleur
I’d stay home late at night and watch queer cinema after everyone had gone to bed. One would be hard-pressed to find a more modern Emily Dickinson. My exquisitely manicured melancholy, contempt
for authority, and patented blend of shame and rage served to isolate me far more than my contemporaries ever could. Summer days were whiled away in air-conditioned solitude reading books, writing poems, and drawing. Leaving the house was a monumental hardship unless it meant walking to the library in the morning.
Before he gave up on coaxing me out of the house, my father took us on weekend excursions to the national forest. Save for gas and a few snacks, it was free. He'd load up our gear from the army surplus store, toss my sister and I in the truck, and off we went. Being the oldest, my job was to navigate. At 9, in the days before Google or MapQuest, I learnt to read a map and compass. Endless hours later, we’d arrive someplace far from toilets and
electricity. Most often, a lake swarming with mosquitos. I took any opportunity to complain. I cursed the offensive smell of lakes, the jagged rocks under my bedroll, the lack of television, etc. It must have come as a shock when, some dozen years later, I sent my father a selfie. Smiling from ear-to-ear and covered in dust, blood, and sweat, I was alone on the summit of Grays Peak—my first 14er.
It’s true. The mountains are dangerous, thankless, and unforgiving. Indeed, that’s what endeared them to me. Seven, full years have passed since that first summit. Worry not, I’m still addicted.
In the time since, I’ve summited 29 14ers, 49 separate times. Having visited some of the most beautiful and remote places in Colorado, the wonders I’ve seen rival the sense of accomplishment gained from 20- or 30-mile days on the trail. I wake at 3 a.m. just to watch the sun rise in the east. If you’ve never seen an alpine sunrise, the endless horizon sings at first light as if accompanied by the gentle strains of a violin. When hiking no longer challenged me, I graduated to free climbing. Alone on the trail, there are no free passes. The high peaks have taught me to rely completely on instinct, my gear, and my strength. There’s no room for fear, error, or ego. As in life, these things are too heavy to lug around. Mountains matriculate, whether you ask them to or not. I often tell novice hikers that mountaineering is nothing more than chess with blood involved. This game of strategy requires undivided focus and, above all, humility. In return, they bestow self-esteem, fortitude, and courage. I spend days or weeks preparing for tedious, difficult ascents. Packing, double-checking routes, equipment, and my own mental and physical fitness mean the difference between life or death. Even then, bad weather or fatigue can spoil a trip. Capricious though they may be, every time I drive west, the craggy, granite shoulders of the Front Range remind me not only of where I’m going, but all the places I’ve since been. Many times in life, I’ve felt lost— irrevocably, unconditionally lost. It wasn’t until I started getting lost for pleasure that I finally felt found. That, in the words of de Benedetti, is the magic of the mountain.
SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 12, 2020 CYCLE THE CITY
100 MILES • 85 MILES 50 MILES • 25 MILES • 10 MILES
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