Lessons in Love from 14,000 Feet

Harmony, Disharmony, and Repair in the Colorado Backcountry

Candice Burt

and I climbed Mt. Columbia on March 9. Four days later, we hoped for redemption on two other peaks in the Collegiate Wilderness after we failed on our first attempt on Christmas. Read about that experience here:

No Cherished Outcomes

In the early morning hours of March 13, we left Candice’s house for Missouri Gulch, but within twenty minutes, turned around to head back to Leadville. I was still feeling the effects of our 12-hour effort on Columbia and she sensed my apathy. She dropped me off and departed again for the trailhead, only to come back a few minutes later, realizing she didn’t want to climb without me.

Colorado 14ers are not to be taken lightly, especially in winter, when the conditions are constantly changing and the risks are higher due to short days, subzero temperatures, snow, ice, and avalanches. As such, they are not for the faint of heart and should not be committed to without enthusiasm and preparation. Despite a challenging conversation, I threw my gear back into her car and we finally began our long hike from Missouri Gulch at 11:50 AM.

Because we had already summited Mt. Belford in December, we thought we could cruise on autopilot; however, we were quickly reminded that you’re never in control in the mountains. While backcountry snowboarders had carved a path through the trees, freshly fallen snow made it difficult to determine which way we needed to go.

After missing a turn and rerouting at a sketchy stream crossing, we were ready to begin our push through the valley, but seconds later, one of Candice’s lightweight poles snapped. I don’t attach meaning to everything, but was the universe trying to give us another sign to bail and go home?

Hoping to avoid postholing, we veered left in the meadow until we were at the base of Belford near 12,000’. From a sign at the trailhead and GPX files from our previous ascent, we knew we only had about a mile left to the summit. But Belford’s a 14er, meaning we had to climb another 2,000’ at an ass-kicking 38% grade. I remember thinking, this is the hardest 5k I’ve ever done.

Riding the ridge on the northwest face of Mt. Belford

Freezing on the Belford summit at 14,197’, we took shelter, threw hand warmers in our gloves, snacked on salami, and began the mile-long traverse at 4:30 PM. Less than an hour later, we topped out on Mt. Oxford at 14,158’ and tapped the USGS survey marker. Candice expressed her gratitude for me agreeing to join her on the day. “I wouldn’t have made both peaks without you.” We smiled, kissed, and headed down, wasting little time as we struggled to stay standing in 40 mph gusts.

My relief and pride in summiting two Colorado 14ers in winter on the same day was quickly followed by dread. The route is an out and back, meaning we were only halfway. At this point, I remembered that most people die on the descent when climbing mountains. Why? Exhaustion, reduced capacity, increased fall risk, weather deterioration, no doubt. However, there’s a profound mental component we overlook.

Humans in general, especially those compelled to climb mountains, are goal and achievement oriented. We develop tunnel vision on the task at hand—getting to the summit. At the peak, it’s natural to become complacent and underestimate the dangers that still lie ahead.

Jubilation on the summit of Mt. Oxford, our second 14er of the day, at 14,158’

Taking in the view (or worrying about the clouds) from the traverse between the two peaks

Back on the summit of Mt. Belford at 14,197’

As we climbed back up Belford, ominous clouds cluttered the sky. At 6:30 PM, we began the comically steep descent. For the sake of speed, I spared microspikes, a questionable decision, especially through the slippery boulder field near the valley. Just as daylight disappeared and we needed our headlamps, we reached our dropped snowshoes, which we had left behind to save weight on the ascent.

The hardest part of the day was now over, but we still had two miles of bushwhacking in deep snow back to the car. At the top, it’s common to check the box, then check out; however, the top is irrelevant if you can’t make it back to the bottom. Emerson famously said, “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.” While we’ve come to appreciate the climb, it’s also about the descent—physically and emotionally.

Dreaming about fajitas and an epsom salt bath

Elevation profile from Strava. Check out mile 2-3—climbing 2,000’ in a mile.

The full moon illuminated our path and led us home. After a nine hour ramble in the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, Candice and I felt closer. A few days later, I came across a Tim Ferriss Show episode that featured five chapters from the audiobook Fierce Intimacy by Terry Real. In the podcast, he states that “all relationships are an endless dance of harmony (love without knowledge), disharmony (knowledge without love), and repair (knowing love). Closeness, disruption, and a return to closeness.”

To return to closeness, we need to avoid five losing strategies:

• Being right: Objective reality has no place in personal relationships

• Controlling your partner: No one likes being controlled

• Unbridled self-expression: The barf bag approach to intimacy

• Retaliation: Offending from the victim position

• Withdrawal: Provocative distance-taking

Then identify the specific losing strategies you fall into when triggered—your losing strategy profile. Once you’ve shaken hands with your adaptive child, and your partner has done the same, the destructive cycle, the core dynamic keeping you stuck, reveals itself.

Terry calls this “the more, the more” pattern:

“The more I try to control, the more they withdraw.”

“And the more they withdraw, the more I try to control.”

Once we learn to manage our adaptive child, we can move into the functional adult who responds instead of reacts, communicates clearly and calmly, and focuses on repairing the relationship. Rupture, repair, repeat.

While it’s helpful to read books, listen to podcasts, and dive down self-development rabbit holes, a lot of it is mental masturbation masquerading as productivity. Insights must be followed by implementation.

In mountains and in relationships, reaching the summit is only half the story. The descent—the disharmony and the repair— is where the real work begins.