Charles Peak

Richard answered obtusely. "It's gonna be pretty gnarly."

And so we climbed. And as we rose, the road was indeed gnarly. It switchbacked, too, so that, thankfully, and maddeningly, I couldn't see what lay ahead. Each time the road turned a sharp corner, there was more climbing ahead. I confess I took the Lord's name, and everyone else's, in vain. But when I reached the windblown, veldlike summit, none of it mattered. The sun rested atop the mountains to the west. The breeze raked cold, worming through my sweat-soaked clothing. There was no place else I wanted to be. I got off my bike and stood astride the Divide.

The wind whistled in the silence. I think I might have whistled giddily in accompaniment, I'm not sure. Richard shot a professional glance at the sun touching down on the mountains to the west, and an equally professional glance at me.

"Listen, we better make it quick up here," he said. "When that sun drops, the temperature will go down 10 degrees."

In the end, it was these labors that stuck.

One evening, after a full day's riding, Don tossed out the idea of a hike to the 12,050-foot summit of Charles Peak. It would have been easy to loll about the hut, but I knew that would be forgettable, and the hike, likely, would not.

And so it was that at 7 p.m., while much of the world clattered about in the kitchen, flicked on the TV, and otherwise engaged in the exigencies of normal life, we stood atop Charles Peak, in a lichen-strewn meadow bathed with gauzy golden light. The sun was setting, punctuating another fine day of exploration and foreshadowing another day to come.

I watched, in contented silence, as the shadows flowed quickly up the scree-sided mountains to the east.

I heard Don speak quietly, to no one in particular.

"Yep," he said. "Everyone should take the time to put themselves in nice places."