My friends and I hike down into the drainage. Creeks trickle and splash across the trail making the sound only alpine streams can make. Columbine, lupin, owl clover and other wildflowers flash in the dappled light under the pines. We scramble off the trail out of the shade and onto the grass and scree of the steep slope leading to the ridgeline.

Our legs are working just as hard as our lungs. We can start to see the drainage we’re climbing up as we ascend. It opens wide with the blackish-green carpet of fir trees. We reach the ridgeline, less solid than it looked below. We boulder hop through the talus that makes up the ridge and more of the terrain as we head towards the summit. 

The lichen on the rocks catches my eye. Neon green, sage, orange, red, white maps that fan out across the hard surfaces. These colonies of lichen fade off into the sea of stone as we balance our way across. 

I settle into the rhythm of movement that’s required by the landscape when suddenly there’s no more ascent. We stand at the top and look out. The swell of the Colorado plateau spans half the horizon with the towers and mittens of Monument Valley, Bears Ears, the Abajo Mountains and the La Sal Mountains. I turn and a sea of summits fans out before me. A lifetime of peaks, ridgelines and drainages to explore. 

My friends and I smile, snap a picture and the moment is over. 

Hours later, my body is tired. A mixture of satisfaction and deep fatigue. We reach the car and as we drive away, I look back. It’s hard to believe we were tiny little specks up on that peak not long ago. 

Evening light turns the mountain golden. The mountain shifts from the blues and greens to purples and golds. I watch as shadows dance across its face and Hesperus Peak disappears out of sight.