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David Bowman

       For the five and a half years that my father and I lived in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the Sandia Mountains proudly stood 10,000 feet over us. The arrogance that we sensed from these mountains stirred in us a desire to conquer them. Hiking to its peak would satisfy just that desire. The trail that leads to the peak, known as the La luz or “The Light” trail, is a rigorous 15 miler, featuring steep, rocky cliffs and beaten gravel paths on monotonous zigzag routes. My father and I became quite familiar with the first half of the trail due to our several unfinished attempts at hiking the mountains. Through our attempts, we believed that we had acclimated to the intensity of the trail and felt ready to try again. Except this time, we were bringing friends. 

       My friends, Gavin and Kaden, were new to this trail, and probably underestimated it. We packed what one would usually expect for a hiking trip: water, trail mix, sunscreen, my inhaler, and other essential items. The night before, my dad and I felt ready for what was to come. Little did we know then that we were neither physically nor mentally equipped for the journey the next day. 

       At eight in the morning, my father, Gavin, Kaden, and I were all looking up at the beast we would soon ascend. The hike started off as usual: a few occasional breezes, the sun slowly creeping over the mountain, and one of us occasionally tripping over a rock. The first couple of hours were actually very pleasant. We chatted, joked, and snacked. But eventually, right before we entered a valley that zigzagged to the peak, we ran into other hikers who warned us not to continue due to the heavy snow ahead and our lack of crampons. We completely disregarded their warning and continued, even after we passed a sign warning that the trail may be unpassable when covered in snow (this was in March). 

       Wearing shorts and tennis shoes, I should have realized that hiking in snow on a mountain is not safe and should have talked the rest of us into going back down, but I did not, and we pressed forward. Whenever I plodded through a deep pile of snow, my shoes would fill with snow. Once the snow melted, my feet grew numb. As my already aching feet began to freeze from the constant flow of ice-cold water, the hike became miserable. Soon my hands started to swell and numb, despite me wearing gloves. My nose started running, my head started hurting, and my morale started dying. Yet we still had not reached the summit, so I kept talking with my friends to help ignore the internal pain that was building up in me. 

       As we neared the peak, mud started replacing the snow, making our journey even harder. Through perseverance we were finally able to reach the peak. After picture-taking and a short-lived celebration, we began our descent. By this point, we were already exhausted. If we had money, we would have taken the trail that branches off the main trail toward the cable car lift, but that was not even an option; we literally had to hike all the way back down. When we reached the point when no one had uttered a single word in what felt like an hour, both the sunlight and our group’s spirit began to die. I wanted nothing more than to sit down and give my hard-working legs a break. 

       But then, I beheld the most glorious sight on the trip: the start of the trail. It was dark when we reached our car, but our triumph illuminated our souls. On our drive back, we treated ourselves to ice cream and reminisced about our journey. It was interesting to see how pain was bonding us together. Though many poor choices were made on that hike, I remember it fondly for finally conquering the behemoth of a mountain which had beckoned to me for over five years.