Trip of Terror

My sister Amy and her husband Will (above with Kelty) have been visiting for the last several days. We have had an amazing time so far–fly fishing, shopping, dinners out, lots of laughing, sightseeing, and games on the trampoline. We decided to further enhance our Colorado experience by driving to the top of Pikes Peak yesterday. Both Matt and Cassie were occupied for most of Saturday, so Amy, Will, and I thought it would be an easy, fun outing to drive the kids to the summit of this mountain which casts its shadow over our mountain town.

It wasn’t. Easy or fun.

Instead, it was one of the most terrifying drives up the side of a mountain I have ever endured. Amy, Will and I nearly hyperventilated, threw-up, and had anxiety attacks at the lack of guard rails on dirt roads that had crazy upslopes beside sheer rock faces. We talked of turning around. We tried not to peer over the edge. We blocked images of our car plummeting down 14,000 feet out of our minds. We held our breaths as the ol‘ minivan took 90 degree switchback after switchback. Check out a clip of the drive:

And it only got worse at the summit. When we finally arrived, we bolted out of the car–right into a huge mud puddle. Not being bright enough to realize that the top of a 14, 000 foot mountain is technically an ALPIINE WEATHER ZONE, I had neglected to bring coats for my three children (They weren’t even wearing long pants.). So we literally ran, dragging whining children in summer attire into the gift shop–a haven from the weather . . . but not from the masses of tourists. We battled the chaos inside, only to nearly run around the top of the summit, quickly snapping pictures, regardless of if the children were even looking at the camera or not. The kids fought over the one long-sleeve sweater we did have in our possession, we didn’t stop to read the plaque at the top, and our hearts experienced palpitations because of the height and –again–the lack of guard rails (I mean, is it really impractical to have a giant fence around the entire top of the mountain?). We then drug everyone back to the van–now in full-scale tears– only to have Cade have a melt-down when I accidentally took his muddy shoes off then set him barefoot back down into a mud puddle. Smart Move, Mom. The whole summit ordeal (and I use that word appropriately) lasted about 8 1/2 minutes.

And the ironic thing is that we paid 35 bucks to endure this torture. And maybe my terror and nausea came from being a North Carolina flatlander, but have not doubt about it, the experience was not anything I will ever repeat. In fact, the kids were whining on the trip back down saying, “We hate this mountain,” and in that moment the three adults were able to agree wholeheartedly.

But now that the feelings of terror have subsided, now that my heart rate has returned to its normal resting state, now that I have enjoyed laughing over the story a few times, I can honestly say that I am glad we made it to the summit. Once. And I never have to do it again.

I’ll post more of Amy and Will’s trip later . . .