Peak of Success

By Dede Norungolo

My sister looks at me and says, “If you do it, I will do it.” This is not a dare like the ones we issued to each other as children, but rather a challenge. Angie wants me, a brain injury survivor, to take part in the annual Pikes Peak Challenge in Colorado.

After six months of training in Northeast Tennessee along the Appalachian Trail, my legs are solid. I am a cinderblock with arms. My sister, however, is not. She tells me her husband, Scott, “wants” to make the 13.5-mile trek with me.

For the then-army major, the event takes on the characteristics of a military manoeuvre. My estimated time of arrival in Colorado Springs is one week prior to the climb. Scott promptly urges me to go for a long walk the first night. The diplopia and facial numbness I still deal with seem to worsen at the higher elevation. To become acclimated, I hike at nearby Garden of the Gods park three days out from the climb and find myself praying to the rock formations, as the summit glimmers nearby:

“Oh mighty Garden Gods, reveal to me what I was thinking when I signed up for this part of the journey.” My words echo across the valley floor. “I beg of thee.”

On the eve of the hike, Scott calls me to attention. Our gear is now strewn on his living room floor. “We have a Camelbak for you, fleece tops, shorts, pants, a raincoat, gloves, hats and my ruck,” my brother-in-law says as he programs his wristwatch, which is almost as big as my head. “Here are protein bars, sports drinks and Gels. I’m going with Gels.” Scott packs each piece of clothing – mine and his – into his rucksack. He’s immensely proud of his use of army techniques to vacuum-pack our layers.

“We have to leave no later than 5:00 a.m.,” my brother-in-law cheerily says once everything has been stowed. It is now after 10:00 p.m. and I cannot sleep for fear of not waking up. When Scott does come into my room roughly six hours later, I try to use my short-term memory deficits to my advantage and say, “What hike? I don’t know what you are talking about.”

He does not buy this. I roll out of bed – almost literally, since I am still fighting with a balance disorder. My sister is upstairs with a camera. My outfit makes me look as if I have just come off the set of “The Sound of Music” – and I am not Julie Andrews’ character. I don’t want a picture, but she takes one.

Once in the car, it takes an hour to reach Manitou Springs, where more than 260 people will check in, receive their challenge numbers and catch a shuttle to Barr Trail. I recall another friend with a brain injury saying, “You know, they say this hike is like... well, the first three miles will kick your buns, the last three miles will kill ya and everything in between is a walk in the clouds.”

The budding lieutenant-colonel parks the truck as if it were a Hummer and turns on his headlamp once out of the vehicle. We pin on our numbers, ride the van to the trail head and begin the ascent. I look up and see what appear to be hundreds of fireflies dancing through the trees. The fireflies are really 50 or so hikers ahead of us on the trail. With double vision, however, I see about 100. We hike less than a mile before running into a local videographer.

“How’s it going?” asks the reporter. Scott replies, “Pretty good so far. I’m just proud of my sister-in-law. She is a survivor and wanted to participate in this challenge.” When we reach the first checkpoint, I am feeling inspired by other brain injury survivors who are on the trail. And then it happens. A young man not only runs by Scott and me, but does this while carrying a bicycle. “A strategically placed hiking pole could stop him,” I think before I can stop myself.

Then I realize we are all on this trail together for a reason. What the reason is, however, I have forgotten, until I look down at the challenge number pinned to my shirt.

Seven hours into the climb, Scott and I stop at Barr Camp to get out of the snow and sleet. I’m in heaven when I realize I can buy a T-shirt in the cabin. The walk in the clouds ends for me before the summit, but I will always be glad I reached my goal to participate.

(When Dede Norungolo is not conquering mountains, she lives in Seneca, South Carolina, U.S.A.)

(Share with us the lighter side of living with a disability! Send 700 words to: The Lighter Side, ABILITIES, 340 College St., Ste. 401, Toronto, ON, M5T 3A9; or e-mail: able@abilities.ca.)