Kingston Peak 12,147 Feet

It was wicked in the high country today. Here's what we could see of our intended summit, 13er, James Peak. ---->

It was one of the best views we got.

To that end, Sweet Sister and I decided to do Kingston Peak, since we could actually see it. Even so, the wind and cold proved challenging. Neither of us drank any water as mine was frozen and Sweet Sis was too cold to dig hers out of her pack. My thumbs and fingers and facial skin begged me to turn back.

And I would have, except Sweet Sis had been robbed of James Peak on two successive days last week and was not going to turn back for anything. Today she needed a peak, any peak. She wasn't going to stop and see her younger, weaker sister flagging her, waving both trekking poles in the air and pointing down, down, down. Younger, weaker sis who was decidedly sick of braving frost bite for a peak that wasn't on any list she'd ever made. Decidedly not in the mood for winds that found the millimeter of bare skin between the Turtle Fur, goggles, and Mountain Hardware Windstopper cap. For winds that weren't stopped by the cap designed just for them. Criminy! These were the definition of vicious.

So I trucked along, seeing - if not the face - the back of determination. Don't think I didn't still try. Every time I could lift my head and spy her - and she was stopped - I tried to reason with her, or at least my trekking poles did.

She has always ignored me. And I couldn't let her continue on alone in those conditions. So I tagged along. Saying lots of expletives in my head and even one or two aloud. Until mercifully, we reached the top and shouted something to each other. We did not commemorate the moment with a photo as our camera batteries had decided it was too cold and were dead. I gestured that we descend the east face of the thing, thinking we could find the lee of the wind somewhere.

We did. It was manna from the heavens compared to the blasting we'd taken on the ascent. I could hear her, and she could hear me. I gave her an edited version of my thoughts on the ascent, and we agreed to stick closer together in the future. Then it was sisters on the mountain again, pointing out peaks in the distance and adding them to mental checklists, reveling in the ruggedness of two that we'd already done, and making a game of picking the spots where our boots wouldn't posthole through. We talked about the sand-like texture of the snow, a product of the -4 degree temperature, no doubt, and enjoyed sending it skittering with a whiff of our boots. We talked of family and friends and feelings and anything else that happened to come to mind.

Three hours and nineteen minutes later, we were back to the car. Seven hours and forty-two minutes later, my thumbs still tingle, but my face bears a big grin. In spite of conditions and against my better judgement, there is something to be said for sticking with your sister. Pretty much always.