Arizona’s highest mountain teaches a hiker that faster isn’t always better

By Andrea Aker

I would conquer this dark, snowcapped mountain in one attempt—without complaining or stopping.

Every bona fide hiker aspires to one thing—bragging rights. This deep-seated notion inspires tall tales about conquering the steepest mountains in the fastest time. As a former track and cross-country runner, I could boast about my grueling races. Now I wanted to brag about my heroic hikes too. Fortunately, Arizona provided the seemingly endless hills and mountains where I could prove myself.

I set out to conquer Mt. Humphreys, Arizona’s highest peak. My boyfriend, Michael, an accomplished hiker in his own right, was at my side. On a sizzling August morning we escaped Phoenix and headed for the cool comforts of Flagstaff. We arrived just after 7 a.m. One car had beaten us to the parking lot. Apparently, someone else was in search of bragging rights too.

I tossed on a sweatshirt and strapped on my backpack, equipped with 100 ounces of water. I was ready to meet my destiny, 12,633 feet above sea level. I would conquer this dark, snowcapped mountain in one attempt—without complaining or stopping.

The trek begins
Michael and I began our trek at 8,800 feet in a lush meadow of waist-high purple wildflowers. Soon we were surrounded by hundreds of ponderosas towering more than a hundred feet above us. A pine needle wound its way through the foliage and tapped me on the head. Hello, welcome to the forest.

A light rain the day before had left the trail moist. My feet began to skid, reminding me to focus on placing one foot in front of the other. But how could I? My eyes darted toward a patch of white-barked aspens. Bright yellow and pink mushrooms crowded around their slim trunks. Chipmunks skittered on hollow logs that crisscrossed the trail.

A piercing snap in my ears brought me back to reality. “Don’t worry,” Michael said. “You’ll acclimate to it.”

At 9,500 feet, the knife-like pain in my ears reminded me I was on a mission. There was no time to daydream. Off came my sweatshirt. I picked up the pace

After the second mile I noticed another hiker. I knew we could catch him. Our leisurely hike turned into a quick trot. He saw us rushing up the trail and stepped to the side. What a wimp, I thought.

The tree line disappeared around the third mile. At 11,400 feet, the only signs of life were the gnats swirling around my sweatshirt hood and a few diminutive tundra shrubs and wildflowers tucked among the rocks. Winds howled past my teetering body at 20 miles per hour. Just a little more than a mile to the top.

My mind was telling me I couldn’t go on, but Michael kept coaxing me forward. Each time I thought we’d reached the top, yet another peak lay beyond. False summits.

Without the picturesque scenery to distract me, I focused on my piercing ears and throbbing torso as they succumbed to altitude sickness. A vice-like pressure gripped my head. A wave of nausea heaved through my chest.

After two hours of non-stop hiking, I turned to Michael. He cracked a smile.

“Why are you so happy?” I managed to squeeze out before another wave of nausea hit.

“The top’s right up there,” he muttered.

No more false summits. I was 200 yards from solidifying my bragging rights.

Photo courtesy of Andre Aker
The author hikes to the top of Mt. Humphreys without stopping.

Standing on top of Arizona
The wind picked up to 30 miles per hour at the summit, but I could hardly feel it beating against my exhausted body. I lost myself in the panoramic view—360 degrees of mountain ranges, dense forests, beige hills and, 80 miles away, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. I’d accomplished what I set out to do, yet I wasn’t enveloped with the relief and joy I’d expected.

Standing on top of Arizona, I could faintly make out the lone hiker trudging up the false summits. He paused and peered at the blanket of treetops. He was standing confidently, staring straight ahead, recording the scene in his memory bank.

The destination was the same for all of us, but bragging rights had clouded my thoughts throughout the journey. I hadn’t left any time to take snapshots of the monstrous evergreens and tiny wildflowers. I plopped down on a boulder and stared into the distance, trying to make up for memories lost during the past two hours. I realized that the slow, lone hiker had much more to brag about.

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The Devil’s Tale showcases the coursework of individual students at the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication, Arizona State University.