Proof The Bible Is True

The sky was blue, the sun was warm. A perfect summer day for hiking. Atop 13,507-foot Mount Ypsilon, where my husband, Wes, and I had just eaten a packed lunch of sandwiches, apples and fruitcake, the view extended for mile after glorious mile of snowcapped Rocky Mountain peaks.

 

It was Friday, the day Wes and I hiked together each week. Mount Ypsilon was one of our favorite routes. We’d climbed it at least three times in the 41 years we’d lived in Colorado, where Wes had taught geology at the University of Colorado and I’d worked as a nurse.

 

Now we were retired with grown kids and schedules blissfully free for getting outdoors. We spent as much time in the mountains as possible. We felt at home there. Close to God and the angels. Safe.

 

Which probably explains why, when Wes stopped to take a photo, I didn’t wait for him but instead kept right on descending the gray, rocky talus below the summit. There was no trail, just occasional cairns of stones marking the way to where the tundra began. It was chilly and windy up there, still dotted with remnants of winter snow.

 

I shouted back to Wes I was turning off the ridgeline toward the trail. I wasn’t sure of the exact way we’d come up—I always let Wes the geologist do our map-reading—but I figured I’d hit the trail eventually. There aren’t too many ways you can go from a summit but down. Besides, I usually walked ahead of Wes on descents. A bad knee slowed him downhill. I’d wait for him once I reached the trail.

 

I clattered down, clicking on rocks with my trekking poles. The wind pushed and pulled. Suddenly I stopped. Before me a steep cliff dropped away, plunging hundreds of feet. Huh? We hadn’t passed any cliffs coming up. I turned around to show Wes. But I couldn’t make him out. A wall of talus rose behind me. The wind blew against my face.

 

Read More: A Lost Hiker’s Guide Home – Guideposts