A solitary coyote yelped and howled in the distance, enhancing the stormy atmosphere of my hilltop campsite above the Arkansas River Valley. Across the flat river plain, the Collegiate Peaks rose up from the valley floor like a row of mafia thugs, massive and unyielding. Turbulent clouds skimmed their summits and rolled onwards, smothering the evening skies in muted hues of blue and grey. Through a window in the mists, a sliver of a moon winked secretively before disappearing once more. With conditions this restless, I could only hope that tomorrow’s scaling of Mt. Yale would be successful, unlike the disappointing backpacking trip in the Sangre de Cristo Range that I’d completed the day before.

On that previous outing, I was dogged by flashes of lightning and persistent downpours as I hiked up into the high country. Periodically, I had to crouch beneath overhanging spruce branches to avoid becoming completely saturated. That night, I had hoped to be entertained by the sound of thunder reverberating off the face of Comanche Peak while I lay safe and secure in my tent, but the air went completely still. I was bored and insulted, after having fought through so much unfavorable weather to get there.

Only towards dawn did a fierce wind begin to race across Comanche Lake, rattling the rainfly and making sleep difficult. Packing up in the breeze the next morning was a challenge; my tent threatened to slip away and become a kite whenever my back was turned. The skies were overcast and uninspiring, and clouds swiftly converged to swallow up the high peaks around me. I should have made the most of my time in the Colorado backcountry, but strong expectations of vibrant wildflowers and soaring vistas soured my mood. The subdued colors of the landscape matched my enthusiasm, and the hike back to the trailhead felt too much like a chore.

I trusted that the challenge of Mt. Yale would put me in better spirits, provided I had the benefit of better weather. The Collegiates were an elite pack of Fourteeners – one of fifty-three Colorado mountains with an elevation above 14,000 feet. These particular Ivy League schools were actually easy to get into, as long as you could pass the entrance exam, which entailed at least a 4,000-foot climb. I had already “graduated” from Mt. Princeton, and I was confident I would earn my diplomas from Mt. Harvard and Columbia in due course.