Thomas Reuter conquered the tallest mountain in the world barefoot, there’s your hero. From the ocean floor, Mauna Kea is the highest and he did it.
I was with him as he climbed in bare feet to the top of Mauna Kea, at least in my mind.
Not to step on his glory but I too climbed our mountain, and I felt his pain. Like his, my ascent was a scrappy, gravel-eating nightmare.
He climbed for his dear, sweet grandmother, I did it for my dear, stupid ego, and it almost killed me.
It was a bright May morning in Hilo Town, the Wailuku River gurgling beside my house, the light blue sky above. I opened the door to my burly friend, Tom Heidi, who pointed to the mountain and said, “Whadya say we climb Mauna Kea today.”
A 6’ 2” bearded macho man named Heidi always threw me a little.
He tweaked my sense of adventure so I grabbed two Tiger Milk bars and a bota bag of water and said, “OK, let’s go!” I was sure we’d be home by noon. Yeah, right.
We drove half-way up the mountain, parked the car and started crunching up the cinder road to the summit. We were so cocky, so full of ourselves. Two puny mortals, like tiny ants creeping up a massive 14,000-foot mountain.
There is a fancy word for this, hubris. Pride cometh before a fall, how true it is.
Everything was fine for the first hour, Tom Heidi and me casually strolling up the steep gravel road, zigzagging up and up. Then our legs turned to rubber and we stumbled again and again, helping each other up. I was determined to make it all the way.
After awhile, Tom Heidi fell face down beside me. I looked over at him laying there, he groaned, “I can’t make it, I’m going back down to the car. You go on.” Some macho man.
It would be lonely at the top, but I trudged on.
After another hour my breath started to give out. When you are approaching three miles up, there is almost no air to breathe. I was gasping like a fish stranded on a beach. Without oxygen your red blood cells dry up and turn into tiny raisins and you hurt all over.
Plus, it was blazing hot. And just like in the movies, I was running out of water. But this was no movie, this was my real life and I was about to pass out, maybe for good.
I didn’t walk, I stepped. There was a point when I dared myself to take seven steps. I couldn’t do it. I’d go six steps then fall over panting. I did this for a half a mile, gasping and falling down. I was blacking out and then I looked up and saw it.
The most wonderful sight I’d ever seen, the shining dome of a telescope blinding silver in the sun. The top, I could make it.
I took another few steps and fell down, parched, defeated, 100 yards from the summit. I could not get up to save my bedraggled soul. I laid beside the road dying of thirst and then I heard music.
It was a celestial symphony, angels singing, it sounded glorious. I was just conscious enough to feel scared, it felt like the real thing, Heaven. I thought, “God, I hope not.”
Then the music changed.
It was the Rolling Stones blaring, “I can’t get no satisfaction!” I raised my head in a haze and saw a green truck full of army guys stopped beside me. They were playing the Stones on a tape deck, they were drinking beer and, gad, smoking cigarettes! One looked down and shouted. “Hey, hippie, you need a ride?”
I climbed in and took the biggest gulp of beer ever gulped. Drinking and smoking and patting me on the back, they drove me the last 100 yards to the top.
I made it, just like Thomas Reuter, but he did it barefoot and didn’t need the cavalry to save him.
Dennis Gregory is an artist, writer and musician who mixes truth and humor in his biweekly column. He can be reached at makewavess@yahoo.com
