Take Me Higher by Pamela Clare
Author’s Note
I grew up in the foothills of Boulder, Co., the daughter of a semi-professional climber. Most of our weekends were spent in the mountains, hiking, camping, and climbing. When other kids were playing on their swing sets, we were learning to rappel. My father was part of the 1970s climbing scene in Boulder and even put up some first ascents of routes in the area, including Cadaver Crack in Boulder Canyon.
I never became the climber that my father and my younger brother Robert were. Both have climbed all of Colorado’s 14ers, as well as Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Mt. Baker, and, in my brother’s case, Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere. Watching Robert rock climb a 5.11 at the rock gym is inspiring.
Unfortunately, my contribution to our family’s climbing legacy isn’t about climbing. It’s about falling.
My father and I set off on a five-day backpacking trip, when we came to an unexpected wall of ice off the summit of Mt. Ida in the backcountry of Rocky Mountain National Park. My father, who has done ice climbing and participated at the Ouray Ice Fest, kicked in some footholds and climbed down the ice like Spiderman. I tried to do what he’d done, but slipped on the ice and fell.
By the time I came to a stop, I’d fallen forty feet—twenty vertical feet and twenty feet of bouncing over talus and boulders. I blacked out for just a moment and then found myself facing down the steep slope, my right leg wrapped around a large rock. I heard my father shout for me as he made his way over to where I was. He asked me to say something, but I couldn’t. I could hear him. I could understand him, but I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t even lift my gaze to look at him. I had zero control.
To make a long story shorter, I’ll skip the part where I came back to myself and spent the next two hours painfully creeping down the mountainside to a tent. Instead, we’ll go straight to the helicopter ride to the trauma center, where they found I had a ruptured quadriceps, a torn Achilles tendon, a broken tibia, broken ribs, and too many bruises and contusions to count. The ruptured quad got the most attention, and, indeed, it took forever to heal. It still aches twenty-seven years later.
But the most complicated injury was the complex concussion and the post-concussive syndrome that followed. Because I had bounced over rock, my brain had gotten injured by slamming around inside my skull.
In the aftermath, I suffered from migraines almost daily. I also had short-term memory loss. The memory loss was so severe that my young sons had to remind me—and keep reminding me—where we were going any time we got into the car. They turned it into a game, and my older son especially found it quite funny.
“Mom, do you know where we’re going?”
“Um…no.”
“The grocery store.”
And again, two minutes later.
“Mom, do you know where we’re going?”
“Tell me again.”
“The grocery store.”
I would say good morning to people at work repeatedly without knowing it. Some coworkers were patient. Others weren’t. One even shouted in my face that I’d said hello five times already.
When my sons and I saw Finding Nemo, the boys pointed to the screen and shouted, “Mom, you’re Dory! You’re Dory!”
I had to laugh. They weren’t wrong.
Now, so many years later, my short-term memory is better but not as good as before. Thankfully, migraines are rare. Instead, I have difficulty concentrating for long periods. I suppose I’ll have problems for the rest of my life.
It’s really no wonder that I decided to write the Colorado High Country series. With my family’s climbing background and my personal experience being rescued, it felt like a great way to share bits and pieces of the Colorado I know and love in all of its craziness and beauty. This book was particularly emotional for me because it includes a special period in the history of rock climbing, a history in which my father participated.
But it also shows the deep and lasting love that Megs and Mitch have for one another, a love that goes far beyond youth and sexiness to the deepest part of the human heart. I hope you’ve enjoyed their story as much as I have.