At the Altars of Money: A Novel

Copyright © 2018 by Graydon Dee Hubbard

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-56474-817-1

The interior design and the cover design of this book are intended for and limited to the publisher’s first print edition of the book and related marketing display purposes. All other use of those designs without the publisher’s permission is prohibited.

Published by Fithian Press

A division of Daniel and Daniel, Publishers, Inc.

Post Office Box 2790

McKinleyville, CA 95519

www.danielpublishing.com

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library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

Names: Hubbard, Dee, (date) author.

Title: At the altars of money : a novel / by Graydon D. Hubbard.

Description: McKinleyville, California : Fithian Press, 2017.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017026279 | ISBN 9781564746016 (paperback : alk. paper)

Classification: LCC PS3608.U2323 A79 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017026279

Money has many altars, and those who worship there are often willing, sometimes eager, to sacrifice their integrity or their reason—or both.

To Blaine,

mentor and best friend,

who left this world too soon...

and left me with a void in my life

that remains unfilled.

Acknowledgements

I’m grateful to others who made this book possible:

To many—too many to acknowledge individually—from the world of high finance styled U.S.A., where money mostly travels from pocket to pocket rather than into productive enterprise. As a hands-on, go-to-numbers guy during two professional careers spanning fifty-five years, I absorbed their knowledge and wisdom—or in some cases I learned much from their lack thereof.

To my muse, my best friend, my climbing companion, always my biggest fan, occasionally my harshest (but honest) critic, always my beloved wife, artist Bonnie McGee. When she said, Let’s go climb a Colorado fourteener, I first protested. I’m sixty-five years old, I said, and I’ve never been above thirteen thousand feet. I’ll die up there. Then I grew bolder. So we did…and I didn’t. As Bonnie and I do in life, we still find our way in the mountains without a GPS.

To the Writers Group of Steamboat Springs, who endured a two-year reading of the first-draft manuscript. Group-think helps. In good humor and with sound advice, they shared my long journeys along the hilly road to manuscript completion and the briar-patch road to publication.

A world-class gracious host to Bonnie and me, David Milner opened the door seven times for us to his tiny crofter’s cottage deep in the Scottish Highlands and into the magical world surrounding it. David and Carol Higgins extended our long love affair with the Bahamas Out Islands. Bonefish Sam introduced me to elusive bonefish. While I waded the Exuma flats, he drank brandy from a flask and snoozed in his primitive native boat. A constant companion on our odyssey to Colorado’s highest summits was Gerry Roach’s guidebook, Colorado’s Fourteeners. We never got lost. Jim Moylan, an SEC attorney—one of the good guys—vetted a bunch of the book’s SEC passages. A former comrade in arms, Sol Upbin, helped me remember my way around Manhattan.

Among the hundreds of pages of research supplementing my own experience, the work of Mary Ashby Morrison stands out. Her thoughtful study Rush to Judgment: The Lynching of Arthur Andersen & Co. is a scholarly gem. She exposes the dark and ruthless side of our Department of Justice, the grandstanding predisposition of congressional investigations, and the caprice of our courts.

My literary heroes are John and Susan Daniel, publishers at Fithian Press. In an inconstant world, their championing of my work is a constant blessing, for which I’m forever grateful. Barbara Berger, Executive Editor at Sterling Publishing, provided high-level suggestions that improved the work and relieved readers from its initial data deluge. At a time when I sorely needed a confidence boost, Lorian Hemingway encouraged me with a daunting prediction: You are truly a star on the rise and have produced a work that will have mass market appeal. Your work will blow ’em away.

Now, let the readers decide.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

1. A Chance Encounter

1

II. Bonaventure Fund—A Ponzi Squared

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

III. Titan Investment Partners

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

IV. Raise You a Hundred

22

V. The Transformation of Hamish Mackenzie

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

VI. After Nine-Eleven

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

VII. Titan’s Noble Cause

41

42

43

VIII. Tyranny Prevails, Then Fails

44

45

IX. Highlander’s Return

46

47

48

X. A Crime of Compassion

49

50

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Our lives are so crowded, his mother explains at breakfast. We should take time simply to celebrate being. You’ll understand this better as you grow older. Robins have always understood this. Each spring they return and bring us messages in song. ‘Enjoy the day,’ they sing at dawn. ‘Enrich the lives of others,’ they sing at dusk.

* * *

Homework completed, the boy is in bed but unable to sleep. From the aspen tree outside his window, a robin is singing again, imprinting his mother’s words deep into his memory. Its dusk song is indeed different from what it sang at dawn and ends when darkness settles in. Still restless, he reaches under his pillow, retrieves a book and flashlight, and props himself up on his elbows to read. When he switches on the light, it reveals a freckled face beaming with expectation. He swipes at a shock of reddish-brown hair that slides down his forehead and threatens his vision. His chin clamps down to hold the flashlight, and his fingers dance over the book, savoring the touch of its leather-bound cover.

He’s kept the book, a gift from his dying father, on his bedside table for months, unread until yesterday, when robins first began to sing and he finally could open it without crying. For my son Hamish on his tenth birthday, June 21, 1976, the title-page inscription reads. Turning to his bedside table, he smiles at a photo of his father as a young man, formally attired in a Scottish kilt.

When he turns back, he studies the book’s frontispiece illustration. In it, a youth with shoulder-length blond hair stands with a longbow fully drawn, eyes sighting along an arrow positioned for release. Behind the young archer is an instructor with a bright blue feathered cap…a father perhaps; at least he wants to think so. The instructor points a finger to identify the target. Both figures are clothed in long, thick tights, doublets, and pointed, elfin-like shoes. From the youth’s shoulder hangs a quiver of arrows. A hunting dagger dangles from his belt.

Imagining himself in the role of the golden-haired archer, Hamish shuts his eyes for a moment. When he reopens them, he finds his marker and begins reading at Chapter II, Suddenly through the greenwood came full four score of the King’s Foresters, running towards the robbers, ready to seize them.…

* * *

He parks his mother’s Subaru on the highest paved road above town, where he can avoid street noise and his discomfort with crowds. From the back seat he removes a sport coat, his first, dark blue with anchors emblazoned on bronze buttons, and a tie, also his first. They’re high school graduation gifts from his mother, and he smiles at the coat but frowns at the tie. It’s a bit extreme for his tastes—powder blue with pink stripes. His new outfit will have to serve as full dress attire during four years at the University of Colorado. Freshman classes begin in five weeks. Eager to get on with his education, he’s also apprehensive about dealing with student crowds and college social life. He’s undecided on a course of study. Mathematics or statistics maybe. Speed and agility with numbers earned him A+ grades in his high school math classes.

Exiting the car, he uses a side-view mirror to guide him in knotting his tie, a task he’s not accustomed to but accomplishes on his second try. The coat fits loosely on his spare frame, and he extends his left hand to look at his watch, an old Timex passed down from his father. Thirty minutes until the curtain lifts on a Saturday matinee performance of Falstaff, his first opera experience. Enough time for a look around and a saunter back downhill. The three-dollar parking fee saved is worth the extra walk. The view should be a bonus.

Stretched out in the gulch below him are remnants of a nineteenth-century mining town…two towns actually, with no clear demarcation between the end of one and the beginning of the other. All the buildings appear old and weather-worn. Only a few are freshly painted. Crooked is his next impression. There are no straight streets. They all meander freely downhill like streams following the course of least resistance. He can see the full length of Main Street, which refuses to challenge the steepest parts of the gulch. From the highway, it zigzags two miles toward him, past clusters of dingy bars and souvenir shops, past the Black Forest Inn, whose German cuisine wouldn’t appeal to him even if he had the money, and on past the venerable Teller House Hotel. Next door to the hotel is his destination, the Central City Opera House.

He’ll wait for intermission to view the famous face on the hotel’s barroom floor. You have to see it, his mother had insisted. But maybe he won’t see it; he may not be allowed in. And what’s so special about a woman’s portrait painted—and probably poorly so—on the wooden floor of a hotel bar by a lovesick miner so drunk he couldn’t stand?

As if culture, rather than failing mines, halted uphill commercial expansion, no businesses extend beyond the Opera House. A flower-filled courtyard buffers the Opera House from the hotel. Although colorful, the gardens are unkempt and weed infested. Water no longer flows from the courtyard fountain. Gathered in the courtyard and spilling into Main Street, opera patrons mill about. Their attire ranges from unisex jeans and a shirt—balcony seats most likely—to coats and ties and summer dresses—probably orchestra center seats like his—to a scattering of tuxedos and evening gowns—dress circle seats for sure. Farther down, summer tourists roam the sidewalks dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and tennis shoes or sandals.

More operas have been presented in Central City than any other city between Chicago and San Francisco, his mother has told him. Obviously, he thinks, because of proximity to Denver. He has trouble imagining opera appealing to the lusty appetites of nineteenth-century miners. But then, is there a more lusty figure than Falstaff in all of music or literature? And how can he explain his interest in opera and his preference for the classics in music and literature? He can’t; nor can his mother. Only she knows about them. Concerned that his entertainment tastes might be an unacceptable teenage aberration, he’s kept them secret from his school chums, fearful of the teasing an admission might provoke.

At least he has some hope of normalcy; he’s also a fan of John Denver’s ballads.

In a week he will leave with his mother for Scotland, to visit his birthplace along Loch Duich, maybe take the ferry on over to the nearby Isle of Skye. From there, he’ll continue his first travel adventure alone, a two-week backpacking tour into the northwest Highlands. He asked his mother what kind of music might greet him there. The music of your ancestors, she said. Celtic of course.

When he lifts his gaze, he sees stubby side streets all dead-ending in steep hillsides. His eyes are drawn yet higher, and he gasps at the landscape above him. Terribly scarred is his first impression. No, worse than that. Scars imply healing, and there’s been no healing here. On three sides he’s surrounded by wounds whose open sores still fester in the earth. They’ll require centuries of rain, snow, sun, and windblown seeds to heal. No, they’ll never heal, for there’s no seed source left. The trees are gone. Only rotted stumps remain. He knows he’s looking at a harsh reality: Colorado’s mining towns needed all the trees available, to construct the trappings of boomtown growth: saloons, stores, stables, barns, homes, cabins, brothels, timbers for mines; and also to provide firewood for long winter nights when temperatures dipped to thirty degrees below zero and stayed below zero for weeks at a time.

Like haphazard clusters of large-animal burrows, dozens of long-abandoned mines pockmark the scene. From poisoned and sterile earth their entrances ooze orangish-brown alluvial fans. Giant infected tears weep from savaged mountainsides where nothing grows. No natural venting of gold and silver by mini-eruptions here. Here man imprinted his signature on Earth…permanently. He remembers a quote from an American history lesson, Wherever man plunders mountains of their treasure, he also erases their grace and glory, leaves behind only shame and sorrow. Another harsh reality.

When wealth is harvested, why is there no giving, only taking? he wonders. Must it always be so? He shrugs his shoulders, runs his right hand through a shock of unruly hair, reaches into his jacket pocket to make sure he hasn’t forgotten his ticket, and strolls down toward the crowds below.

1. A Chance Encounter

June 21, 2001

1

A natural beacon, it guided pioneer families to a new life in the mountain west, beyond the monotony of America’s great plains. Now, Longs Peak attracts seekers of a different kind. Like worshippers trekking to a hallowed place they come.

* * *

His headlamp illuminates signatures in the trailhead register, and he scans the new page for June 21, 2001. Seven climbers have an earlier start. But the math doesn’t work. He looks back to the parking lot and recounts cars in the moonlight. Yes, there are eleven. Then he realizes Of course, campers have come up the day before. Damn this obsession with numbers. Does it never cease?

With a bold flourish, he signs his name, Hamish Mackenzie. There, he’s joined the ranks of others drawn to this historic mountain seeking…what? Solace? Redemption? A vision of perfection in an imperfect world? Maybe adventure, challenge, and a tiny speck of fame. Perhaps even death. Was a new destiny for each revealed? Then he laughs and shakes his head. You’re too solemn this morning, he chuckles at himself. Lighten up. Most just came to climb the mountain and enjoy its views.

He’s planned a Thursday climb to avoid crowded weekend conditions on Colorado’s most popular Fourteener trail system. More climbers are ahead of him than he expected, but he knows campers will head for the 14,255 ft. summit at dawn, hours before he reaches their campsites. He curses himself again. Why should he care how many climbers precede him? He’s timed his start, not to be first on the summit but to savor sunrise on the mountain’s East Face, a renowned big wall for elite technical climbers only. He won’t even see the peak until he breaches timberline and approaches Chasm Lake trail junction, over two hours into his climb.

He looks closer at the register. Scrawled above his signature is a familiar name…Kelly Reid. Yes, he remembers her, an SEC attorney he talked to several years ago…about the Bonaventure Fund, Denver’s first Ponzi scheme and its boldest white-collar crime ever. She’s only five minutes ahead of him.

He feels good…no, better than that, he feels terrific. An adrenalin surge elevates his spirits, heightens his senses. His hands tremble with excitement, for him a rare emotional indulgence, and he’s supercharged with energy fueled by positive expectations. No anticipatory anxiety this day. No tormenting identity conflicts. Today is his thirty-fifth birthday, and he’s ready, really ready, to interrupt his pursuit of money and pursue a more zestful, more adventuresome life. About damn time.

He’s going to climb his first Fourteener, a bloody tough one. Fifty-five climbers have died here.

Facing him is a long and difficult but non-technical climb into thin air, most of it above timberline. A vertical mile of elevation gain. Fifteen miles round trip. Maybe twelve hours on the mountain. Harder coming down than going up. But he’s fearless in his resolve. No fear of losing his way. No crowds to fear. Raising a mittened hand, he forms a fist of triumph and pumps it at a moonlit sky. Celebrating victory over himself, he rejoices in his brief liberation from the world of money management, that frenzied, soulless world where dollars race from pocket to pocket rather than into productive enterprise. Such an artificial world. One in which he functions to perfection, but also in sensory deprivation and without delight.

Now the natural world beckons. Bravo.

His headlamp casts an inquiring shaft of light at the forest before him, finds and focuses on a wide path that burrows ahead like a tunnel, and invites him to enter the lower mountain’s protective cover. He breathes in deeply, exhales mini-clouds of condensation into frigid mountain air and strides forward with confident, methodical steps. As the forest closes about him, he shivers. At what? Not at the cold. Something’s missing. There are no external sounds. He hears only his breathing. How rare is that?

Impatience soon nags him, but he’s mindful not to burn too much energy too soon. A slow but steady pace is best. Conserve strength, but squander exuberance. Both are possible. Find his natural climbing rhythms and maintain them for as long as he can. Maps and guidebook information are stored in memory. He’s memorized names and locations of places along the way, even programmed in rest stops, with time and elevation goals for each route segment. But, he reminds himself, plans and goals aren’t sacred. Don’t deny impulse. Experiencing adventure may require changing plans and deferring goals. Inflexibility equals opportunity lost. Gotta be more opportunistic. Certainly in my personal life…yeah, right, my nonexistent personal life. Maybe in my professional life too.

* * *

As he approaches timberline, he slows, eases his breathing and glances at his new watch. Its modern technology also displays his geographic location, serves as a compass, and calculates his elevation and distance traveled. Almost time for a break. Less than two hours on the trail, but he’s covered almost three miles and gained over 1,600 feet of elevation. A reasonable pace, but he might not summit until later than guidebooks suggest. They urge climbers to descend by early afternoon, before storms envelop the mountain and lightning bolts use human forms for target practice.

Aerial photo images he’s studied crowd into his mind. A mountain range bisects Rocky Mountain National Park, extending west from the Continental Divide. Unusual for Colorado, where most ranges run north to south. Rising above a crowd of surrounding peaks, a broad truncated summit thrusts upward. Shaped like a giant closed fist, Longs Peak challenges the sky.

Confrontation has consequences.

He knows the sky generally responds in anger, with shrieking winds, torrential rain, freezing sleet, stinging hail, and yes, blinding snow, even in summer. He accepts the weather risk. Ignoring risk is foolhardy. Prudence demands an understanding of risk and planning for it. A summit attempt on the calendar’s longest day just might get him the best results he could expect: a unique scene at sunrise, a difficult summit attained, and a worry-free descent. Will his thirty-fifth… No. He shakes his head and corrects himself, again self-scolding for his obsessive precision with numbers. Can’t leave out my first day on the planet. So…will my thirty-sixth first day of summer mark the first day of a fresh beginning for me?

Most of the mountain’s physical challenge still lies ahead of him, and he has prepared for it by alternating a jogging program with aerobic weight-circuit routines at a neighborhood fitness center. Cross-training, the exercise gurus call it.

For clothing, he’s selected Capilene inner and mid-layer garments, then rain-proof Gore-Tex pants and jacket, all ultra-lightweight, all designed and crafted for climber comfort and efficiency. Covering his head, a bright-red woolen ski cap with earflaps is his small concession to vanity. He wears thick woolen mittens, which he’ll shed for thinner, weather-proof climbing gloves when trails end and rock scrambling begins. For footwear he favors top-of-the line, lightweight boots suitable for any terrain. In a lumbar pack, he carries a new down jacket, also bright-red, and an extra pair of socks.

His food is calorie concentrated: a tin of sardines; an almond butter and honey sandwich on dark rye; four chocolate and almond energy bars with a balance of fat, carbs, and protein; plus a bulging packet of trail mix, his own special blend of walnuts, dried cranberries, and dark chocolate bits. Hydration is another imperative, and he carries 108 ounces of water. He doesn’t follow the current craze for Camelbaks. Suck water through a tube attached to a pouch slung on his back? No way. Tried it once. Water tasted like rubber. Plastic bottles are good enough for him, two in pouches at the sides of his pack and a third inside. A packet of powdered Gatorade provides an electrolyte additive.

* * *

Minutes later, a faint pathway angles off the main trail, announcing he’s arrived at his first stop. No comfortable place to sit, so he remains standing. With dawn breaking and a three-quarter moon hovering low in the western sky, he can see well enough without his headlamp and switches it off.

From a jacket pocket he retrieves his breakfast leftovers, cling-wrapped sodden lumps of oatmeal. Not appetizing but very nutritious. He smiles, remembering stories about ancestral shepherds whose pocketful of oatmeal sustained them through a long day of tending sheep on steep Scottish hillsides. His half-meal is cold, his water colder. He wishes he’d thermosed up with hot tea.

Except for the faint huh-h-h-h…uh-h-h-h of his breathing, silence again envelops him. Rhythmic clack-clacking of his hiking poles on rocky sections of the trail has been the only external sound he’s heard since he closed and locked his car door in the parking lot. But now—there, off to his right in the last grove of stunted pines—a natural sound, lyrical and full of joy. A voice sweeps toward him, as a solo birdsong welcomes the dawn. Other voices join. Soon a warbling chorus greets him. A celebration of being, he thinks. Enjoy the day, must be their message, like my mother said about the robin singing at dawn. Suppressing tears at the memory, he doffs his cap, bows, and claps a muted applause.

Peering through the ghostly garb of first light, he recognizes Jim’s Grove, now closed but once a popular campsite. He nods his head and smiles. Yes, he’s been here before…once. In his senior year at college, he overnighted here, camping tentless under a stormy sky. His first solo mountain expedition ended miserably, when an unexpected September storm dumped five inches of snow on his sleeping bag while he tried to sleep. He shivers at the recollection. His two college chums had declined to join him. Climb a peak? I don’t think so, Fran had said. Just not my thing. Like Fran, Arthur also wasn’t inclined to venture to high places where trees couldn’t grow. Although the three of them have re-bonded as business partners, Fran and Arthur also declined his invitation to join him on this, his second summit attempt. At least they’re consistent, he thinks, chuckling.

Leaving Jim’s Grove, he easily follows the trail, now slanting up a glacial moraine. Birdsong fades behind him, and he shifts his hiking poles, carrying them horizontally so he can relish the high mountain stillness. His eyes remain focused at ground level. Stubborn, wind-twisted krummholz patches give way to alpine tundra whose frosted surfaces glisten, silver-tipped in pale light. Raising his gaze, he watches a pyramidal tip form behind the cresting moraine and appear to pierce the moon. As he moves higher, the tip enlarges as if erupting from the Earth. Diamond shaped, the sheer East Face of Longs Peak rises into view.

Again he slows his pace to more appreciate the scene. Now in full view for the first time, the mountain’s summit seems just a stroll away. But he knows his route will be anything but direct. Soon, he’ll reach a trail junction, where he’ll turn north, veer away from the peak, and then continue on a grueling, encircling route that will take him all the way around the mountain. It’s the only way to access a breach in otherwise impregnable cliffs that gird the citadel and allow summit access only to skilled rock climbers. After the breach and before he reaches the south-facing Homestretch, he’ll have to traverse the west side of the mountain and overcome three arduous challenges: the Ledges, the Trough, and the Narrows, each well known for its defining characteristics, each requiring different scrambling skills, all requiring tolerance for exposure.

Stopping abruptly, he uses a hiking pole to point to the summit. His mind races ahead until he imagines himself up there—there at the top, at the rim of a precipice where Earth ends and the heavens begin, standing at the edge of eternity. From there, he’ll look over the East Face and down to where he presently stands. He’ll see other hikers as tiny moving specks dwarfed into insignificance by an overpowering landscape surrounding them. He wonders, How will I feel in a place where hopes and dreams, Earth and sky meet in a perfect union that joins a man’s longings to nature’s rewards? He remembers a mountaineer’s eulogy to being alone on summits, Like resting in the embrace of heaven. He sighs, knowing exclusive time atop Longs Peak is unlikely.

Where the trail divides a hundred yards ahead, a solitary figure stands without a pack, motionless, and facing west. Kelly Reid? Gotta be. She’s the only solo climber who signed in before me. Seems to be waiting. Also here to see sunrise on the Diamond? Should he acknowledge his shyness and stop, avoid intruding on her privacy, and remain quietly behind? Or should he continue on and join her at what is surely the best view-site on the mountainside? The old Hamish would have stopped. The new Ham decides to continue. So he won’t startle her, he resumes use of his hiking poles, to let their familiar sounds announce his presence.

* * *

Hearing the clack-clack, clack-clack behind her, she turns and scrutinizes the figure approaching her. Her first impression is favorable. A well-prepared and disciplined hiker, she thinks. He shows the right gear, the right pace. She approves of this contrast to casual hikers she sees on the mountain. So many of them show improper footwear, inadequate clothing, insufficient water, and erratic behavior. They court misfortune in an environment that demands caution. That kind of disrespect for place and circumstance offends her. This man’s obvious respect for the mountain pleases her.

On impulse, she waves as he nears, and then feels her face flush as he smiles and waves back. She’s here to savor mountain solitude, but she’s not irritated by his nearing presence. There’s no intrusion. Rather, she thinks she might enjoy some trailside company…and conversation. Why not? Plodding along, standing, waiting, silent, alone—all are conditions she often endures but are foreign to her restless nature.

He speaks first. Kelly? Kelly Reid?

Startled by his use of her name but thinking she recognizes his voice, she responds pleasantly, I’m sorry. Your voice is familiar, but your face isn’t. Do I know you?

By sound, yes. But not by sight. I’m Hamish Mackenzie. Several years ago we exchanged a few phone calls about the Bonaventure Fund.

So, we haven’t met. But how… Bewildered, she shakes her head. …how did you recognize me? Oh, I know. You saw my name in the trail register.

I did, and saw that you were only a few minutes ahead of me.

I remember our conversations. Also your Scottish accent. You seemed then like a person self-directed by curiosity, maybe a person who would read names in trail registers, even in the dark?

Aye. It’s my breeding I guess. Both my parents were curious. We immigrated to Denver when I was five.

She laughs. Why Hamish, that makes us neighbors, almost…at least by heritage. Three years after my mom died, my dad emigrated from Ireland with me in tow. So… She makes a fist and extends a gloved hand. …so welcome, neighbor Mackenzie, to one of the most scenic places in America.

Following her lead, he fists a mittened hand, and they bump fists. Please call me Ham, he says. Hope I’m not intruding.

No Ham, not at all. You’re most welcome. And your timing is exquisite. Let me guess. Like me, you’ve timed your start to see first sunlight on the Diamond?

He nods his head, I have indeed.

Some call it a celestial cleansing moment.

Celestial cleanse? Um hm, I like it. I could probably use that kind of cleanse. You’re insightful. Impressive.

And you’re missing an impressive sight behind you. Sunrise is now more than a promise, but it’s still ten minutes until showtime. Turn around, Ham, and see what’s going on in the east. Me, I’m getting cold standing here chilling in my own sweat. Gotta add a layer. As she walks toward a backpack deposited at the trail junction, she watches him turn and retrace a few steps. Moves well, she thinks.

* * *

He studies the eastern horizon where Colorado’s high plains join the sky. Light filters through pre-sunrise haze, a natural prism that runs the full color spectrum for him to see. So many colors all at once…like a rainbow. How cool is that?

Also feeling a standstill chill after exertion, he unbuckles his pack and replaces his Gore-Tex top with his down jacket. Soon his shoulders will feel intense morning sunshine, Colorado mountain sunshine, a natural Rocky Mountain high. Also inspiration for two of his favorite John Denver ballads. He hums a line to himself.

When he turns back around, he gasps at what he sees and then laughs. Kelly, I don’t believe it.

She finishes zipping up a bright-red down jacket, the spitting image of his. As he surveys hers, she surveys his and laughs. I can’t believe it either. Patagonia?

Of course. A mountain climber’s best friend. My partners call the brand PataGucci. They say I’m a walking commercial.

She shows a mischievous grin. Well, we obviously have similar tastes, but our jackets are not identical. Moving to stand before him, she extends an arm so their sleeves are side by side. Here, look at our colors. They’re not the same. Seeing his brow furrow in confusion, she adds, It’s a gender thing. Most men can’t distinguish minor differences in shades of red. Women can. Through the ages they had to. Women had to recognize stages of ripening berries, know when to harvest them. I’m a darker red…and… She feels her face flush again. …and, oh my God, what am I saying? Then she laughs and presses gloved fingertips against his forehead, Ham, I know what you’re thinking up there, the question you’re too courteous to ask. She sighs, nods her head and whispers, So okay, I’ll answer anyway. Maybe. Maybe I am. She watches a broad smile of understanding spread across his face. An honest face, she thinks. Also the open face of a vulnerable and playful man?

Her blush isn’t lost on him. Both provocative and modest she is, he thinks. Self-confident and unguarded. He laughs and says, Aye, Lass, and you be readin’ my thoughts now? That’s scary.

She laughs again and shrugs her shoulders. So, maybe we are related, more like cousins than neighbors. Sure, that’s it. It’s Celtic cousins we are. C’mon, cousin. Over there. She points to a trailside rock. It’s flat, and it’s broad enough for two. We’ll sit and watch the sun sweep dawn’s cobwebs from the sky, then explode on the East Face and release a primordial, crimson flame that burns down instead of up. She gestures to the top of the mountain. "It’s there at the apex the fire begins. Searing down, it consumes the mountain and forges a thousand vertical feet of rock into a hundred trillion carats of blood diamond. As the fire extinguishes into the snowfield below, the diamond fades to a glowing sheen of burnt sienna. It’s then we’ll close our eyes and feel the source of all that energy warm upon us.

Come. She grabs a mittened hand and leads him to the rock. I’ll be quiet now. And you remain silent…please. No talk. Not until time and light have worked their magic.

Mittened hand still clutched in gloved hand, they sit and watch the mountain’s transformation.

Spellbound by the sight before him…and the handclasp…he’s unaware of the passage of time. His mind shuts down, and, like a pure and primitive organism, he absorbs and processes only sensations of the moment. Just as she described, the metamorphosis of color and light unfolds.

Feeling heat embrace his head and shoulders, he closes his eyes. Then he cheats and raises his lids to stare sideways at his companion. Curiosity, confusion, admiration, and expectation all descend upon him. Other emotions not experienced in a very long time entangle him.

She senses his act of boldness, opens her eyes, and returns his stare. Then she removes her hand from his, gently laughs at him, pokes him playfully in the ribs, and breaks their silence. Come, Ham. We need to go. We must go. Now. She rises and, with a faraway look in her eyes, gestures again to the peak before them.

"We must go up there

Way up there

Where the air is thin and fine and daunting

Clean and fair

And the sky is waiting

Yes waiting, wanting

Perhaps weeping, even wailing

We will go up there

Where everything known is unimportant

And everything unknown is important

New ideas beyond the rare

Uncomposed music soaring

Unpainted scenes exploring

All locked away

In our imaginations hidden

Waiting just for us today

Let’s go up the mountain

To its top

Beyond where mortals aspire

Where nothing seen is higher

Feel its presence Ham

Feel its majesty

Its strength

Its need to draw us to it

Feel it compel us upward

With a power reversing gravity itself

Surely you feel all this

As I do

See how it beckons

No

More

It commands and we must obey

Obey or perish in the attempt

And beyond

On the other side

The dark side of the mountain

From where we cannot yet see

Lurks a devilish opposing force

A tempest

A thunderstorm

A nightmare of all thunderstorms

It threatens

And also waits

Losing patience but gaining strength

Driven by a western wind

Soon to race toward us

Angry and hungry and insatiable

Devouring

With the mountain fighting

Majesty testing

Need denying

Power challenging

Our ascent daring

But it’s the mountain we trust

Confront and overcome the storm we must

Because of what it represents

The fear within us."

Sighing, she turns her head to look down at him. The trancelike, distant gaze flees her features. A smile beams from her sundrenched face as if newborn in sunrise.

Moved by her raw emotions, unbridled to release a rush of words like he’s never experienced before, he looks up and speaks softly, Nice poetry. Wordsworth? Keats?

She smiles wryly. Hardly. Don’t I wish. No, Ham, it’s mine. It’s spontaneous. Uncontrollable, actually. And it’s not very good. I think I must be crazy, because sometimes I’m not even aware of what I’m saying.

Still affected by her exuberance, he rises and grips both her hands. Kelly, I doubt you’re crazy. I think you’re brilliant. You say what I also feel but cannot find the words to say, or perhaps am too inhibited to say.

She laughs, Sorry, Ham, about the outburst. Sometimes it’s the nicer part of my Irish heritage. Generally I climb alone and speak only to earth, rock, and sky. This place at this hour does it to me. It inspires me, as if what I see and feel liberates my soul. More subdued now, her smile turns rueful. And also my mouth—obviously.

That’s okay…Irish, if I may call you that. I admire your inspiration. So, while your inspiration is upon us, driving us—yes, hell yes, let’s climb the mountain. You speak with such passion, such intensity—and with great respect. Also with familiarity. You’ve been here before?

Twice to this junction. But never for a right turn. Both times I turned left, once to hike to Chasm Lake, and again to scale the cliffs beside the Ship’s Prow and gain the Loft. But that’s a story for another time. Now, I hope I didn’t presume too much. Longs Peak summit is your destination, as it is mine?

Aye.

By the Keyhole route? Or are you more venturesome?

The Keyhole route is venturesome enough for me.

Good. For me too. Let’s go. But now, Sir Hamish, I need my hands back.

Whoops. Sorry. He releases her, hesitates, and then continues with a sheepish look. Before we go, one thing you should know. It’s obvious we move at the same uphill pace. But I have a problem. At high elevation I can’t hike and talk at the same time. It’s a breathing thing.

Perfect. No more talk. We’ll each go at our own pace, save our breath for climbing. We’ll need it.

He’s still sheepish. Also, I’ve not done anything like this in a long time. If I fall behind, wait for me at the Boulder Field?

Of course. And if I fall behind, the same?

You’re on. A race for the summit with a guaranteed tie at the finish?

Of course. I like that. She inspects him quizzically. And…I think you must be older than I, so you should go first. It’s a respect for age thing. Lead the way please.

O-h-h kay. Next stop, Granite Pass. To maximize moisture wicking, he removes his down jacket. Then he re-buckles his pack, grabs his poles, turns right, lengthens his stride, and begins the long inclining traverse away from the mountain. Glad I was impulsive, he thinks. Glad she was too. I like her. A lot.

A few feet to the rear, she matches his garment modifications and then follows, matching his stride, breathing evenly. Hope he didn’t think I was too impulsive, too forward with someone I don’t really know. It’s so few words I’ve even let him speak. I’m not sure why, but I do like him. So why not show it?

* * *

At Granite Pass, a broad separation between two of Longs’ subsidiary summits, they still move in lockstep. Hearing labored breathing behind him, he pauses and glances back. Need a break?

U-h-h…no…but…thanks, thanks for asking.

Pace okay?

Ham, your pace is perfect.

Good. Switchbacks are just ahead. They’ll take us to the Boulder Field at about 12,700 feet. We’ll stop there, take on food and water.

Sounds like you’ve done your homework. Studied a few maps and guidebooks?

Obsessively.

This mountain does capture your fancy. I’ve studied it too. Onward and upward, Sir Hamish.

* * *

Both are breathing heavily when they stop to survey the Boulder Field. Grassy tundra ends abruptly. And so does the trail. Only rock remains in front of them, and the biggest, slabbiest boulders he’s ever seen, all jumbled and stacked up on each other at impossible angles, casting grotesque shadows. He frowns at the sight. Like giant jackstraws thrown from the hands of drunken gods, he thinks. Enough big-time talus here to fill 200 soccer fields. Where’d all that come from?

She looks at his face intently and smiles. "You’re…huh-h she pants. You’re…huh-h…looking at the mountain’s detritus. She pauses and takes a deep breath. It’s thought to cover an ancient glacier buried below, a solid sheet of ice a mile long and hundreds of feet thick."

He shakes his head. You reading my thoughts again?

Just watching the direction of your eyes and the expression on your face.

Kelly, you’re scary. I’ll have to be careful not to telegraph all my thoughts. He takes a step forward so she can’t see his face. In the center of the Boulder Field, he identifies stone bunkers surrounding several campsites and, nearby, two odd-looking outbuildings. No, only half-buildings; they’re missing their upper half. You’re s-o-o-bloody clairvoyant when you can see my face. Now that you can’t, tell me what I’m thinking.

Okay, that’s easy. You’re wondering what those buildings are. They’re privies, solar-powered compost toilets, like the one beyond Chasm Lake junction, which you probably didn’t see. When in the structures, you’re visible from the waist up—to nature and to fellow travelers. Several thousand people pass through the Boulder Field every year. Without privies, the National Park Service would have to deal with dung piles that’d make production from a herd of dinosaurs look impoverished.

He can’t help laughing. That’s a lot of dung.

She nods her head. Also the price of popularity. An unpleasant consequence of making wilderness accessible to the masses.

And just the right conversation to precede a snack. I need some calories; how about you?

It’s time.

* * *

Their talus-hopping route through the Boulder Field is tortuous and time-consuming, requiring impeccable mind-to-body coordination. Cairns are everywhere, often providing guidance more confusing than helpful. To their left, the North Face of Longs Peak is a steep and inhospitable ramp of canted rocky slabs, stone faces, and crooked ledges. Again they veer away from their final destination, turn right, and move toward a notch-like breach in a long, uninterrupted rock wall descending northwest from the peak. The Keyhole provides the only simple access to the mountain’s western side.

Gradually the small notch and a tiny conical stone hut beside it grow larger. Strong breezes channel from the west and sweep down upon them. The upslope gradient steepens dramatically. Boulders grow larger, more grotesque, more difficult to navigate. Their long walk is over. A serious climb begins. Forward progress now demands use of both hands as well as both feet, plus an occasional butt. Hiking poles are now more a hindrance than help. He drops his, and she does the same. They both don Gore-Tex jackets. Her breathing now labored, she lags behind. Pausing to wait for her, he exchanges mittens for climbing gloves.

Together they scramble through the Keyhole…and into a different world.

When they transition from east to west, they gain the shadowed side of the mountain. Longs Peak draws a curtain and dismisses cordiality. Sunlight disappears and the mountain’s ambience turns uninviting. Air temperature plunges. West winds pummel them at gale force. His unzipped jacket gathers big air, inflates around him, and sails out behind him, flapping and chattering. Fighting to maintain balance, he recaptures his jacket, zips it securely, and wrestles its hood around his head and cap.

Panting, she holds up a hand, palm outward. He stops and looks about. The talus jumble continues west, sloping away at a fearsome angle, down the mountainside and into a couloir far below. Flat rock-tops are scarce. None is big enough for two. Each of them claims a separate perch. He’s uncomfortable. To him, she appears even more so. He surveys the route ahead, which traverses south along the top of the jumble. No other climbers are visible. She turns to him with a questioning look and points at the traverse.

Yeah, that’s it, he shouts.

But…I don’t see anyone, she shouts back.

To make his voice better heard, he cups his hands around his mouth and replies, It’s a short break in the summit stampede. We’re behind serious climbers but ahead of tourists. Then, alarmed, he watches the figure before him change as if conforming to the new, hostile mood of the mountain. Color drains from her face, and her head drops. Abruptly she crumples and then slumps into a defeated position, arms across her chest, hands clasping her elbows. She’s trembling, rocking back and forth. Her face becomes drawn and detached. Her eyes turn lifeless and unfocused. Her eyelids droop.

Bloody hell, he wonders. What’s going on? Kelly, he calls out. Kelly? She doesn’t answer. He stands, moves closer, then squats beside her, reaches an arm around her shoulders, and squeezes. He bends his head until their cheeks are nearly touching. Kelly, talk to me.

Uh-h…s-s-s-sorry, Ham, she stammers.

You okay? What a stupid question.

N-n-no…I’m in trouble…c-can’t catch my breath…c-can’t talk straight…c-can’t think clearly. And…my jaw…it feels like…like it’s frozen shut.

Do we go on…or rest? A really stupid question.

Rest, I think…yes…rest. Sorry, Ham. She pauses and takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly before she continues. Let’s rest…just for a while. I need time…time to adjust. I’m feeling…uh-h hostility I think…not from the mountain…from something confronting the mountain…and us. Uh-h…my mind needs to wrap around what’s ahead and…my body needs to catch up to our elevation.

Hearing her voice strengthen and seeing her face regain some color, his anxiety eases. He rises and grips her by an elbow. First, we have to get out of this bloody wind…before we both get chilled. He gestures behind them. We’ll go back through the Keyhole, rest beside the hut, warm up in the sun, rehydrate, eat something. And no talking. Let your mind relax too. We’re six miles in and above 13,000 feet. We both need recovery time.

* * *

They bask in leeside sunshine until her trembling stops. She still appears drawn and shaken, but manages a wan smile. Sir Hamish, you’re an uphill machine. I couldn’t keep up and was too proud to admit it. You climb like a mountain goat.

Breeding again. Scottish highlander stock. You feeling better?

Not really. With a saddened, confused expression on her face, she continues, No more for me today. Same thing’s happened before. It’s why I climb alone. So I don’t mess up someone else’s day. Last summer I really freaked out. Tried to descend down off the Loft into a steep gully…also on the west side of the mountain. Couldn’t deal with it. She shakes her head. Exposure spooks me. Gives me the trembles. And, maybe it’s also a blood sugar problem. She grimaces and shrugs her shoulders. Or maybe it’s an elevation thing, and too much lactic acid build-up in the muscles. My legs just don’t work right…and I don’t work right…up here. She bats at her head. And when I can’t think straight, that terrifies me. It’s what I call the fear within us. Resting doesn’t help. I’m so sorry, Ham, but I need to turn back.

He extends a hand to her forearm. I think I understand. I also have debilitating fears…of flying, of crowds. I know confronting fear isn’t always the solution. I’m a Xanax junky for twenty-four hours before any flight departure. Can you take anything that’ll help?

Glumly, she shakes her head.

Not even chocolate? I’ve got lots.

She laughs. No, not even chocolate. I was really juiced to climb this mountain, and now…well, I feel betrayed when my body—and my mind—won’t cooperate. You go on, summit for both of us.

I don’t think so. If you’re altitude sick it could be serious.

Not if I descend promptly. Really, Ham, I’ll be fine going down. You keep going.

He shakes his head. No way. It…well, it wouldn’t be the same for me. His hand clasps hers. Come. I insist. We’ll descend together. There’ll be another day…for both of us.

* * *

A storm-free afternoon graces their long hike down the mountain, and a contemplative silence envelops them. Maintaining pace and balance on tired legs requires intense concentration, and both submit to the ritualistic rhythms of safe descent. Autopilot takes over. Neither speaks.

* * *

It’s mid-afternoon when they part at the trailhead. Kelly,…may I…may I call you? he asks, hesitation in his voice.

Her expression is listless, laced with fatigue, her voice subdued. Yes, Ham. I’d like that. Call me at the SEC office or at home. I’m in the book. In an absent manner born of habit, she reaches up and uses fingers of both hands to smooth her tousled hair.

Entranced, he watches a golden aura stream from strands of auburn hair backlit against the western sky. His uncertainty eases, and he feels more confident. And, may I also get you a special gift?

Animation returns to her face. "Ham, no need for that. And no need to ask. Of course. Sounds like a surprise. I love surprises. But why?’

Because I want to thank you, thank you properly.

Why, Sir Hamish. It’s I who should thank you—for being so considerate. You thank me? For what?

For today, for your company. No, more like for your companionship; for introducing me to this mountain in such a personal way; and for something else.

She gives him a questioning look. What’s that?