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feet we paused on a stretch of pink glacier snow and discussed whether we should proceed. Thunder rolled on the other side of the valley. The storm patterns were four to five miles on either side of us. This valley seemed to be spared from rain and storm. We proceeded.
    We reached the 13,000-foot ridge. Preparing for the final ascent we paused again, lingering over lunch. With growing anxiety we seriously considered whether to proceed. The weather cleared and on we went, taking a deliberate breath with each step, hand holding the rocks we scrambled upon.
    At 14,000 feet we were within 50 yards of the top. The rarefied air twists your perceptions. Colors were more intense, and a sense of otherworldliness washed over me in gentle waves. Looking down it was easily noted that we were very, very high. On a small outcrop of exposed rock, all five of us regrouped. Ann was putting on warmer clothes and taking pictures. Sandy was catching her breath. Tom was gazing longingly toward the summit. Melanie seemed intent on completing the hair-raising final 50 yards. And I was gazing down, down, down to the pinprick buildings I knew were towns, far below. I was thinking: “Now. Right now there are people down there enjoying a beer.” We all had our priorities. Life is about priorities, and given certain circumstances we are intensely reminded of them.
    We were all brought back together in discussion as the wind picked up, the sun disappeared and it began to ominously snow in July. There was a clap of thunder somewhere in the distance.
    Suddenly we reached consensus. None of us wanted to be there. We were booking ourselves out of there. I mean scooting, vaminosing, fleeing. Tom did so reluctantly, frequently looking back over his shoulder. This was his fourth unsuccessful attempt at conquering Wilson Peak. Rain, snow and wind had defeated him on three previous tries. Under his breath he was cursing repeatedly, “F———you, Wilson Peak.” He was visibly pissed.
    All of us wanted to get back down, but Melanie and Tom wanted to get down faster than the rest of us. They began descending an avalanche chute. The rest of us followed, but some yards down as rock scree cascaded down the mountain with every disturbing step I heartily embraced Annie’s wisdom: “This was the stupidest thing we’ve tried all day.” Three of us opted to go back and descend the way we’d come and help assure ourselves that we’d live tohave another beer and try another time. Life is full of choices, and this choice was easy for me.
    We all made it down. At the bottom of the valley we learned Tom was overcome with anger and stubbornness at the high altitude. He couldn’t take defeat a fourth time. Incredibly, he had decided to go back up and made it to the top. He told us later, his face still a bit ashen from the experience, “The rocks began humming like a beehive, but there were no bees.” Strangely, his hair had stood on end from the building electrical charge the mountain and atmosphere could have released at any moment. He’d fallen flatly onto the ground, crawling and scraping his belly as he slowly slithered from the top of the mountain. He was quite certain he was about to die. He was very, very lucky, and it wasn’t because he had finally conquered Wilson Peak.
    On the mountain we each had our own priorities. Now that we were off the mountain, those priorities changed. We all headed straight for the San Juan Brewery. I think Ann chose the golden ale, as did Tom and Melanie. Sandy may have had the red. I was ready for my first beer of a long day. I was tired, dehydrated and very thirsty. It was a tall glass of India pale ale, alongside a tall glass of water. I alternated between the two and savored every wonderful nuance of what seemed to be the best beer I’d ever had in my life. A part of me savored my glass of water. But the rest of me—the conscious, living me—gleefully