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and
hiking boots, he was experienced enough always to be completely prepared. In
his daypack he carried a simple but appropriate hiker's first-aid kit—a bottle
of water, along with a filtering pump that would allow him to take water from
mountain springs, power bars and a banana for energy, and a gigantic tuna fish sandwich.
He also never climbed without a signal mirror, compass, and topographical map
that he certainly didn't need but was never without. As an Eagle Scout, he
never forgot the axiom "Be prepared."
    McCarthy was a young man exacting
in all things, and it was this quality of exactness that allowed him to seem to
others to be a completely free spirit. His father had always said preparation
and perspiration allow for expectation and inspiration. McCarthy believed that
was true, so additionally, his clothing consisted of a heavy woolen cap that
could be pulled down over his ears, a woolen scarf his mother gave him that
seemed a little effeminate but that he secretly loved, a long-sleeved shirt
that could be covered by a down vest, and a Gore-Tex windproof jacket. He also
carried long underwear that could fit under his shorts and heavy Gore-Tex pants
with plenty of pocket space. Two pairs of gloves, extra socks, a flashlight,
whistle, and ice axe completed his equipment.
    As he checked over his stuff one
more time, he read the history of these great peaks on a large plaque at the
base of the ascent. The Maroon Bells were so named because of their pyramidlike
shape and astounding native maroon color that changed to fire red when
emblazoned by the sun.
    Mountain historians Lampert and
Borneman referred to the
    Bells as red, rugged, and rotten
because of the unpredictability of their sedimentary surfaces. The history went
on to say that North Maroon Peak was the fiftieth highest of the fifty-four
Colorado peaks, measuring 14,014 feet.
    He was surprised to read that the
mountains were sometimes called "The Deadly Bells" because more than
on any other Colorado peaks, unprepared climbers lost their lives. The complexity
of the tree roots and the rock often spelled disaster. In 1965, for example,
six climbers ascended the Bells and never came down.
    The Haden and Wheeler surveys in
the mid-1890s first mapped the Bells, and the first documented ascent had been
completed in 1908.
    So, here was Brenden, a century
later, feeling like the luckiest young guy in the world as he began to climb.
The route for his ascent was based around a series of ledges that measured
eight to ten feet in height. Brenden always thought of this particular climb as
being like ascending the Washington Monument or maybe the Lincoln Memorial.
There were literally hundreds of these steps, and he was forced to snake his
way up them very much in the way one might ski down one of the sister slopes of
Aspen.
    As he moved laterally back and
forth across the mountain, he kept his eyes down in search of stone
cairns—piles of rock left by other climbers indicating the places where he
could scramble up to the top of the next ledge.
    Brenden's climb began from the
campground at 9,600 feet, moving southwest along a well-beaten hiking path and
skirting
    Maroon Lake. He continued for about
a mile and a half before he stopped and caught his breath at the beauty of
Crater Lake, a volcanic crater filled with water as pristine as anyone had ever
seen.
    Then came a half-mile climb up the
steep Minnehaha Trail that forced even this very physically fit young man to
take deep breaths as he exerted his will on the mountain. Arriving at the top
of the trail, he looked back and saw the last of the campgrounds at Buckskin
Pass.
    Then, turning south and fording a
small creek, Brenden began the main part of the climb up a prominent gully that
reached to what looked to him like a round island of rock surrounded by green,
thickly layered mountain meadow grasses. Then it was time to cross the Ancient
Glacier, being oh so careful of loose rock, until he reached the northeast