I thought the drive might kill me; instead, it brought me back to life.

No guardrails. No plan. Just me, the mountain, and the fire I thought had gone out.

My hands were so shaky I could barely grip the wheel. My palms covered with sweat. My fingers, trembling.

I started to hyperventilate, only I wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety, or just the altitude. I was approaching 14,000 feet.

My head hurt, and my heart was racing. My stomach felt like it’d just been dropped into a bottomless pit.

If I looked at the road in front of me, I was alright. I knew where the road was leading… and I knew if I simply followed it, I would arrive safely.

But I also knew that if I veered even half a foot off the side of the road, I would plummet to a very fiery death.

And that wasn’t a day I felt like dying on.

Just another road trip…

Earlier this Spring, I took a road trip from eastern Colorado, through parts of New Mexico and North Texas, on my way home to the West Texas town of Lubbock.

I had a grand adventure! What would normally be an 8-hour drive, I split into 3 days of fun, exploration, and freedom.

I saw the original office of the real Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, in Colorado Springs…

The site of the Ludlow Massacre near Trinidad…

Miles of beautiful plains, valleys, and mountains…

The Route 66 “halfway point” (which, in one more generation, might not mean anything anymore)…

But the unmistakable highlight of that trip was my drive to the top of Pikes Peak Mountain.

The mountain that wasn’t on my list

I drove 20 miles up scary mountain roads, with sharp turns and narrow shoulders, and the very real threat that one small twist of the wheel in the wrong direction could send me to an early grave…

And it wasn’t even on my To Do list.

I hadn’t planned on driving to the top of Pikes Peak when I left my brother’s house in Elizabeth. Heck, I wasn’t planning on it when I paid the $10 entrance fee at the base of the mountain.

I wasn’t even planning on seeing Pikes Peak! I just wanted a photo of their “Bigfoot Crossing” sign so I could post it on Facebook, and make myself look fun and adventurous.

There were other roadside attractions I really wanted to see — and if I took the time to drive all the way to the summit, I’d have to cross some of those things off my list.

And I was on a mission to see all that I could.

My plan — my intent — was to take that picture, then turn around and drive to Cripple Creek to tour their historic 19th Century whorehouse. (I am a Sailor, after all, and we do love whorehouses.)

But something grabbed me as I drove into Pike National Forest. The forest was so quiet, and peaceful… and majestic. I actually got out of the car before I even got to the Bigfoot sign, just to take a picture of the scenery at ground level.

The Bigfoot sign is only about 3 miles from the entrance, so it didn’t take long to find it and take the photo.

I could’ve left at that point, but something called me onward.

Everything in me said turn back

I didn’t want to go “all the way to the top,” but I thought, as long as I’m here… it might be nice to drive a few more miles, and just take in a bit more of this scenery before I get back on the highway.

I drove a couple miles, until I got to the first official rest stop. Their gift shop was closed, so I couldn’t go in and buy any souvenirs or anything. Fortunately their campsite bathrooms were open (and surprisingly clean).

It was only a few miles beyond the Bigfoot sign, but I’d pulled over another 5 or 6 times already to take more pictures, or just to stop for a minute and look at it all, and just soak it in.

It felt so damn good to be away from everything, on a quiet mountain road, in almost complete silence, just looking at the horizon and wondering how many people have been on that same road since it was built? How many people have climbed Pikes Peak? How many people went up the mountain, before there even was a road to drive up?

And despite my desire to get on with the road trip and see more sights, I was really enthralled in the mountain, and in the slow, meandering journey I was on; not to the summit, still — but at least, to the next shoulder.

I kept pulling over at every chance, for the next few miles, and trying to take as many pictures as I could.

I got to the official gift shop and restaurant, which I think must’ve been right around the halfway point? But I’m not really sure. Anyway, I asked another traveler to take my picture in front of the gift shop, to prove I’d made it that far… and then I went inside and bought a souvenir, and a soda… and decided I’d better get going now, or I’ll never make it to Cripple Creek.

I was done with Pikes Peak. I’d already driven further than I wanted to, and time was running out. Plus, I really hate mountain roads, and I’m terrified of heights, and I really hate the idea of accidentally driving off the side of a scary mountain road…

I got back in that rental car, and I almost called it quits.

The whorehouse was still on my mind, and I was running out of time. I got out my phone and pulled up their website to check how late they’re open — and found out they were closed for the season. They wouldn’t reopen until after the date I had to be back in Lubbock to renew my lease.

So Cripple Creek was off the list.

And suddenly… I had hours added to my available time. Enough hours to do something different, to be spontaneous, to be brave, to face the mountain road that was already giving me a panic attack — and to come down the mountain, a victor, a conqueror - a hero.

So I queued up my ’80s playlist on Pandora, started the car, and decided to go just a little further.

Not all the way. Just far enough to say I tried.

No turning back now

I still wasn’t gonna go all the way to the top. That road really did scare me.

And I wasn’t 100% sure I could handle another 10 miles or so of sharp, scary turns, and no more than 6-inch shoulders (not to mention, zero guardrails… so there’s literally nothing to prevent you from going over the side if you accidentally take your eyes off the road for too long…)

I started up the second half of the mountain, questioning my sanity and my decision-making ability. But also feeling fascinated by everything I’d already seen.

In the past, I never would’ve started up that final stretch. Heck, I never would’ve driven beyond the Bigfoot Crossing sign.

I would’ve believed that I’m not even the kind of person who can be spontaneous, and who can just change my mind like that and do something new, “just because.”

I would’ve believed I don’t deserve to do what I want… that I haven’t earned the privilege to give myself that much freedom.

I could go on. But this isn’t a story about me being afraid. Nor is it about me holding back.

This is a story about me recognizing that the thing I wanted to do most in that moment, was a thing that, realistically, had the potential to kill me! And I chose to do it, anyway.

I chose, not simply to face my fear, but to challenge it. To play chicken, and to find out once and for all, who will be the first to flinch — me, or my fear.

As I continued to drive up the mountain road, a new determination came over me.

My palms were sweating so profusely, I had to seriously slow down in every curve, so I could have sufficient time to grip the steering wheel, and guide the car safely.

Thoughts raced through my mind of, “What would happen, though, if the front passenger tire was to slip off the shoulder? Could I stop the car, put it in reverse, and get back on the road? Or would I just die? Would one tiny mistake on my part be my undoing?”

I started to hyperventilate, and I got a headache and an upset stomach.

My anxiety spiked. My head hurt. I could feel the panic rising up, and wanting to take over…

And rather than let it win, I started to slow my breathing…

I relaxed my grip on the wheel…

I cleared my mind as best as I could…

And I fixed both eyes on the road directly in front of me, and tried my hardest to ignore my peripheral vision (which was attempting to calculate how high above sea level I must be by now, and seriously freaking me out!)…

Every second mattered. There were no more pull-offs anywhere along the shoulder. There was no shoulder. There was no way to back down, to stop, turn the car around, and get out of these horrible, frightening circumstances.

I had to keep it together.

There was nobody else who could come and finish the drive for me. It was just me, and the road. I had no other choice now; I had to get myself all the way to the summit.

I rose above the darkness

This is the part where, if I was telling you this story in person, you’d lean in and ask, “What happened next, Uncle? Did you make it?”

And I’d sit back, and do my best Han Solo (or maybe Jack Burton, if that’s your thing). And I’d smile. All toothy like. And I’d look you dead in the eye, and I’d say,

“Lemme tell you what happened on that mountain…”

And I’d wait until I knew I had your full attention, and then I’d go on:

“It all started out as just another drive,” I’d say. “Another plain old road trip...”

The day started with me picking up the rental car in Castle Rock, and getting that sweet ride out on the open road. There were a few sights I wanted to see between there, and Colorado Springs. Nothing extraordinary, just your usual garden variety roadside attractions.

I did stop at a vintage record store that claims to be the original home office of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, and that was really far out, man…

But it wasn’t nothing compared to what awaited me on that mountain.

That drive was the ultimate expression of my freedom; of my longing for adventure; of my true, burning desire to live! To feel fully alive.

It was a symbol of my independence. My grit. My decision to take back everything life had tried to strip away.

My rugged determination to grab life by the horns, and never let go.

That drive was me reclaiming my life… my values… my priorities… my passions… my dreams… my integrity… my self-respect.

It was me, recognizing that this thing before me — this ginormous mountain, blocking my path — is truly a once-in-a-lifetime, now-or-never opportunity, for me to show myself my limits, my capabilities, and my true character.

It was an unplanned, unscripted, unexpected chance for me to find out exactly what I’m truly made of.

I came alive on that mountain road.

I became a version of me that I didn’t know was even there, anymore.

I found my sense of adventure… of wonder, and awe…

I found my willingness to make decisions, and to follow through — even in the face of danger! Even in the face of possible death.

I found the resolve to fully pursue my dreams, and my destiny.

And I haven’t been the same, since.

That mountain road gave me the courage to stare death in the face, and to trust myself to prevail.

For 48 years, fear, anxiety, confusion, uncertainty, overwhelm, hopelessness, and despair, have felt like constant companions. Like they’re in charge of my life. Like they’re calling the shots, and I’m only here to witness all the ways they can wreak havoc in my life.

On that mountain road, for the first time ever, I rose above the darkness that’s been slowly destroying me.

I showed myself that I am bigger than all the things I’m afraid of… all the things that keep holding me back.

I found my warrior’s spirit. The same one I thought had died in 2003, when the Iraq War started, and I thought I deserved to perish. I brought that spirit back from the dead, and back down the mountain road, and have since made it a permanent part, again, of who I really am.

That drive wasn’t a detour. It was a resurrection.

I view myself differently now, after making that dangerous drive.

I look at my mental and emotional health differently.

I still have anxiety. I still have PTSD. I still have so many things I’m afraid of. Like most people, I probably always will be afraid of some things.

But now I have something else:

I have the ability, in any moment, in any scenario, to tap into my warrior spirit, and to immediately rise above the darkness, and see the path I need to follow, to continue to find my way out.

Not to conquer it. It’s not mine to conquer.

Not to overcome it. None of us truly ever can.

Not to dispel it. Darkness always returns, whether we think it will, or not. It’s like a permanent fixture in this world. We can’t get away from it, and I don’t think we should even try, honestly.

I have the ability, quite simply, to just rise above it. To step outside of it, and to refuse to allow it to control me, or to pull me under.

The darkness is always there, waiting for any one of us to give in. And it can be so easy to give in, when darkness is all you’ve known.

But now, I know more. Now, I know better.

That mountain road taught me this essential truth: that I am not the darkness, and the darkness is not me. It’s something that exists outside of me, separate from me. Separate from each one of us.

It can affect me. It can influence any one of us. It can shape our actions, our thoughts, our decisions. It can blindside us, and take over our emotions, and make us do crazy, stupid, irrational things… things that no sane person should ever do.

And it’s not ever going to go away. We couldn’t enjoy mortality, if it didn’t include light and dark; good and evil; right and wrong. We need the duality. We need to experience both ends of the spectrum, so that we can choose for ourselves, which one we want to follow. Which one we want to nurture. Which one we want to feed.

I’ll never go through one day of my life, where the darkness is not watching me, and waiting for just the right moment to suck me in. And sometimes, I do get sucked in.

Sometimes, we can all get sucked in.

But that mountain road taught me that I can also pull myself out. And now that I know that, I’m not so afraid of the dark, anymore. Because, while it can knock me down…

That mountain road taught me, it can’t keep me down, when I don’t want to be there.

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When You’re Scared, But You Know It’s Time to Move

You don’t have to feel ready. You don’t have to be confident. You just have to be willing to take the next step.

Here’s how to meet the fear… and keep driving forward.

1. Name What You’re Afraid Of

Don’t spiritualize it. Don’t sugarcoat it. Don’t make it noble. Get raw. Be specific.

What exactly are you afraid might happen if you keep going?

“I’m scared that…”
“I don’t trust myself to…”
“The worst-case scenario I keep imagining is…”

Fear doesn’t lose power when you deny it. It loses power when you name it.

2. Get Honest About the Cost of Stopping

What does it really cost you to turn around? To stay stuck? To keep living in fear?

What part of you stays buried if you don’t move forward?
What dream dies a little more each day you wait?
What would your future self thank you for doing right now?

Don’t just weigh the danger of going on. Weigh the pain of staying where you are.

3. Choose Your Line of Sight

Sometimes, survival depends on where our eyes are fixed. You can’t look down. You can’t look too far ahead. You have to stay present — locked into what’s right in front of you.

What’s the next 10 feet of your path?
What one small thing can you focus on, breathe through, and guide yourself through, right now?

Don’t stare into the abyss. Fix your eyes on the road.

4. Breathe Like It Matters (Because It Does)

When panic hits, your nervous system doesn’t need a lecture.

It needs air. It needs rhythm. It needs gentleness.

Try a 4-7-8 pattern:
Inhale for 4 seconds.
Hold for 7.
Exhale for 8.
Repeat 3 times.

You may not be able to stop the fear — but you can stop it from driving the car.

5. Claim the Fire You Thought Was Gone

This isn’t about “pushing through.” This is about remembering who you are — even if your hands are shaking.

When was the last time you felt strong, brave, or free?
What truth did that version of you believe?
What part of that fire is still in you now?

Fear doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means the moment matters.

And the fact that you’re still reading? That’s proof you haven’t given up yet.

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Self-Reflection: What’s the Road You’re Still Avoiding?

This isn’t about conquering your fear. It’s about getting honest about what it costs to keep turning around.

Take your time. Be real. No one’s grading this.

1. What’s the “mountain road” in your life right now — the thing that calls to you, but terrifies you?

(A decision, a conversation, a dream, a truth you haven’t acted on?)

2. What fear or belief has been keeping you from taking that next step?

(Is it fear of failure? Shame? The belief that you don’t deserve to want this?)

3. If you keep putting this off… what part of you stays buried?

(What part of your voice, your freedom, your calling goes unused?)

4. What would it look like to take just one step forward — even if your hands are shaking?

(No heroics. Just a real, human move. A call, a breath, a boundary, a try.)

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Final thought

What’s your mountain road?

Maybe it wasn’t 14,000 feet. Maybe it was a hospital room… a courtroom… a breakup… a diagnosis… a quiet night where you finally told the truth.

If you’ve ever kept going when everything in you wanted to turn back…

If you’ve ever felt the panic rise, and chose to breathe anyway…

If you’ve ever faced the darkness, and found even one small reason to keep driving forward…

I hope you’ll share it with somebody. You don’t have to tell it perfectly. You don’t have to tie it up in a bow. Just let it be real.

Because sometimes the bravest thing we can do, is name the road we thought we wouldn’t survive — and then whisper to someone else,

“I made it. You can too.”