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by Martinique Davis

From its onset, the day hadn't intended to become the crest of life's wobbly teeter-totter. Rather, the early autumn morning seemed a reluctant passenger on fate's impartial ride, climbing aboard grudgingly to await the tipping point looming ahead.

It was early autumn in Southwest Colorado, and with its clear skies and crisp air, the day emerged as a perfect specimen of late summer's gentle tumble into winter. It was the kind of day that instills a nagging sensation in the souls of outdoors-lovers, whose internal timepieces follow the sine curve of the seasons.

Telluride local James Colt, 55, could hear the tic-tock of summer's clock steadily marching toward the short and cold days ahead, when skiing would replace climbing and biking. He knew it would be many months before his calloused fingers would again find solace against the raw sturdiness of rock, so he loaded his climbing gear into a friend's car and they steered toward Ophir's Cracked Canyon, a scenic 20 minute drive from Colt's home in downtown Telluride.

This day of late-season climbing wasn't meant to be epic; having climbed at Crack Canyon dozens of times before, the routes for the day fit rather snugly into Colt's repertoire of standard climbs. Yet by nightfall on Oct. 1, 2006, the many seemingly insignificant strands of this "ordinary" day of climbing had been compressed into the rigid tightrope upon which Colt's existence was balanced.

Colt cannot remember what he thought in the instant he heard the rumbling thud of rock vaulting down the wall above where he stood, or what he felt when the 25-pound missile bashed into his head.

It was only later, lying motionless but conscious in a hospital bed in Grand Junction's St. Mary's Hospital, that the fragmented pieces of the accident slowly materialized alongside reports from his climbing partners and members of San Miguel County's Search and Rescue Team, who evacuated Colt off the high scree field where he had been stranded by the injury.

The rock had careened downward indiscriminately, shearing away Colt's climbing helmet when it slammed into the left side of his head. Eight pieces of bone lay in a haphazard jumble inside the hole in his skull, which was as large as an inverted wineglass. The impact also broke a bone in his upper cervical spine, where the fragile filaments of his spinal cord lay perilously close to sustaining irreparable damage. Yet, all things considered, Colt was lucky to be alive.

In the weeks that followed, doctors couldn't deliver a timeline delineating when Colt could again settle into a bike saddle or click into a pair of skis; in fact, they made few guarantees that his life as an outdoorsman would ever be restored. Yet Colt was determined to someday set his assaulted body free upon the slopes and trails. He zeroed in on that future day when he would be out of the hospital, and could again feel the freedom and thrill of riding a bike, or rushing down a snow-covered slope, or climbing a mountain.

Colt sunk his teeth into his physical rehabilitation. Yet his journey toward recovery would soon take another daredevil twist, this time pushing the limits of not only his physical but also his psychological strengths. After losing one of his life's passions - his physical freedom to roam the outdoors - Colt then lost his life's most cherished love: his wife.

A Rocky Road to Recovery

Leslie, Colt's wife of 37 years, had been diagnosed with cancer in 2006 but had finished her final series of chemotherapy treatments just weeks before Colt's injury and had been given a clean bill of health. In the days and weeks following Colt's accident, the once-dormant disease in his wife's body flickered, and soon flared, back into life.

Leslie Colt, mother of Summer and Jonathan, died of cervical cancer on October 25, 2006, 25 days after her husband nearly lost his life on a scree field outside of Ophir.

More than a year-and-a-half since James Colt's brush with death and dance with quadraplegia, the physical byproducts of the accident are still clearly discernible. The lingering effects of his traumatic brain injury are manifest in the labored manner he must drag his right foot to walk, or how his signature is nearly unrecognizable, even to him.

While his cognizant mind has remained mostly unscathed, his brain simply isn't communicating effectively with the right side of his body. He is able to live on his own without assistance, but even the smallest tasks - making breakfast, tying his shoes, or writing a check - are painfully slow and labored.

And while the heavy weight of his broken body acts as a constant, burdensome reminder of the life-shattering accident that ricocheted his way more than 18 months ago, it's been the emotional wounds sustained during that onerous October that have proven the most difficult to overcome. The loss of his wife, compounded with the loss of the bodily freedom he once took for granted, is, at times, almost unbearable.

"She was dying of cancer, but she was by my side in the ICU," Colt remembers of the first days after his accident, before he or Leslie knew the cancer had made a comeback. It is difficult for him to continue, tears welling in his eyes as his voice catches in his throat. "I had no vague thought that she was going to die," he manages before the memory releases a new flood of grief borne from the breach of an old scar.

Family friend Carrie Koenig describes the Colts as a couple tightly bound by both their love for each other as well as their shared adoration of the outdoors. She met James, Leslie, and their adult daughter, Summer, during an open-climb session at the climbing wall in Telluride over three years ago.

"I was impressed by all the things they did together as a family - skiing, climbing, mountain biking . . . that is what drew me to them," she says, explaining that James soon became her climbing mentor. "I was just learning, and James was the perfect teacher because he knew what to be picky about. I always felt comfortable with my life in his hands."

James and Leslie met in Aspen nearly 40 years ago, where they connected over bike rides in the summer and powder turns in the winter. When Aspen became too expensive of a home for their burgeoning family, the Colts relocated to Maui, where James worked as a general contractor for 16 years. With both of their children grown and the mountains beckoning, James and Leslie moved back to Colorado five years ago, settling in Telluride.

The Colts became regulars on the trails around Telluride, cycling and skiing together with the frequency of people passionate about the outdoor world. When Leslie was sidelined by chemotherapy treatments, her husband continued to carry the torch of their shared love for sports.

Today, Colt has again vowed to pick up the pieces of his life scattered by sickness and injury. Although he is disabled, Colt has returned to the bike trails and ski slopes around Telluride, in an effort to both rehabilitate his tattered body but also to bring some relief to the shredded strands of his heart.

"Leslie was a very physical person too," Colt shares. "My recovery is not just for me, but also for my wife."

A Cathartic Homecoming

Skiing, cycling, and climbing were the threads that once bound together the many facets of Colt's life. Those escapes into the natural world served as his daily dose of open-air religion, his regular exodus into the outdoors as customary a part of his existence as eating or breathing. To imagine life without them was challenging; yet to imagine life without his partner - the person who, for four decades, helped weave that thread of the outdoors into their shared lives - was nearly debilitating.

Upon his return home to Telluride after the accident, following six weeks spent at St. Mary's Hospital then two months spent in rehabilitation in Grand Junction, Colt concluded that while he could never again return to the life that existed before his accident and the subsequent death of his wife, he could at least try to recapture some small piece of his past.

Against the recommendations of some of his more conservative doctors, Colt began cycling again only eight months after his injury. His three-wheel recumbent bike, which was custom-made in Germany by the HP-Vilotech company, was designed with his special needs in mind: all shifting, breaking, and steering on the 27-speed, rear-suspension bicycle is done from the left side, where Colt has normal strength and motor skills.

"It is the one thing that has truly empowered me," Colt says of returning to the sport after his injury. "It has been a big deal for me to have the ability to move through space, and not need to be helped by someone else."

Throughout last summer, Colt used his newfound freedom on the bicycle as his main form of physical rehabilitation. He rode four to five days each week, and set a lofty end-of-season cycling goal, even by able-bodied riders' standards. In September, Colt became the first disabled rider to participate in the annual Mountains to the Desert Ride, a 130-mile bike ride from Telluride to Moab that benefits the Telluride region's nonprofit Just For Kids Foundation. He accomplished his goal of completing 50 miles along the route, which is known to test the physical limits of even the most accomplished riders.

Colt's most trying physical trial yet came this winter, however, when he clicked into skis for the first time since his injury. After only one day of re-acquainting his weakened limbs to the rigors of balancing on skis, Colt was able to link parallel turns together. With assistance from trained instructors at the Telluride Adaptive Sports Program, Colt began the slow process of retraining his body to ski, heading out for a total of four days in the first week. He is able to ski without the use of special equipment, using the same gear as he did before the injury minus a ski pole in his right hand (he is still unable to carry the weight of a pole on that side.)

Pain in his right foot and knee, likely caused by straining to make his weakened leg perform the tasks necessary to turn and stop on a pair of skis, eventually forced him to take a break; but despite the pain and frustration he has felt during his first attempts to relearn to ski, Colt says he will keep trying.

"The entire right side of my body is black and blue from falling and not being able to catch myself," Colt said after his first week back on skis. Since his right side still suffers from debilitating weakness, it is extremely difficult to balance and thus skiing has become very intimidating, he explains. Yet he's not ready to throw in the towel just yet.

"I need something to sink my teeth into, and I was hoping that skiing could be it," he says. "I'm going to keep going for it, but I've never done anything that's been that scary."

When asked why he won't give up on the sport, especially since pain and fear have been the only tangible byproducts of his ski experience so far, Colt admits that he is indeed tempted to submit to the constraints of his injured brain and body. But at the same time, to give up would be to admit surrender.

"My life as I knew it ended the day of my injury. But I'm still hanging onto something that might be left of that life. It's unbelievably hard, but I'm still trying. I have to," he admits.

Doctors say they continue to see minor improvements in his rehabilitation; yet those small steps don't offer much relief for Colt, who would like to see more palpable evidence of his brain's recovery. He admits that it is difficult to stand by as his friends and neighbors head out on a powder day, or jump onto their bikes for a quick ride.

"I miss my wife tremendously, and it's difficult seeing everybody doing what we used to do together," he admits, adding that he hopes his experience will help inspire others in this outdoors-oriented community to appreciate the sometimes overlooked gifts of family and physical freedom. "Climb on board, ride the pony, and make the best of your life - don't take a second for granted, because it can be taken away at anytime. And when it's gone, it's not the same," he says.

Colt's venture into cycling this summer was just the beginning of what he expects will be an ongoing path to his body's recovery. He anticipates that someday, he'll be able to ride a two-wheel mountain bike on the trails that he once frequented. And he still harbors the dream of skiing without needing assistance, and to be able to return to the slopes without fear. Tied to these aspirations is the quiet hope that through these activities, he will be able to rekindle some of the joy he once shared with his wife in their mutual quest for outdoor adventure.

Yet every morning, when he awakes with the realization that he is still trying to function with a severely encumbered body, it proves more and more difficult to maintain that hope.

Colt admits that the menacing desire to simply give up blazes strongly at times, especially when it seems as though his rehabilitative efforts are going nowhere. Yet he says that as long as he can muster the strength to keep trying, he will.

"I still have hope that I will find that thing that I can be passionate about, that thing I can wake up in the morning and look forward to," he says, adding, "but I'm still looking."

In the meanwhile, Colt says he will continue skiing and riding his bike, with the hope that his often grueling efforts will someday unlock the tangled strands between his brain and his body. And that someday, he will again be able to find freedom, and perhaps a little soulful solace, in the outdoors.

Martinique Davis is a staff writer at the Telluride Watch newspaper in Telluride, Colorado.