Long’s Peak summit by 9 a.m.

ESTES PARK, Colo. — Four LED bulbs strapped to my forehead cast a glow that bounces around my boots as I amble uphill through wet pine and aspen circa 4 a.m.

I am thankful to be rid of the harsh voices that jostled me from a stiff slumber at my campsite in Goblin’s Forest.

I recall hating my neighbors and thanking them at once after realizing the alarm clock on my cell phone, set for 3:15 a.m., had failed to chime. Thanks, Technology.

But let’s pause here and catch our breath.

What?

Why would a Midwestern soul dare be trudging alone under the stars up the side of Long’s Peak, a 14,259-foot high flat-topped monarch that’s claimed over 50 lives? Because a scraggly Rocky Mountain National Park ranger planted the idea in my mind.

I had wandered into the backcountry office the previous day, sucking water from the tube to my hydration pack and chomping trail mix.

“It’s about a 15-hour, 16-mile roundtrip hike. But a kid in your shape ought to have no trouble doing it faster,” the old bespectacled man behind the counter said. “Just leave really early to get on and off the peak before mid-afternoon.”

I entered the government shack to inquire about an overnight stay in the southeastern part of the park and left feeling juiced to bag my first 14er. How could it happen?

It reminded me of a Family Guy episode where Peter and pals storm a bar to reclaim their favorite watering hole from new English dominion, but leave smiling and shaking hands after losing to superior linguistics.

I’m unsure what transpired in the office, but I immediately coasted down to nearby Estes Park to buy some gear and make a security phone call.

“So… uh… yeah. I’m going to climb a mountain tomorrow, Love. How was your day? No, I’ve never done this before. Yeah, I’ve heard people die doing these things. No, I’m not crazy. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. But if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow afternoon, call my parents and have them send a search party. I miss you, too. Bye for now.”

After meticulously stuffing into my pack what I figured the essentials to summit — PowerBars, headlamps, water, compass, map, extra socks, winter hat, rain gear, bear spray, tent, sunscreen, sunglasses — I hiked 1.7 miles up the switchback trail to Goblin’s Forest where a series of bizarre events unfolded.

At 8 p.m., I lay zipped in my sleeping bag watching the night encase my tent and mentally prepping for the big adventure set to start in seven hours.

At 10 p.m., maybe minutes after dozing off, what sounded like a Samurai army marched across a nearby creek. I gripped my knife and bear spray — mace on crack — and tried to decipher the foreign voices invading my territory.

Thoughts shifted to my pack. It was stashed 20 yards uphill to avoid luring bears to my tent with the scent of Ramen noodles. Near that area, swords were being drawn. Or tent poles.

I knew with the right wind I could take out the whole platoon of nighttime ramblers. Instead, I decided to see how quiet I could lay in my nylon Eureka Apex fortress.

I soon discerned young children in the squad, an ordering male and a whispering woman. I eased my grip on my makeshift sidearms, exhaled, and cast the group off as poor-planning tourists. Soon I was snoozing — with one eye open.

At 1 a.m., a blast of thunder rattled my tent poles and sat me straight up. Flashes of lightning joined the rumbling and presented a strobe effect. I felt like I was in techno hell.

Then rain, a steady pitter-patter at first, swelled into Niagara Falls. Great, I thought, I forgot my goggles.

A couple hours and a wool hat later, I managed to pass out on my new waterbed.

At 3:10 a.m., voices cracked through the darkness to wake me a second time. Relentless. Maybe some bizarre Guinness World Record was being set. But, as mentioned earlier, I was grateful for their inadvertent wake-up call because my electronic rooster failed to crow.

Decision time. No shame in ditching the summit for more sleep, yeah? But as my body beckoned me to recharge a few more hours, I scrambled out the tent, switched on my headlamp, slammed a banana, strapped on my hydration pack, offered a “good morning” to my rummaging neighbors and plunged up the trail into the bitter night.

I discovered the main trail with relative ease and my core started to warm up a quarter-mile later.

I smiled out loud. Looked up at stars flooding the gaps between clouds. Tripped over a root. Cursed the ground. Regrouped. This trend continued about an hour before I noticed three tiny white lights bobbing along a few switchbacks up the mountain ahead of me.

I wasn’t alone. There were other crazies. All in pairs or trios, but still. This was comforting, then repulsing, then satisfying. I was part of a thrill-seeking team of somebodies, anybodies, nobodies who were collecting 14ers — peaks over 14,000 feet. My bag was empty, but not for long.

I cleared treeline — a vertical height that reduces vegetation to a two-inch limit — at the same time evidence suggested the sun would indeed rise. The view, and increased altitude, sucked my breath away.

Estes Park glimmered within a border of silhouetted mountains. It was like looking down out an airplane window shortly after takeoff at dawn. Deep reds swirled around peaks to the east, blending into dark blues and black. Sporadic stars still lingered overhead, mirroring the glittering town lights.

I yanked my digital from my pocket to snap a few photos. Three Germans in their 20s and a 50-something with a shaggy beard and trekking poles smiled as they passed me on the rocky slope.

Onward and upward, a step at a time. I switched the Nalgene bottle from my left hand to my right. I’d been hiking three hours and had just reached Boulder Field, “the beginning of the hard stuff,” according to the ranger.

I wandered past a backcountry campground, six miles from the trailhead where my truck was parked. A dozen tents were scattered and pitched within narrow rock walls. The sun lit the sheer face of Long’s Peak a burnt orange.

I could see ant-sized people sitting in the Keyhole, a cutout area of rock in the ridgeline heading up to the peak.

I picked my way across the gradual slope from one cairn (pile of stones) to the next — up, down and around boulders and streams of snow runoff.

The sun cleared a distant peak as I sipped water at the Keyhole and let the lactic acid buildup drain from my legs.

Mountain ranges in interwoven rows stretched to the horizon in every direction. Sky-reflecting ponds dotted the landscape.

This parabolic ascent was at do-or-die time. I’d trekked over six miles and 2,500 vertical feet. The next mile detailed an elevation gain of about 2,300 feet — I’d be using all-fours to spiral nearly 270 degrees up to the peak.

I’m one for sleeping in. Late. Past lunch late. There’s no way I was going to retreat now after getting up at 3 in the morning.

This was officially the end of the trail. The map called the last stretch “rock ledge,” an accurate description.

I shimmied out the keyhole and started working my way from one target to the next. The route was marked by yellow and red bull’s-eyes painted on the side of the mountain every 20 to 30 yards like half-crazed eyes glaring you down.

After solving several climbing puzzles, slipping on slick spots in The Narrows, gasping for breath in a next to oxygen-free atmosphere and hurling my body up the Home Stretch, I reached the summit.

Winded, muscles burning, sweat stinging my eyes, I stood and slowly spun 360 degrees. I seemed inches below the clouds, miles above civilization, wandering with several strangers on a rocky surface a few football fields in area.

It was 9 a.m.

A breeze of satisfaction swept through me. I knew, even with five downhill hours of joint-jamming steps remaining to the bottom, this was the single greatest accomplishment of my outdoor life.

I found an ergonomically-friendly boulder, rolled my fleece into a pillow and stared at heaven.

Time to savor this victory was limited, however, by clockwork afternoon storms that brewed hail and lightning. Time to descend.

My knees, hips and ankles screamed with each step, overshadowing all muscle fatigue and thirst. I pressed on, knowing I had to get below treeline by noon or risk getting zapped.

With a reassuring forest in sight, and its more forgiving trail, it started to hail.

I threw up the hood on my raincoat and was nearly speedwalking when thunder began to echo through the mountains. Miles away, lightning lashed out at peaks.

I reached my campsite as it started to pour. No sign of the armada as I clambered inside my tent to wait it out.

And I waited. And I waited.

At 3 p.m., knowing my girlfriend had been directed to contact the parentals in Ohio if I failed to phone soon, I said screw it.

In a fury I jammed my sleeping bag into its sack, stuffed my pad into its case and started throwing tent stakes in my bag.

There was no way my wet tent, nearly floating away on the flooding ground, could be compressed to fit in my pack.

I hastily rolled the rain fly and tent up in two balls, swung my pack onto my back, and carried the remainder of my gear under each arm in a blitz to the truck two miles down the trail.

I sloshed through puddles and zipped around each corner. Twenty minutes later, I tossed my soaking gear, shirt and shoes into the bed of my truck, climbed in the driver’s seat and sat looking through a foggy windshield in disbelief.

Quite the unexpected finish, I thought. But no time to lose. Still had to make that phone call to cancel the rescue my parents would surely send — if they hadn’t already. I was once two hours late from a dayhike and the folks had the National Park Service on call. Worriers. Something I’ll understand, Dad says, when I have kids.

I spun down mountain roads south toward Denver, where I knew my cell would have signal. Ugh, technology.

An hour driving later, still nothing. So I called collect at a random restaurant.

I gave Dad the news, letting him know I was safe and had a great story for him when I got back to civilization.

Cruising back to Silverthorne, I wondered what adventure tomorrow held.