It was pitch dark when I crawled out of the sprinter van the morning of September 6th; the stars were a twinkling spray of gems across the sky, and once my eyes adjusted, the milky way became visible in all of its ethereal glory. Logan and I had a plan to run from the Purgatory Trailhead to the Chicago Basin and climb three 14ers, before running all the way back to the van that same afternoon. The idea was daunting; we weren’t even sure exactly how many miles the route would be or precisely how many feet of elevation we would gain. The few trip reports we had found offered conflicting information, so we guessed the distance was likely between 36 and 42 miles, with probably 10,000 to 12,000 feet of total elevation gain.

I shivered in my lightweight running clothes. I had covered such a distance in a day only once before, and it was over much easier terrain. I felt nervous, but also excited for the challenge. 

Once we located the start of the trail, we began jogging through the woods. The headlamp that I normally used for night hiking, wasn’t cutting it for trail running, its beam was far too dim, and I found myself tripping over ghostly rocks and leaping from shadows, unsure of the textures beneath my feet. I did my best to keep up with Logan, but his pace was quicker than mine and his steps surer. Finally, we reached the bridge over the Animas river, about 4 miles in, and then crossed the train tracks which ran between Silverton and Durango. Logan traded headlamps with me near the bridge—despite my protests—and I was finally able to set a decent enough pace, so as not to slow down our progress too much. For another 6 miles we followed the Animas River. The trail remained relatively smooth, at a grade which carried us almost imperceptibly uphill. I was both shocked and pleased with myself for being able to run so far, only having to switch over to a powerwalk for steeper up hills. The waning moon guided our steps as we popped out of the trees and into open meadows; we covered the first 10 miles in about 2 hours. 

By the time we reached the Needleton split, which lead to the Chicago Basin, the sun had begun to light up the world around us, and the miles we did in the dark were quickly forgotten as we proceeded to climb more steeply up. We reached the sign marking the way up to Twin Lakes Basin at mile 16 of our hike, it was crazy to think that we had already traveled so far from the parking lot, when the sun was only just beginning to creep up over the surrounding mountains. 

Up and up we traveled, and my pace drastically slowed; I began to worry I wouldn’t be able to go fast enough to merit climbing all three peaks, Logan had set a loose goal of 12hrs and in my head, I agonized over the idea of failing to reach the goal. My breaths came in gasps and I tried to focus on stepping rhythmically up the stone staircase, arranged neatly into the side of the hill. Once we crested the rise, I saw a sparkling lake, its water an irresistible sapphire blue, and my worries were largely forgotten. 

We paused to fill our water bottles from the outflow and Logan asked me how I was feeling. 

“I’m okay,” I said with a smile that I hoped masked my exhaustion. “I think I will feel better once we get to the top of one of these mountains,” Which was the truth, I just needed to see that I could do it. 

We hadn’t been sure which mountain we would summit first, so when our feet carried us to the base of Windom, we were perfectly content to begin our day of climbing there. Everything above Twin Lakes Basin was jagged rocks and boulders, a scree field of epic proportions; pika roamed happily, darting about with fresh bouquets of alpine grasses in their mouths, and the mountain goats were bold, wandering across the rocks with their kids close behind, eyeing hikers non-chalantly. It was my first-time seeing mountain goats and I was immediately positive that they were actually unicorns, complete with flowing white manes and delicate horns—two, instead of one, sure—but magical looking, nonetheless. 

Windom proved to be a relatively easy climb, but I could feel a persistent tiredness creeping over me and so I fell behind Logan, only catching him when I reached the summit. As I hauled myself up the final scramble, I noticed the peak looked a lot like a later work of Picasso—entirely cubistic. Logan was sitting on one particularly tall and rectangular looking block that actually wiggled when I dropped my tired body down next to him; our eyes met, mirroring a mix of comedic panic and genuine concern. Quickly moving to a different boulder, we sat once more and surveyed the landscape. The tower we were perched on overlooked another shimmering, ultramarine blue body of water and the landscape surrounding it was a miasma of highly textured rock; rust colored spires and fins rose up around the bowl, each one an entirely unique shape. I hardly knew where to look, I was wholly overwhelmed by the impressive beauty which surrounded me. 

As we descended Windom and headed towards Sunlight, North across the bowl, my confidence grew marginally. One out of three, I thought. And avoided thinking about the reverse journey back to the van. I could do this.

Sunlight proved to be a really fun and engaging climb; Logan and I took our own route up to the summit once we got close, missing the narrow squeeze-through leading up a neat looking chimney—the traditional way to go. Instead, we scrambled up several exposed boulders, which definitely made my stomach do a flip-flop or two, and popped over the edge onto the crown of the mountain. Still about 15 feet above us was the actual top, a giant rectangular block, balanced upon a jumble of other blocks. Logan jumped nimbly up the boulders and sat atop it within seconds, while I, with great trepidation, scrambled awkwardly up a slab and sat just below the highest point. The “official” way to summit Sunlight is to jump across a very exposed gap between a large rock and the topmost block. But as I considered the empty air before me, I didn’t feel called to bridge it.  

I settled for laying a hand on the giant boulder from where I was perched, I could feel its warmth under my palm; the sun had risen high above us now, and the day had grown hot without a single cloud hanging in the bluebird sky. 

“You ready to head down?” Logan asked after a few moments. 

“I am!” I said, and then looked down the slab I had just crawled up. Going down was always harder, I sighed. 

A bit of a traffic jam occurred as I made moves to descend; a man in biking spandex was trying to climb up, but with a little maneuvering, we both made it to where we wanted to go. He and his friend had also started from Purgatory that same morning, only 3 hours earlier Logan than I.  Before heading down, we paused to chat with a few other hikers, one girl had brought a variety of cheeses to the summit, which I thought was pretty cool, after all, there is no better place for smoked gouda and a wedge of sharp cheddar than the summit of a 14,000ft peak (in my humble and inexperienced opinion). 

We descended Sunlight through the Chimney and were back down to Twin Lakes Basin fairly quickly. I was in awe of all we had already accomplished. Windom Peak rises to 14,083ft, while Sunlight peak tops out at 14,059ft and both involved separate climbs up from the basin which lies at 12,500 ft. Now, as we walked back towards the lake, we decided it was time to jump in. 

I stripped off my shoes and socks gingerly. Earlier that morning, in the dark, when I had gone to dig my usual cathole, I stepped in something unpleasant—I’m sure you can guess what—when I took the time to fully assess my situation, it became immediately apparent that my shoes were covered in some other human’s waste. Not the ideal way to start the day, but I took it all in stride. Now, as I watched Logan dive into the lake, I pulled off my shirt to follow suit, and thought very little of any of the day’s earlier struggles and stressors. 

It was an epic plunge, icy water poured over my head and chilled me to my core, and when I broke the surface, the sun’s warm rays welcomed me back to the land of towering giants and sweeping vistas.

I beamed at Logan, who was now sitting on a rock drying off. This was exactly where I wanted to be: a remote, alpine lake that we had walked nearly 17 miles to get to, surrounded by some of the biggest mountains I’d ever had the privilege of standing on top of. I wanted this, so badly—I hadn’t even known how badly until I arrived. I squeegeed my hands through my short hair and walked over to the rocks where Logan was sitting.

I found myself considering the words of one of my NOLS instructors; we’d been sorting through gear back at the Patagonia Base after our mountaineering expedition, and Kevin had come over to give me my final grade. 

“I have three pieces of feedback for you,” He said. And I waited patiently as he talked about my solid expedition behavior and how it might behoove me to work on becoming more relatable to 18-year-old boys, if I still wanted to be a NOLS instructor, that is.   

Then he looked me dead in the eye and said, “You are capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for. You panic, and think you can’t, but you can.” 

And as I sat on the shore of a lake I had never dreamed of seeing, in the presence of peaks I’d never conceived of climbing, I felt the truth of Kevin’s words pierce me.

Yet, every time I do something new and hard, I feel that familiar panic welling up inside me, and I hear that voice telling me I can’t—that the thing being asked of me is too much. But if I really focus, I can see Kevin, with his lacerated forehead and extremely tired face, after 38 grueling days of travel across the NIF, telling me I can.

Clothes, shoes, and running vests back on, we made a beeline for Eolus, an immense fin of jagged rock reaching a height of 14,090ft. As soon as we began the climb, my legs started to burn, and they screamed louder and louder for oxygen with each step. I was panting heavily, struggling to pull in enough air; my lungs felt raw, each breath an abrasion. I didn’t stop moving, though, I worried that if I did, I’d never make it to the top. I felt embarrassed that the day’s climbs were taking such a toll on me, and I fought those feelings of shame by pushing harder. We had adjusted our goal to 14 or 15 hours, instead of twelve, based on our current progress, but all I could think of was making it back, period, however long it took. The climb grew steeper and I was astonished that my body could suck air at the rate it was sucking—would my lungs just explode at some point? I wondered. I kept moving, that was the only solution I could think of, and then I started coughing. It was a dry, unproductive cough, and I tried to avoid giving into it as it seemed to make the burning in my chest worse. 

Luckily, the climb became a bit more technical, and thus slower, and eventually commanded all of my attention. We inched along scrubby precipices, dotted with tufts of alpine grasses, and scrambled up rocky outcroppings. My heart was in my throat for most of the rest of the climb, and I tried my best not to look down, because truly, if I took one step in the wrong direction, there would be nothing but air to catch me for hundreds of feet. Exhaustion won out over trepidation, however, and I channeled all of my remaining energy on progressing upwards. Finally, we topped out on another pile of cube shaped boulders; my final summit of the day, was all I could think as I clambered towards Logan and planted myself on a neighboring rock.

The view was spectacular. We could see Uncompahgre and Wetterhorn far off in the distance, and the Grenadiers—Arrow and Vestal—closer by; I studied the rock around us, all its textures and shapes, and felt as though I were in an entirely new world from the one I existed in up until a month ago. I’d never walked up mountains like these before, I’d never spent so much time (or any time at all—until last month) above 12,000ft, I’d never imagined that I could do something this physically demanding, in a single day. I looked at Logan, he seemed so at ease; I hoped to mirror that same confidence and self-assuredness, someday. 

There was a group of people sharing the summit with us, and we all chatted for a few minutes before going down. They insisted that we do Eolus’ North Peak, on our descent, stating it would only take 15 minutes, and that it was only 200ft of climbing. At first, I felt compelled to take their advice, but after dropping to the catwalk and crossing over, my body was starting to throw up red flags. I couldn’t seem to stop coughing, and I’d developed a disconcerting wheeze; in addition, my stomach was cramping in a way that made me nervous. I did not want to have to “dig a hole” on the side of this mountain—or worse—do something unforgivable at the top of North Eolus.  

I told Logan I was going to sit this one out but that he should definitely go up. I watched him power up the second, smaller peak for a moment before heading down to where I’d stashed my trekking poles. 

While I was waiting contentedly on a boulder overlooking the basin, I heard the voices of the group we’d shared the summit with, conversing somewhere above me. 

One of the men said humorously, “That dude’s chick was like ‘no thank you’, I’m not climbing another peak today,” And he busted out laughing. I turned around and gave them a wave to let them know I could hear them. That dude’s chick, come on, seriously? I shook my head. Oh well, I knew that what I was doing was hard—way hard—for me, and that was all that mattered. I felt simultaneously proud and humbled by what I had accomplished so far that day, and there were still so many miles left to go. 

Logan appeared behind me in record time and we began the remaining descent down Eolus together; I was in extreme abdominal distress and hoped against all hopes I made it to tree line. We paused briefly to get water at the outflow of Twin Lakes, and then powerwalked down to the Chicago Basin. I’m happy to say I made it into the trees, but unfortunately, I didn’t find much relief; my stomach continued to cramp and threaten as we began the final 16 miles back to the van. I wanted desperately to run, the trail was amazingly smooth, but every time I tried to jog, I felt stabbing pain in my abdomen and all I could seem to do was power-walk at my quick 4mph pace. Logan was incredibly patient, though, and seemed content to go at whatever speed I was capable of.

When we reached the Needleton Fork, we only had 10 miles left, and Logan decided to run for a while, promising to wait for me up ahead. We had made our final guess regarding how long it would take us to finish the day: 16hr was our postulation, and it actually felt doable to me.

The part of me that was ashamed of my inability to keep up, hoped Logan wouldn’t wait for me. I hoped he would go to the van and eat food and rest. But I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that also really wanted to see him down the trail, because ten miles seemed like a million at that point, and to have company for the final stretch would make all the difference in the world. 

I walked in daylight what I had previously run in the dark, and it was really quite lovely; the aspens danced in a light breeze and the afternoon sun bled through their coin-shaped leaves, creating dapples on the smooth trail before me. I walked briskly through the woods, ducking into the bushes occasionally to deal with my increasingly unpredictable stomach, and I tried not to let it affect my mood. I felt tired, but not broken; I felt a tad defeated, but not at all disappointed, and I still held onto a spark of pride, fueled by my gratitude for the experience I was having. 

The sun was dropping lower, and I thought I might only have a few miles left until the end, but I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t looked at the time when Logan and I had parted ways. Just when I was beginning to doubt my location, I caught a glimpse of the bridge over the Animas River and rounding a final bend, I saw the train tracks. And Logan! He was walking towards me and I was totally overcome with relief. In that moment I realized how silly it was for any part of me to have wished he would have just continued on without me. We were doing this as a team, and I wanted to finish the adventure with him, not hours behind. 

He told me we only had four miles left and though my heart sank a little at remembering the distance, I marched on with renewed purpose. Four miles was really nothing compared to what we had already accomplished. 

We walked until the light around us grew dim, and then we kept walking. Eventually, darkness swallowed us once more, and we had to pull out our headlamps, but by then we were within a mile of the end. I felt more exhausted than I could ever remember feeling, but then, I wasn’t remembering how tired I’d felt coming down San Valentín at the end of that infamous 28hr day.

I saw the twinkle of streetlights through the trees, “Civilization!” I cried, and made one final dash into the bushes before emerging onto the road at the trailhead, just a few minutes behind Logan.

It seemed a lifetime had gone by since we were last at the van. We high-fived and hugged. He told me he felt tired, but good—I, on the other hand, felt every inch of the 40.8 miles and 10,900ft of elevation we’d traveled, along with having my intestines tied into a series of increasingly tighter knots over the course of the 16 hour and 3 minute period—but I told him I felt good too, really damn good, and that was the truth. I wouldn’t have changed one thing about our experience, because I knew for any amount of suffering endured, the personal growth was exponential.

I looked up at the blanket of stars suspended in the ink black sky above me, and thought to myself, I can.

And I promised myself I wouldn’t forget that truth, not ever. 

Some of the photos in this blog are out of order and do not correspond with the surrounding text. As you probably gathered from reading, this was an incredibly challenging day for me and so I did not find myself taking a ton of pictures. If there was an equation to describe the relationship between physical strain and number of photos taken, you would see the two are inversely related. Ultimately, though, it was an amazing day to practice presence and embody that faithful saying, “Be where your feet are.”

I hope my honesty regarding the revolt my body waged against me on this day will inspire you to just get out there, embrace the discomfort, and start adventuring! Because the relationship between suffering and personal growth is, without a doubt, directly proportioned!

Happy Trails!