Tearing my ACL in January and undergoing surgery to repair it in March left me thinking I wouldn’t have a summer at all.

I pictured myself stuck on the stationary bike, pedaling in place, having no adventures whatsoever.

In reality, my summer has been amazing and I am completely privileged to have had my knee fixed at all.

My ACL tear wound up being exactly what I needed to buckle down and turn a 3 year dream into a reality, as I am now building the business of my dreams.

As I write this, I am 5.5 months post-op and not only have I been biking off the trainer for the last 3 months—having plenty of epic adventures on local gravel roads—I have also been running on roads and hiking on trails.

I’ve been backpacking 3 times in the last 2 months.

My first trip was an extended variation of the iconic 4 Pass Loop—ratcheting what is normally a 27 mile hike, up to 40miles and avoiding some of the crowds—and my second trip was an epic overnight in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with Logan. We camped a night and then climbed Kit Carson via its North Ridge, and then walked over the summit of Challenger, both over 14,000ft, before heading back to the truck.

`Logan and I on the summit of Kit Carson; August 2021`

My most recent hike is what this trip report will cover.

I walked from Horse Ranch Park on Kebler Road, all the way to the West Snowmass Trailhead, outside Snowmass Village.

It was a 53 mile hike with 13,145ft of elevation gain, and I completed it in 48hrs.

I will break this trip report up by each of the trails I walked.

Dark Canyon Trail

Logan dropped me off at Horse Ranch Park around 4pm on Saturday, September 4th.

It was hot and sunny, and I saw relatively few people at the start, save for one couple that couldn’t even be bothered to clear off the trail before collapsing in a tired heap.

I noticed the trail trended downhill for the entire 10 miles I was on it, and as I dropped into yet another stunning aspen grove, I heard something loud barreling through the underbrush.

I stopped mid-stride and tracked the quaking willows as the projectile rocketed through them. The shaking stopped promptly at a stand of trees.

I squinted to make out a pair of curious eyes gazing at me from a black face and above a long brown muzzle.

I stood in hushed silence and met the bear’s gaze. Eventually it turned and lumbered off into the dense foliage. The moment felt special to me; I’d lived in Colorado for over a year and, including my thru-hike of the Colorado Trail, I’d never seen a bear here.

I continued along the overgrown trail, my bare legs getting raked by sharp willows, until I reached Devil’s Stairway and began a steep descent to Anthracite Creek.

Dusk was upon me, and I knew I would need to camp soon. But I wanted to find the North Anthracite Trail, which would take me all the way into the town of Marble the next day.

I crossed two bridges—which I’m always pleasantly surprised to find in wilderness areas, no matter how decrepit they may be—and found that neither my gps or paper map had my next trail marked in the correct spot.

I was standing off to the side of path staring at my map when two men in camo appeared quite suddenly. The seemed surprised to me.

“Hi,” I smiled. “Do either of you know where the turn off is for North Anthracite Trail?”

The blonde one pulled out his gps and showed me that I still had a little ways to go.

“Looks like you passed it,” He said.

“I came from the other direction, actually, Horse Ranch Park.”

“You’ve sure come a long way all by yourself,” The squatter man said.

I rolled my eyes internally, saying instead, “Thank you so much! I really appreciate the help, I seem to always stop too soon.”

I raced off and within minutes was marching up N Anthracite Creek.

`Devils Staircase descent; September 2021`

Darkness was falling quickly, but I wanted to put some distance between me and all 6 of the hunters I’d seen that day. I kept glancing down at the creek to my right. It was far too steep a slope for me to navigate, even though I could see good camping across the water.

I walked faster until everything around me started to look fuzzed in the blue-grey light.

Finally I saw a way down to the valley floor and after navigating a few piles of deadfall, I was able to set my tent up on a perfectly flat rectangle of dirt.

It was pitch black at this point, but I still wandered a safe distance from my tent to eat a cold tortilla with cheese, salami, and chips.

I tied up my Ursak (bear-proof food bag) before crawling into my tent to read for a while.

I’d walked about 12 miles before 7:30pm and felt proud of my tiny camp spot.

North Anthracite

I slept relatively soundly and my food appeared to have survived the night undisturbed. This surprised me given how much bear scat I’d seen on the trail, oh, and the actual bear.

I got moving around 7:00AM and was met with a dew soaked, highly overgrown, heavily shaded trail. I was freezing cold, soaking wet, and the skin on my legs was so scratched from the day before that the even sharper, bushier trail I was currently fighting set my teeth on edge.

I wanted to cry out every time the sharp fingers of a willow scratched my thigh—even the gentler touch of a fern brought tears to my eyes—but I fought my way upwards, through thigh-high and shoulder-high brush, for 8 miles.

It was slow going, and I had to pay sharp attention to not lose the trail as I got higher up the valley.

I passed 2 more hunters around 9AM who had not yet broken camp, and then quite suddenly the valley opened up into a grassy meadow, the headwaters of N Anthracite no more than a tiny babbling stream.

My walk through the tall grass was heavenly.

The sun had only just begun to kiss the golden stalks, and small yellow flowers waved to me from their hideaways in the shushing hay grass.

I took a break to thaw my hands in the sun and eat before finishing the climb to Marble Pass.

I thought I was out of the woods, but no.

I wasted about 45 minutes trying to find the trail after I lost it in a ravine. I contemplated finding my own way to the top, but it appeared like there was a giant wall of earth too steep to climb, not 100 feet ahead of my bush wack.

I doubled back and walked further down hill to see if I’d perhaps lost my way on a social trail.

No.

I went back to my last known point and calmed down. I felt rushed because I was planning to get BBQ in Marble. The place opened at 11, and it was now 10:30.

I laughed at my panic over grilled meat and took a deep breath.

And what do you know, I found the damn trail right where it was supposed to be.

I finished my climb, bumping into an unusual character on the pass—as I sometimes do—before beginning the long and steep decent to Marble.

Swaths of the trail were wiped out from heavy rain, and lost in deep ravines which felt precarious to navigate given my knee.

I took my time picking my way down into them and then climbing back up out of them.

My feet hit the gravel road which lead into marble around 12:30 and I was eating the most delicious BBQ of my life by 1PM, smothered in signature Slow Groovin’ cherry jalapeño sauce.

I sat at an outdoor table in the thick of things, my feet bare and filthy, as I tried to dry my socks. I didn’t have cell service so I just stared at people while I ate my pulled pork sandwich like a total heathen.

After paying my bill I hit the trail again, completely oblivious to the 4,500ft climb that lay ahead.

I am laughing even now, just thinking about it.

The first 1,500ft were on a brutally hot 4X4 road that runs to Crystal and Lead King Basin; it was so narrow that I had to step aside for every single one of the 50 million jeeps that drove by me. The razors were slightly less frustrating given that they are narrower.

But I was so full and thirsty that I hardly cared about all the stops I was making. My mouth felt like cotton. I regretted nothing.

I finally reached the turn-off for my next trail, but I spotted a creek pouring across the road up ahead and I made a bee-line for that instead.

Stripping off everything but my sports-bra and shorts, I found the deepest hole I could and sat in it. I splashed off every inch of my body, gasping at the frigid temp.

Silver Creek Trail

I had completed my traverse of the Raggeds Wilderness Area when I reached Marble, now I was entering the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness Area.

Still unaware of how much climbing I had left to do, I trekked on.

Up. Up. Up.

The trail was faint and winding, it took me through an aspen grove and into the fir trees, and then—after a 30 minute break where I just laid there, feet propped up on a log—I cleared tree line.

My tiredness evaporated when I saw the stoney pass rising another 800 feet above me.

I stopped briefly to filter some water and wave at a couple more hunters camped behind the last stand of trees, and then I walked on with renewed enthusiasm.

`Final push up the pass; September 2021`

I cleared the pass and stopped to take in the view at the top. I was blown away.

Jagged peaks, sharp as knives raced skywards before me; like cathedrals, their towers scraped the dusky sky.

The breath was stolen from my lungs by their magnificence.

Sometimes I feel like I am just blundering around in the dark—tangled in underbrush, scraped and bruised—for what? Until I reach a place like this. And then I know the blind stumbling was an essential part of the journey.

You can’t drive to places like that.

You have to walk. And that’s pretty special, if you ask me.

I could hear marmots whistling and pikas chirping as I dropped down the other side of the pass. Once again the sun was starting to fade before I was ready, and I new I would need to find camp soon.

I’d walked 21 miles that day and the skin on the balls of my feet felt raw inside my trail runners. Normal, but still unpleasant.

The trail would continue high for another 4 miles and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so I camped on a flat, grassy spot a ways from the trail.

I was careful, as always, to minimize my impact, knowing that—just as I’d erased all trace of my presence at my last spot—I wouldn’t leave a shred of evidence when I packed up to leave this place tomorrow morning.

It felt sacred, my home among the craggy peaks that night. It was an incredible gift to sleep in a place so rugged and remote, to have an entire valley seemingly to myself.

`My little home away from home; September 2021`

I woke once in the middle of the night to a sky full of stars, and then fell back asleep until the sky was brushed pink with dawn.

Avalanche Lake Trail

I was excited for another day of walking as I packed up my tent in the morning, and I was on the trail again by 7AM.

Frost covered the alpine vegetation with the intricate web it weaves, blowing fragile glass feathers across leaves. My trail was invisible at this elevation and I wove my way through a marsh, hopping from one tuft of tundra to another, until I found it again in a scree field.

The sky put on a display of the softest pastels as I walked my way to warmth.

I side-hilled along steep slopes, the trail carried me up higher to clear a small pass and then dropped me down into the valley where Avalanche Lake was.

After a long descent, and a quick break to dig a cat hole, I reached the valley floor below Capitol Pass.

The sign for Avalanche Lake stood before me, pointing a half mile off trail. Normally I stopped at every lake for a plunge, but considering the temp had dropped at least 10 degrees on my way down, I opted to begin my climb to the next pass instead of making the detour.

Capitol Creek Trail

I thought my hike to the pass would be a long climb, in fact, this was the one I was dreading, but it topped out after 1500ft. I dared not believe I had actually reached the top of the pass until I saw Capital Lake shining a fresh minty-blue on the other side.

I heard voices above me; looking up I saw two climbers navigating what appeared to be a very blank face of rock on the side of Capitol Peak, one of Colorado’s 14ers.

The more traditional route to the summit followed a long, spiny ridge, but I didn’t have time for that today. My truck was waiting for me in Aspen and I had work the next morning.

I hiked down to the lake after stopping for a chat with two gentleman who were also backpacking. One of them had explored the area where I was heading and so I asked him for beta about the final leg of my trip which wound past Haystack Mountain.

“You’ll be fine,” He waved me off. “You know what I always say—” I didn’t, “—I hate youth!”

Safe to say he was a little taken aback by my route and the minuscule backpack I was carrying.

Once I descended to the lake, I made the executive decision to take the plunge. It was sunnier and warmer here, and I knew I’d regret it later if I didn’t just do it.

I ripped off my sports bra last minute and slid-hopped-jumped my way across shallow rocks until I could submerge myself fully.

The water was so cold my chest heaved and my feet ached. I scrambled out as quick as I could and dried off in the sun for a few minutes before throwing on my pack and starting the descent.

I followed Capitol Creek Trail to within 1 mile of the parking lot and then took an easterly fork onto a new trail.

Haystack Pass Trail (for lack of an official name)

I was back in cow country.

Around every bend for the first few miles, there were cows. Laying in the middle of the trail.

I avoided them when I could, but when I couldn’t, I was forced to shew them out of the way, and groaning and shuddering like ancient machines whirring to life, they ambled off.

Shortly after I saw my last cow, my climb really kicked into high gear. My second pass of the day would prove to be quite a haul.

The top of Haystack Pass was an expansive, grassy roll-over. I saw a family at the top on a backpacking trip of their own and took a few photos for them.

I was so hot and thirsty, my interaction with them ended up feeling quite rushed. In hindsight, I wish I had taken the time to talk to them more. The two young girls were so excited by what I was doing, that I was doing it alone, and I didn’t think to ask them how their trip was going.

I was kicking myself for my oversight the whole way down to West Snowmass Trail.

West Snowmass Trail

The final leg of my trip would bring my day to 20 miles. The descent felt like forever. But it was still pretty early.

I kicked my pace into high gear, hitting that 4.5mph stride of mine on the flats, once I crossed a formidable creek (it was easy that late in the summer, but I can only imagine fording it in the spring!).

Before I knew it I popped out of the woods into a gravel parking lot packed with cars.

I immediately started walking down the road until I saw two people unpacking backpacks into their car. My fingers were crossed when I asked them how long the road to Snowmass Village was.

After the girl checked her GPS and told me it looked like a really long way, she and her dad offered to give me a ride.

Relief washed over me. My trek was concluded. I was on my way home.