The Colorado Trail: Lake City to Durango
Day 21 (8/22/20): 8.7 miles
Lake City to Marshy Valley
I laugh happily at the Colorado Trail’s definition of a “marshy valley”; this was the driest marsh I’d ever seen.
I took a nearo out of Lake City (partial zero, aka: half day). I woke up at 5:30AM, thinking it was much later than it was because I sensed light beyond my window, but when I pulled back the shades, I realized I’d been fooled by street lamps. Oh well, I was up, so I started fooling with the coffee maker.
It was a straightforward machine, I pressed the on button, nothing happened. I hit the button 3 more times (because that always works) and walked away.
I came back, still nothing. I unplugged the machine from the power strip beneath the desk and carried it across the room. I then plugged it in next to the bed, crawled under the covers, and waited in silent desperation for even the smallest gurgle.
One, two, three... I counted—something happened! Liquid life squirted from the cantankerous apparatus and the day was saved!
After getting dressed in my one and only hiker uniform—which I’d washed in the shower with me yesterday—I walked across the street for breakfast and then traipsed back to my room with food in hand, so that I could finalize last week’s blog.
I milked the motel’s 10AM check out time to the last second, left some money for the woman I saw cleaning the rooms, and went across the street to meet up with Cheetah. She was going to take a full day off, so this was likely goodbye.
We wound up having a really profound conversation, one that will stick with me for a long time, I believe, about life and letting go, and listening to the Universe’s plan for us.
When I walked over to the park to find the bathroom, I met Salty and Double Orca who had a shuttle coming at noon to take them back to the trail. They invited me on board and I switched into full fledged rush-mode, as I still needed to do my resupply.
Luckily the grocery store in town had everything I needed, including fuel, minus tiny tubes of sunscreen, but I found those in the mini mart near the park.
Back on the trail, I walked slow, drank a lot of water, and came to the realization that this segment (22) was another dry one. I decided to hike just under 9 miles before camping, and stay near a water source, then do the 11 mile carry when I was fresh in the morning.
I heard the croaking of two ravens as they flew overhead. A raven makes a myriad of noises, but it’s echoey, deep throated croak is one of my favorites. I was told by the guy I’d hitched a ride with yesterday, that ravens represent clairvoyance. I’ve never been good at knowing what’s coming towards me down the pipe, my guesses are usually way off, but I have been more in tune with my intuition these days, I thought absently.
The pair swerved in perfect unison, a seamless match. Watching them so in tandem with one another tugged at something in my heart. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want that—a partner in flight, someone who could match me wing stroke, for wing stroke. I looked ahead at the empty stretch of trail before me; I loved being alone, too. It wasn’t an “either or”, it was a “yes and”. I wanted both. And I kept walking across the dry earth, because that was all that mattered in that moment.
When I made it to the very dry marsh, with a very mucky water source, I got water and pitched my tent at the edge of the meadow. Away from the beetle kill trees that would totally smash me if they fell in a wind storm. The sun began to dip low, and the day morphed into another gorgeous evening on trail.
Day 22 (8/23/20): 21 miles
Meadow to Maggie Gulch Trail
I woke up with a serious headache; it sat behind my eyes and worsened anytime I moved. I didn’t want to take Ibuprofen, though, because the last time I’d taken it out here, I’d had heart palpitations. Who could say if the two were linked, but I wanted to be cautious.
When I looked at my watch, I was shocked to see that it was after 7AM! I hadn’t slept this late in ages, not even prior to the trail. I guess my body was truly exhausted.
I was one of the last people to leave the campsite—a couple other people had camped near me in the trees, and all were gone but one.
I shook the grogginess from my bones and got a move on, waving to the lone camper as I left.
The morning felt brutal; the walk was entirely exposed and the sun, baking, even prior to it reaching its apex. It felt as though I was walking across giant waves of earth, something in between mesa and mountain. The trail wound its way through the swells of land, rising higher and higher until it reached its high point, at 13,271ft. And even though I’d been much higher than that on three separate 14ers, I could tell the elevation was taking a toll on me.
I finally broke down and took an ibuprofen, ate an ungodly amount of jalapeño kettle chips, and drank half a liter of water, hoping that would ease my discomfort.
The clouds were building rapidly despite it being barely noon, I knew I needed to get lower, and soon. Thunder boomed overhead as I power walked away from the high point, and a mile later it started to hail. I paused to throw on my rain jacket and then continued my sprint into some willow bushes. I sat down among them and pulled my tyvek ground sheet over me and my pack. I would just wait it out and eat more chips.
After 20 minutes of quiet from the skies, I carried on in my walking towards the next pass, checking the clouds religiously for any sign of impending doom.
The view from the pass was gorgeous, the surfaces of the mountains looked like animal hide, pale reds and tans with white washed sections, tinged with light green. They swooped and towered with grace; their shapes, dramatic and tantalizing. I walked swiftly down—though I longed to stay—away from the snow patches and off the exposed saddle. The whole walk was barren though, with no bushes in sight, from there on out, so I was grateful the skies had mellowed.
Eventually I met up with a hiker named Malto, and we walked the last 8 miles or so together, talking about anything there was to talk about, as hikers always do, and then camped together at a collection of small ponds (puddles) in a semi protected bowl at 12,541ft, just off the trail. I was wiped out and grateful to have the company for the last chunk of the day. Sometimes talking really does help grease the walking.
The temperature dropped rapidly with the sun, and I knew it would likely be my coldest night on trail. I bundled up in my enlightened equipment gear, hood, quilt and puffy, and burrowed as deeply as I could. Tomorrow I’ll be camping about 3,500ft lower, which will be amazing after so many nights up high.
Day 23 (8/24/20): 18.5 miles
Maggie Gulch Trail to train tracks along Animas River
I slept soundly and comfortably all the way through the night until 6:00AM. The temperature had risen sometime around midnight to the perfect level of warmth for sleep.
Malto and I packed up and chatted some as we did so. I felt ready to tackle the day. I only needed to walk about 19 miles to get close to Molas Campground, where I’d pick up my resupply box the next day, and after about 12 miles, I was supposed to drop off the ridge and keep dropping, making for easy walking.
The mountains were stunning, dramatic, and each one was entirely unique. I’d heard that segment 24, which I was now wandering through, was one of the most beautiful ones, and I can honestly agree, although, 23 had really impressed me too.
The Colorado Trail as a whole, is by far the most walkable and awe inspiring trail I’ve had the privilege to be on. I still feel the Appalachian Trail and the Long Trail are far more brutal, and thus special in a different sort of way, but this trail hasn’t maimed me the way hiking back East always seems to. My knees don’t feel like they are going to shatter, my feet aren’t swollen, and while I am tired, I don’t feel like I’m about to keel over and die.
The morning slid by seamlessly and so did the miles, before I knew it, I was dropping down off the ridge. And then I saw this cave! But it wasn’t a cave, it was a mining shaft, carved into the rock. I had to explore it. And about 20ft in, I chickened out and ran for daylight. It felt like some demonic portal into a living darkness that could swallow me whole if it so chose.
Around mile 17, I got tired; I was ready for camp. Conversation lulled and all I could think about was the food Malto and I had been trying to conjure up with our vivid descriptions—deep fried sushi rolls, real deal Italian tiramisu, burgers loaded with all my favorite things, spicy hot wings, Greeks gyros smothered in taziki, chocolate filled croissants, chocolate peanut butter ice cream, Chicago deep dish pizza—the menu reel spun endlessly in my mind, making it hard for me to concentrate on walking. And then I looked up and saw the most perfect campsite down by the river, across the train tracks. It looked flat as flat could be and the noise of the river would be amazing to fall asleep next to. Suddenly I was totally content to eat my Knorrs pasta side with extra cheese that night, and I didn’t care that Molas wouldn’t have a restaurant that served hot food tomorrow when I picked my box up. I was home for the night and that was all that mattered.
When I sat down by the river to review the day, I remembered an acutely tragic moment. About six miles into the hike, I stopped dead in my tracks at the small body of a pika, lying in the trail. It looked like it was sleeping, except for the almost imperceptible trail of blood, leaking from its nose.
My heart crumpled. I’d spent almost a month watching these sweet, fearless souls gather flowers and grasses, darting back and forth across piles of scree, and now one was dead, a casualty of the very trail I was walking. I knew it didn’t die of disease, because when animals are sick, they usually hide; my gut wrenched when I realized it was probably hit by a bike, and more likely than not, the biker didn’t even notice. I picked it up by its tiny front paw and moved it off the track. Its body was stiff with rigor mortis. I felt tears well up behind my eyes.
There are some moments that are just plain sad, and unjustifiable. You can’t talk them away or make them seem less tragic than they are. Devastating things happen in this world every day; being able to feel sorrow for them is a blessing, it means you are capable of feeling the best kinds of emotions too.
RIP tiny pika ⚰️
Day 24 (8/25/20): 20 miles
Animas River to Waterfalls at Cascade Creek
I woke at 6AM to my alarm, but it was still semi-darkness and a bit chilly, so I snuggled down into my quilt for a bit longer. I had slept so well, and really felt quite amazing.
After a few more blessed moments all wrapped up in plush, downy goodness, I deflated my Thermarest sleeping pad, and began packing.
Last night, Malto’s friend, Mad Rat, has shown up. They were funny together, joking—with plenty of concern intermixed—about their poor friend Tim, who they hadn’t seen since the day before.
I was careful not to wake either of them as I packed. I had a resupply box waiting for me at Molas Lake Campground, and I was eager to get there and continue on with my hike. It was still chilly as I began to walk towards the bridge over the Animas River; I pulled out my camera to take a photo and realized the battery had died over night, probably due to cold since I’d forgotten to bring it into the tent with me where it was warmer. Oh well, I would just have to take mental pictures as I walked.
Immediately after the bridge, I started climbing up out of the canyon. The switchbacks were tight, but not overly steep, and the higher I rose, the more beautiful the morning became. A shaft of sunlight poured over the mountain tops, each one a different shape. They looked like rock cathedrals, perched crookedly atop piles of stone and rubble. And at their feet, flowed the mint green river, cloaked by their austere shadows. Soon the sun would touch all things, but for now, I relished in the cool shade of the cliff side.
The climb grew steeper until I popped out into a meadow near the side trail to Molas, which I followed around a small lake, up to the office cabin. A man with wild white hair greeted me from behind a mask, I quickly dug my buff out of my bag and threw it on. It was so easy to forget about the pandemic, while living in the woods.
“You picking up a box? Last name?”
“Hi, yes! Smith,” I said. “Ivey Smith.”
“Hmmm,” He considered what appeared to be a long list of names. “I don’t see you here.”
“I sent it on August 1st, via USPS. I know you all prefer UPS or FedEx, I messed up.”
“Well let’s go check the room,” He sighed.
I followed him to another building and into a room full of hiker boxes.
“That’s me!” I saw my box immediately.
He told me I could go through it around back, where there was a picnic table and a charging station.
I had mailed myself an extra dinner, so I went ahead and cooked it after I’d gone through the items I’d mailed myself. I had about 5lbs of dried fruit (exaggeration) from Trader Joe’s, and wasn’t mad about it.
When I finally started walking again, I felt ready to tackle the last 75miles of the trail. I’d checked in with Ally and confirmed my pickup for Saturday morning at 9AM. I’d hike another 15miles today and then have 60miles left to do in three full days, it seemed perfect.
I popped out on the highway that led into Silverton, shortly after leaving Molas, and then began the long climb up to Rolling Mountain Pass. It was approximately 11 miles to the top, and the trail undulated plenty. Stunning maroon colored peaks rose up all around me; they stood out magnificently against the vibrant green vegetation that rose up to collar them, abruptly ending at the base of the striated monoliths. The clouds were building overhead, and I knew that storms were almost guaranteed this afternoon. I continued fast walking up the gradual incline until I ran into Cheetah!
We chatted and tried to figure out when she passed me since I’d last seen her in Lake City. We walked and talked until the thunder drowned out our words and we realized we had gained quite a bit of elevation and were approaching tree line.
Choices were made and we, along with a biker named Forest, decided to push on; the storm appeared to be behind us, but gaining on our slow progress up the 12,500ft Pass. A loud crack echoed above and to my right. I was feeling skeptical.
Forest looked back at us, “Is anyone else freaked out by this?”
“Yeah!” I called up.
But after discussing with Cheetah, it seemed our best bet was to get moving and get over this thing—both she and I were under the impression that the pass was much closer than it was. Forest had Guthook (gps app for the trail) and he knew better, the pass was still a mile and a half away.
We power walked up and up, leaving behind the willow bushes and any shred of protection.
It felt like an idiotic, suicide mission, truly. On we pushed through steady rain and wind, thunder licking at our heels. We passed through the notch that I had believed was the high point, only to continue our climb into progressively more exposed terrain. Angry looking clouds over took us, and the rain intensified, finally turning into pelting chunks of ice. The hail worsened as we reached the actual pass, and cresting its rise, I was hit by gale force winds. The tiny shards of ice stung my bare legs, which were already red and covered in goosebumps, my hands were frozen shackles, locked around my trekking poles. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Cheetah made it over the pass behind me and then powered on, down the other side as fast as I could. The switch backs lasted forever and I grew increasingly more chilled; finally, shaking, I stopped in the shelter of some trees with Forest to put on my puffy jacket beneath my rain gear.
My hands wouldn’t work; I stared at my fingers intently, willing them to do the simplest of tasks and unbuckle my pack, and then I begged them to cooperate and slide through the sleeves of my coat. They moved in slow motion, some of them not at all. It was a fight to get warm.
It’s cold-to-the-bone moments like those that make me realize how good I’ve had it on this trail so far; everyday has been sunny, and when it has been cold, it’s at least been dry. I was grateful for the thrill and the discomfort of the day, it made the hike seem all the more real and hard won.
Once Cheetah showed up and put some layers on, we started moving again, it was only about 3 miles to camp at the waterfall she’d told me about earlier. We talked about other trails on the way down. My hands were white and totally numb, she noticed and offered me her spare gloves—mine had been buried deep in my pack, my hands too cold and lifeless to distinguish them from my other gear—I gratefully slipped them on.
When we reached the campsite, there were several other hikers with tents already pitched. We spotted this amazing island in front of the falls, a pinnacle of rock with a cushion of dirt and a few trees on top. It would be home for the night. I let her pick her spot first and then I set about pitching my Tarptent on the slightly lower platform. The rain had continued so I decided to cook in my vestibule, something I had not yet done on this trip.
Around 7PM, the rain let up and having dried out most of my clothing by wearing it, I slipped into my sleeping bag. In Patagonia I had not often had the luxury of going to sleep dry, I silently vowed that I would not ever take a dry night for granted.
Day 25 (8/26/20): 15 miles
Waterfalls at Cascade Creek to Ridge at mile 441.5
I distinctly remember opening my eyes as it grew dark last night, and seeing a ninja mouse poised over my head like some sort of nocturnal acrobat, gripping the mesh of my tent door with its tiny claws, searching for a way into my sacred space.
“Oh my gosh!” I gasped. “Get out of here!”
It released its grip and fell, quick as lightening to the ground.
My rodent paranoia having been reinforced by actual, visual proof, meant that I didn’t sleep very well for the duration of the night. It’s not that I’m afraid of mice, or marmots, or squirrels—I think they are all quite cute—what I am desperately afraid of is having holes chewed through my tent, or backpack, or food bag. For this reason, I always hang my food, except for last night, because it was crappy weather and I was perched on a rock island with minimal tree options for hanging.
What’s a mouse doing on a rock island anyways? Oh yeah, because of hikers like me who fail to hang their food bag while camping on said rock island.
When day broke, I packed up my wet tent after giving it a good shake, and made my usual coffee and oatmeal. I felt very laid back, I had no desire to walk far or fast, which worked in my favor, given I only had to do about 14 miles. There was a 20 mile dry stretch coming up, supposedly, and I was going to camp right at the edge of it so as to minimize the amount of water I carried.
Cheetah was packing up too when I left camp, and I knew she’d catch me down (or rather, up) the way, as we both had the same plan for the day.
The morning was gorgeous, sunny, and breezy, as I climbed the first pass. I was stunned to drop over its lip into a bowl, surrounded on all sides by majestic peaks. The meadow itself was so perfect and serene, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to take a break in it. I laid out my tent and a few other wet things to dry, and munched on dehydrated fruit. What a special place to be, I thought to myself.
Cheetah caught me after my break, which was lucky because I had started to doubt I was on the CT anymore, for no reason whatsoever, and we continued on together to Celebration Lake.
It felt mandatory to jump in. So I did it and hoped to come out leech free. Afterwards I basked in the sun, so grateful for its unmasked intensity.
My energy flagged midday, I still had a pass to get over, too. I charged onwards and watched as clouds began to build overhead. Would today be a repeat of yesterday? I wondered.
I reached the saddle a few minutes before Cheetah and we stuck around up top for a few minutes to enjoy the dramatic view. The peaks on either side of us appeared to be white and red striped, because of the rocks that comprised them, and the sky was an angry looking shade of indigo, with sheeting rain very apparently falling in the direction we were headed.
Cheetah
After a quick stop at Straight Creek, to fill up our water to max capacity, we dashed off to find camp. That’s when it started hailing, big time. Being from Maryland, I’ve never experienced anything quite like the ice storm we were running through. The hail was almost the size of marbles and thick as rain! My fingers stung as tiny frozen projectiles bounced off of the surrounding vegetation and pelted my bare hands. I was laughing at the madness of it all, it looked like snow on the trail in the the surrounding woods, but it hurt like sin. We kept up our pace for a mile and then I stopped the train when I saw awesome camping, flat and protected by trees. I had a feeling the weather wasn’t going to improve for a while, and I was right.
We set up camp at 3:30, and it continued to rain and thunder for 2.5 more hours.
I grabbed a weather report from my Garmin for the next two days once I was settled in, and tomorrow looked slightly better, Friday not so much. But it was monsoon season, after all, and so I’d actually had it pretty easy thus far. Now as I lay warm in my bag, listening to rain fall on my tent, I am so thankful for my dry sanctuary.
Day 26 (8/27/20): 21 miles
Mile 441.5 to Taylor lake
I woke before the sun had begun to rise, and as I lay warm and drowsy in my tent, I remembered the amazing rainbow I’d seen the night before; I’d just happened to look through the mesh at the foot of my tent when the rain subsided, and there is was, super vivid and almost completely vertical. When I got out for a better view, I saw it actually arched all the way across the sky.
I deflated my sleeping pad, and sunk to the floor of my tent. It was surprisingly warm out, which made getting out of my sleeping bag much easier. After packing up and drinking some coffee, Cheetah and I headed out and walked the first 8 miles together. We talked until we ran out of things to talk about and then we took some time to hike solo. I relished in powering up the trail, which followed a lush grassy ridge, dotted with gigantic fir trees and the last few wild flowers of the season. The climbs grew steeper as I approached the high points of the day, and my path began to weave in and out of talus fields—pika country—their fierce little calls echoed off the rocks around me.
I loved how strong I felt, that even though I was tired, and had walked nearly 500 miles in 26 days, I still had the juice left to power up these final climbs. When I reached mile 16.5 of the day, I glanced at the building sky. I had gotten a weather report on my Garmin the night before that would beg to differ with the thunderheads rolling towards me. Cheetah caught me at my break and we decided we would make it to camp in time to beat the storm, we had to, the most exposed portion of the day still lay before us.
I charged on ahead once more and felt my energy flagging. My legs burned, crying out for more water and oxygen than they were getting, even my arms felt tired as I clawed my way up the stony slope with my trekking poles.
I glanced nervously over my left shoulder at the dark sky creeping towards me beneath tall clouds. I assumed incorrectly that the high points we were climbing would be passes, when in fact, they were quite literally he highest points around—a relative first for the Colorado Trail. I was in the least best position to have a storm roll up on me. There was nothing left to do but hike as hard as I possibly could, knowing Cheetah was doing the same close behind me.
The ridge was stunning, and I even caught a glimpse of Taylor Lake, a sparkling turquoise pool, and our final destination, before dropping down a steep slope, only to climb up another one. I felt like I was in a race with the thunder clouds; it had become personal and I could not afford to lose. They rumbled ominously behind me.
Finally I began the descent to the lake, so taken with its beauty that I had to stop repeatedly to soak it in. I felt so lucky to be able to call this place home, at least for tonight.
When both Cheetah and I had built our small shelters, I glanced at my watch, we’d come 21 miles in just over 7hr, an intense pace to keep up, given the terrain we were faced with.
The storm arrived shortly after we did, but it was nothing like the one yesterday—much mellower—all the darkness and foreboding seemed to be a bluff.
When I sat down to cook dinner, I realized I had too much food rolling into my final full day of walking tomorrow, but I couldn’t care less about the excess weight. Tomorrow would be an easy day comparatively, and then the following morning I would walk out and meet Ally. No one had ever picked me up from a trail head before, after a long hike. I’ve always hitched a ride or taken a bus, or gotten a ride with another hiker. It feels really nice to know someone will be waiting for me at the end of this journey.
Day 27 (8/28/20): 23 miles
Taylor Lake to the Durango Trail Head
The morning dawned stormy. Thick grey clouds blanketed the sky as I woke and packed for what I thought would be the second to last time on this trail.
Cheetah left ahead of me, as she was trying to make it town tonight; I took a more casual approach to the day, since Ally wasn’t going to come get me until the next morning.
The colors around me were made more vivid by the light rain that had begun to fall, as I neared Kennebec Pass. I paused every so often to really soak the landscape in. Rain wasn’t so bad—I was used to getting a lot more of it—a damp morning felt rejuvenating, in a way.
After the pass, I cruised down the other side uneventfully. I paused at a waterfall to chat with a hiker named Jim-bo, and then I continued on to the bridge over Junction Creek. The climb back up the other side was steep, but ended much sooner than I predicted; I thought I wasn’t nearly as far as I was by noon and became confused. My eyes raked the trail for footprints I could recognize. I thought I saw Cheetah’s, but was my mind just playing tricks on me? Was I on the CT at all?
And then I reached a trail junction which confirmed my location. I only had two more miles to camp and it was barely 1PM.
After 30 minutes of walking, I began to keep my eyes peeled for the spring that I planned to sleep near. Unfortunately, I smelled it before I saw it. As the guidebook had predicted, it was more of a mire and totally mucked up by cows. The putrid sludge would not even be filterable. I checked my phone for cell service and was surprised to see two bars; I called Ally.
Thanks to her flexibility, I was able to keep hiking onwards and finish the trail that same day. She would pick me up from town later that night on her way back from El Paso.
The last 4.5 miles flew by as I raced down, down, down, towards the trailhead. I flew past day hikers and dodged mountain bikers and nearly fell off the trail into a canyon as I tried to talk to someone while walking backwards.
Finally I made it to the parking lot. I emerged feeling dehydrated and disoriented. My own fault for not practicing better self care.
A guy named Die Hard offered to take my photo, and then offered me a swig of his beer.
“You can just waterfall it!” He cheered.
I laughed and politely declined, explaining that I was sober these days.
“Oh right on, dude!” I could smell the Coors on his breath.
As I walked away towards the road to get a hitch, a man and woman stepped on the breaks of their minivan.
“You want a ride into town?” They offered.
“Holy cow!” I said. “I would love one!”
I had never experienced such immediate trail magic before! I hadn’t even had to stick my thumb out!
Once in town, I felt wholly overwhelmed. I knew I stunk—I could smell me—and I wanted food, but I was too thirsty to decipher what I was hungry for. I knew I needed to sit down and really process what I’d just accomplished, too, but certain other needs had to be addressed first.
I ended up eating at an outdoor food truck conglomeration, symposium, mall, extravaganza—whatever you want to call it—and ordered three tacos, a steak salad, and a plate of truffle fries. Then I sat on a bench for a while and talked to my family.
It was strange, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing next, but I wasn’t worried. I’d come to Colorado because it felt right, and I’d been following my gut ever since. I suddenly felt very calm in the face of the unknown. I truly believed that if I kept an open mind and heart, I would recognize the next right thing to do when it presented itself.
For now, all I had to do was wait for my ride and maybe get some ice cream. The rest would sort itself out in good time.
“Just be here,” I heard the Universe say.
Finally, I was starting to listen.
You can’t plan for the vertical rainbow visible through the mesh at the foot of your tent, for laughing at hail the size of marbles, thick as rain, or for wearing the same shirt and pair of shorts for 27 days and only washing them once.
You can’t predict that a Flicker will give you an orange feather for your hat, that you will have to out run thunderstorms on high mountain passes or pitch your tent in the pouring rain.
Blissful moments of sunshine spent next to alpine lakes will be all the sweeter for their surprise, and half-cooked rice, salvaged by instant potatoes, tortillas with Cheetos and cheese, will taste delicious, simply because you are hungry.
You can’t plan for any of the best parts of an adventure, because they happen by accident, every time. So go do the thing you’ve been dying to do, don’t be afraid that your plans might go awry—for your sake, I hope that they do! Don’t be fearless, be brave. And have the adventure anyway.
Thank you for reading!
Until next time,
Happy Trails!
