Day 16 (8/17/20): 22 miles (including 2 mile side trail, and extra 5 miles of Collegiate West)

The Butterfly House to Stream at mile 265.5

I woke up around 6:30AM, stripped the bed I’d slept in for the last two nights, and went into the hostel kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. A few other people were starting to wake up, including Blue, who I planned to hike out with.
After saying our goodbyes to everyone, we started up the 2 mile 4X4 road to rejoin the CT.  Our first big climb was up to Monarch Pass; the air felt cleaner today, less smokey, and I wasn’t struggling to breath. We talked, in between gasps, to pass the time, as we plodded up the mountain side.
Once the climb topped out, we maintained our elevation above tree line and meandered our way towards the Monarch Crest souvenir shop. I found myself completely disoriented, first we seemed to be on one side of the highway, then another. Then we took a wrong turn—my fault—and had to climb up to the CT from a lower trail, and then I almost took us back the way we came! It was quite an ordeal.
But when we did make it to the souvenir shop, we found Jen, Blue’s friend. The three of us ate lunch and then hiked on. We had nine more miles to do before making camp and the terrain was getting progressively drier. We each carried enough water to make it all the way to the stream we planned to stop by.
We reached the end of the Collegiate Loop about 5 miles after the gift shop, and that felt like a major accomplishment; it is 5 miles longer than the East side, hence the discrepancy in total miles.
Thunder boomed distantly and I could see the blue-bruised looking clouds building on either side of the exposed ridge we walked on. The scene was a dramatic one. The heavens never unleashed on us though, besides a light sprinkle of rain.

I reached camp first and scoped out the options, it would be a cozy night, as there wasn’t much space near the water source; all three of our tents would be within about 5 ft of each other, but we were so tired, it hardly mattered. We ate dinner as darkness fell and then promptly crawled into our individual homes. It’s hard to believe this adventure is more than halfway over. Only 220 miles to go. 

Day 17 (8/18/20): 25 miles (including .5mi side trail)

Stream at mile 265.5 to Baldy Lake

I woke up feeling rested; I could hear Blue and Jen starting to wake up nearby. I laid still in my tent for a minute, mentally preparing myself for the day. I hadn’t looked at the guide book yet, but I knew water would dictate how far I walked. When I felt ready, I reached above my head and opened the valve on my sleeping pad, it deflated in a loud “whoosh” and I knew there was no going back to sleep now. It was time to pack up and get the day started.
I should warn you, I am not a real human without a cup of coffee, I only need one, but I need one. So after packing up and digging a hole, I sat down to boil some water. Blue wanted to walk a bit before doing breakfast, so she went ahead, while Jen and I both stayed behind to undergo caffeine metamorphosis.
When we met up with Blue 2 miles later, I decided I wanted to walk fast for a while; so after making a plan to meet at Baldy Lake later that evening, I charged on ahead.
The walk was dry and hot, but also really enjoyable. I love walking alone—I love having company on occasion,too, don’t get me wrong—but walking in silence affords me the opportunity to really notice my surroundings and think more deeply. At mile 12 or so, I reached Tank Seven Creek; it was the last water source until Lake Baldy. When I arrived at the small but flowing stream, 5 dirt bikers pulled up, engines revving. I knew they were probably good guys, but I still felt vulnerable. They hung out, regarding me beneath raised visors, trying to decide who would lead out, and when they finally peeled away from the creek, I let out a sigh of relief and sat down in the shade with my pack.
I ate two salami, cheese, jalapeño Cheeto tortillas (yes, you read that right), and drank a liter of water. I filled up with 2.5L of water before moving on. The climb away from Tank Seven, though very gradual, was exhausting in the afternoon heat. My feet dragged and I took a break every mile in patches of shade. As I progressed further upstream, I witness cows actively defecating in the stream. Yum. The rest of the day unfolded in a similar fashion, with more dirt bikers, heat, cattle, and an oppressively heavy pack.
It was 4PM. I was sitting on a log. A girl came towards me North Bound and after chatting for a few, I ascertained that Razor Creek, which was 3 miles into my day tomorrow, was flowing and drinkable. A major relief. So many people had told me it was ruined with cow poop, and not flowing. I’d doubted them, of course, because most people have not ever had to filter water from a muddy puddle in a pinch, and thus their standards for what constitutes drinkable water, are very high. She said it tasted fine and I believed her.
With that knowledge, I dragged my body onwards and eventually reached the turn off for the lake, where I met Cheetah from Boulder. I dropped my pack, made another tortilla and chatted with her while we waited for her friend Su to reach us. I’d passed her about half an hour ago.
The Colorado trail is so social, and I am really impressed by how many women are hiking, both solo, and in pairs. Every day I seem to meet someone new, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this connective aspect of the adventure.
Down at the lake, I pitched my tent in the flattest spot I could find, since last night, I’d nearly rolled off my pad and down the hill a few times. I even took a dip in the emerald water of Baldy Lake—it’s depth, unknowable (there are leaches, just fyi).
Then I had dinner with Cheetah and Su, before crawling into my tent for the night.
I am feeling really grateful for the challenges today presented. I’ve never hiked in an environment this dry before, and I know it is preparing me for future (even drier) adventures.
When I close my eyes tonight, I see the white spots on the rumps of Northern Flickers, flashing between pairs of orange and black wings; I hear the clucks and coos of the ptarmigan and see the rocks come alive as their hapless young roam about in the alpine grass; I hear those fussy chirps from high above, and know the scrubby jays are watching me, following me from a distance, so curious to find out what I am doing and where I am going. I fall asleep contemplating the amazing world I get to be a part of, feeling hopeful for what lays ahead.

Day 18 (8/19/20): 23 miles (including .5mile side trail)

Baldy Lake to Los Creek, mile 312.0

The morning dawned peaceful and quiet down at Baldy Lake. I woke naturally at 6:30AM when the sun first lit on my tent. There had been a loud group of hikers camped near me, causing a ruckus until nearly midnight, and so waking up to silence felt like a blessing.
When I stepped out of my tent, bleary eyed and off balance, I saw Jen waving at me from down by the lake. I let out a hushed “whoop” of excitement and went over to she and Blue. They’d camped up at the top of the side trail which led down to the lake.
After chatting in hushed whispers a while, I told them I’d see them up top and went about my morning routine, having coffee and breakfast with Su and Cheetah before climbing the 400ft back up to the CT.
I looked around but didn’t see Blue or Jen, I guessed they’d gone on ahead and figured I’d run into them later. The morning’s climbs were taxing; they’d seemed relatively easy based on the elevation profile in my guidebook, but as I staggered up the final one, mouth dry, sides heaving, completely and utterly spent, I felt I’d gone 20 miles, rather than just ten.

I sat down in the shade and checked my phone for service. I called my mom and checked my email, ate a third protein bar and guzzled some water. I inspected the bottle I was drinking from, there were worms wriggling around madly in it, suspended in the water, which was tinged yellow by god knows what—probably cow shit. Razor creek had been gross, as expected. And my Aquatabs hadn’t killed a damn (visible) thing like they were supposed to, I’d even used more than recommended. Thank goodness for my Sawyer water filter. At least I knew I wasn’t sucking down any worms.
A squirrel’s frenetic screeching and chittering brought me back to reality; I heard a loud clunk above me and the squirrel fell silent, then, some very dense and heavy projectile came whizzing down past my shoulder and smashed into my pack.
“Asshole!” I exclaimed.
A knot of young pine cones still attached to the branch lay at my feet, “Damn squirrels.”
I decided it was time to get going.
I expected to see Blue and Jen down at highway 114 when I descended, but there was no one by the road when I got there. That didn’t make sense, as I knew Jen’s ride wasn’t coming until later... unless I’d passed them somehow? All morning I’d been convinced I was hearing their voices, but had never once seen them. Now I wondered if I was crazy.
I realized I had no idea where the trail went once I went through the cattle gate. I spent 30 minutes walking up and down the highway getting increasingly upset—I even cried a little and yelled at the sky a few times.
“What the hell!”
I tried walking right, I consulted the guidebook and my Garmin, which were giving me conflicting information. It was so dry and so hot next to the road. And the creek I was supposed to cross was waaaaay down in a gully bellow the highway.
Finally I saw a trail marker, but only after about half a dozen cars had driven by my absolute fit of frustration—InReach device flailing, curse words flying, guidebook waving—tantrum. I decided I was probably dehydrated.
Once on the trail, I found 5 gallon jugs of water, the ultimate form of trail magic on a day like today. I took a little less than a liter, so as to leave water for those behind me, and chugged it immediately. Bliss.
The next 5 miles were flat, but very exposed. I trudged on at half my usual pace. Chipmunks dashed across the trail ahead of me, their tails flying high, doing ninja backflips off rocks, evading my slow procession up the trail.
I reached a gate, and then another one, I was walking mostly on forest roads at this point. And then the sun became less intense, and the soft feeling of early evening enfolded the landscape; ground-nesting blue birds flitted over the scrubby, sand loving plants, their periwinkle backs standing out dramatically against the yellow flowers. Woodpeckers flew away from me, towards the trees, and clouds of a deep bruised blue, billowed in the sky.
I was filled with contentment, any frustration I’d felt throughout the day faded into a peaceful wash of gratitude. I passed by many cows, and eventually crossed over my water source for the night.
Camp was on a grassy hill, amid some sparse pine trees, and Cheetah even showed up an hour or two after I arrived. I am pleasantly tired and looking forward to getting some good sleep. 

Day 19 (8/20/20): 26 miles

Lost Creek to Alpine Meadow Below San Luis Saddle

I woke from frantic dreams—fueled by my intense rodent paranoia—to a gorgeous sunrise. Cheetah was beginning to pack her things not far from me. And I struggled to rid myself of the emotions carrying over from my nightmare about mice chewing through the walls of my bedroom.
To be fair, I had heard a lot of rustling and other sneaky nighttime activity before I fell asleep. Probably chipmunks.
Cheetah left ahead of me and I took a few extra moments of quiet time to wake up and slowly sip my coffee. I have a great morning routine and I don’t see any point in rushing it; after all, this is supposed to be fun!
When I started hiking across the rolling expanse of prairie—which reminded me of the country westerns my dad and I would watch when I was little—you know the ones, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, gorgeous horses, endless miles of fences—I was greeted by dozens of ground nesting blue birds. They took flight as I approached and alighted on the fence posts I was walking along side, careful to stay several yards ahead of my progress. Their coloration makes it look like they’ve been dipped, tail end first, into sky blue paint. It really is the happiest color blue I’ve ever seen.
The first 11 miles of the day continued on much the same, there was water, even though the landscape seemed a dry and sandy one, but most of the water was filled with cow poop. When I finally reached Cochetopa Creek, I was so overjoyed to see rushing water, even if it was still surrounded by cow trace. I soaked my feet and rinsed my socks, before moving on.

I absolutely adore cows (even though I am a hard-core burger eater), and I had walked by at least 50 by 1PM. They batted their long lashes at me, the babies frolicked and scooted away as I drew near, the mothers bellowed; they are beautiful animals, actually.
I crossed Cochetopa Creek on some logs and began the very gradual climb up the valley. I saw Cheetah ahead of me a ways, and eventually I caught up to her. We hiked off and on together the rest of the afternoon.
Thunder and light rain made me question my decision to keep climbing up the valley towards the pass, but hiking with a friend made me braver and we both decided to continue on. The storm passed and was replaced by a lovely evening glow.
We cooked dinner at 11,700ft elevation, before continuing on to find camp several hundred feet higher. The day had felt like one long, mad pilgrimage to San Luis. We’d seen the mountain first thing in the morning and both wanted to climb it tomorrow. It was the easiest one to access from the CT, being that it’s saddle is only 1,500ft, and 1.5mi, below the summit. It would be my last 14er of the trip.
The weather had been mild since making camp, I planned to get up at my usual 3:15AM to start the climb, but Cheetah will wait for a slightly more seasonable hour to start, it seems.
I love walking before the world wakes up, I love watching it while it sleeps. When the sun’s glow first warms the hard edges of the rocks, making them appear softer, friendlier, I am reminded of my own personal transformation brought on by a life lived in tandem with nature. 

Day 20 (8/21/20): 22.5 miles

Alpine Meadow to Highway 149, Lake City

I didn’t know why I was so adamant about waking up at the crack of dawn to hike this peak until I got up to the saddle. I’d forgotten my GARMIN at camp and had to blunder back there in the dark to find it, but when I finally stopped at the post marking the pass, and looked up at the sky, everything was made right. The cold, dark start, was made worth it.
In less than a minute I saw two shooting stars, and I don’t know much about constellations, but I know I saw the Little Dipper (or was it the big one?). I decided to hang out there a while and make coffee and oatmeal before starting up San Luis. I wanted to enjoy being awake at this hour; I rarely spend time gazing at the stars—except for when I stepped out of my tent all bleary eyed in the middle of the night to pee. Sitting there, alone, in the hushed darkness, felt intentional and important, somehow.
When I did start the climb, I noted that it was much easier than either Huron or Massive, despite the many false summits.
When I reached the peak, I saw a wooden sign which read: San Luis 14,014ft and a little tin, which held scraps of paper with signatures of past visitors.
I sat down behind the small wind wall and took it all in. The sun had yet to rise, but the sky was already a smoky pink.
I thought about all it had taken to bring me here, to this mountaintop; all the heartache and all the beautiful moments, all the frustration, fear and doubt, and all the joyous successes. My life has taken so many twists and turns, I never could have guessed that I would evolve from devout horseback rider to aspiring model to tireless wanderer—that I’d so readily ditch the heels and purse for a pair of trail runners and a backpack.
But there I was. Sitting where the air was thin, wearing a million miss-matched colors and layers, with the feather of a woodpecker in my hat, being brought to tears by a sunrise I’d walked so far to watch.
The sun crept up from behind the mountains and the clouds, a piercing red sphere; the peaks surrounding me accepted its light in warm surrender.

My silent tears turned into sobs. I can’t say exactly what it was that made me cry that morning, maybe it was just an accumulation of everything—of being drunk and getting sober, of being depressed and finding hope, of feeling so hurt and finding healing, of feeling lost and finding meaning. But I felt all of it come down on me at once, and wrap me in this loving wash of light and peace and safety. I felt at one with the Universe—I could almost hear It saying, “You’re starting to figure it out, you’re starting to get it.”
And on an intrinsic level, I knew what “it” was, “it” was the process of letting go, of releasing control over my life, of learning to listen.
Before I got up to go, I signed my name and wrote my favorite quote on some scrap paper in the tin. The day had only just begun, but I felt like I had accomplished a lifetime’s worth of undoing up there on San Luis Peak.
I climbed more than a few passes that day and marveled at all the creatures I saw while walking. I laid on every log, collapsed next to every stream, and lounged at the top of every single climb; I’m honestly shocked I made any progress at all, but somehow I managed to cover over 18 miles more after my summit.
As I wandered across Snow Mesa in the afternoon, feeling parched and in a daze from all the sameness surrounding me, I waffled back and forth about going into town that night. My grandmom wanted to gift me a night in a motel (a room with my own shower! Gasp!) but part of me wanted to stay filthy, camp, and just go into town tomorrow for a resupply.
Then I considered how I’d been drinking (and wearing) literal cow shit for the last 5 days, and decided town was the move. I tried to walk faster, experienced a hitch in my right hip flexor, and slowed back down. I’d get there eventually.
When I had cell service, I called several places in town, and everyone was booked up. Then I tried the Silver Spur—they had one room left! I gratefully told the guy on the phone I would take it, that I’d be there soon, pending getting a hitch on highway 149.
As I stood on the side of the road waiting, no cars seemed to be going to Lake City, rather, everyone was headed towards Creede. Thirty minutes went by, along with only one car—but wait!
A small white vehicle came whizzing through and screeched to halt on the other side of the road, “For me!?” I mouthed and pointed at myself. Another hiker got out and the driver gestured at me. He was the epitome of the modern day hippie, a man of the road, wearing a collared, tropical shirt, unbuttoned, long-ish hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, driving back and forth across the country, living out of his car; he talked about hawks and other animals guiding him on adventures, about how death is just another part of the journey, and about how going with the flow of the Universe leads to a life well lived, and you know what, after the day I’d had, I totally agreed with him.
When I hopped out at the Silver Spur, I waved him off, and walked into the gift store to check into my room.
The layers and layers of scummy, sunscreen dirt and dust that washed off me, collected in a oily quagmire around the drain of the shower. You really have no idea how dirty you are, u til you hop into a white bathtub. The cut on the top of my foot I’d sustained while tubing looked angry and slightly putrid. I scrubbed it with soap. It took three shampoos to get my hair to feel like hair again (and to get all the dirt out from under my nails).
After bathing, I examined myself in the mirror; I’ll order two dinners, I thought to my self. I was looking a little gaunt.
After calling my grandmom to thank her, and picking up my food, I collapsed in a heap on the bed, content to zone out to Law and Order. Only 130 miles left of this adventure, I could barely wrap my head around it. I felt good, though, like I could walk another 400 if I had to.
And at some point, after going through the photos I’d taken and spending some time writing, I fell asleep in a real bed—and after saying “thank you”, of course, to the Universe for guiding me on this adventure, for leading me here, to this place. 

Thank you for coming with me on this journey! I’ll catch you again, at the end!