CDT: San Juans, the best is yet to be hiked
Day 81 – Rushing to my zoom call
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The satisfying sound of frozen ground. I pull the sleeves over my knuckles. Still no gloves. Each breath is visible, little clouds dissipating into the blue-gray sky. A cathedral-like silence fills the valley, my footsteps are the only sound. Close to Lake Ann, someone is cowboy camping, a bundled-up hiker burrito surrounded by frost.
After Lake Ann Pass, the trail either goes west or east. The sun slowly climbs over the peaks, promising to thaw the hikers wandering through the Colorado mountains. I sigh, zoom in and out of Farout, trying to make a decision. East or West?
Cottonwood Pass is brimming with cars and people, mainly families snapping pictures or walking out to the viewpoint. This was supposed to be my lunch break, but where can I hide from the crowds? I find a tree to sit behind and pull off my sweaty socks to dry before shoveling cold-soaked Ramen into my mouth. If I want to make it to Salida by Saturday, to have my job interview sunday morning, it’s gonna be a long day.
Night hiking games
A northbound Colorado Trail hiker crosses my way, “where you’re going? You gonna be above tree line for ages!”, he claims. I shoot him a tired smile and nod. That isn’t really something I worry about. The CDT / CT weaves along and over ridges, the terrain is rocky, reminding me of the lava fields in Oregon. Weariness is creeping into every muscle. Slowly, daylight is slipping away, the golden hues of late afternoon surrendering to a dim, shadowy blue. The sun, now low on the horizon, cast long fingers of light across the mountainside. I spot another hiker below some gnarly switchbacks.
“Have you seen any good camping?”, she asks while wandering off trail, looking for flat spots.
I turn around and squint, trying to remember, I am still so far from today’s destination, I hadn’t thought about it. I shake my head.
“Not in a while, sorry. Up there seems more flat?” I point at the switchbacks, the woman nods, as tired as I am. I wish her good luck and continue.
When I night hike, I play this game with myself: How dark can it get before I lose the trail or stumble over rocks?
The second time the CDT almost has me flying, I surrender. I drop my backpack, pull out my rain jacket against the cold, strap on my headlamp and put in my headphones. Some upbeat music will delay my fatigue for a little bit longer.
It’s pitchblack when I descend down to Tincup Pass Road. To my surprise, I am not alone. Multiple little dots of light are dancing around the valley on the otherside, northbounders.
I trek on into the night, stars piercing the indigo sky. After 35 miles I collapse inside the thin cocoon of the tent, a brief moment of peace. For now, there was shelter – an imperfect barrier against the night. Two packs of tuna is the only food I have left. I dreamt of ice cream that night.
Day 82 – See you in Salida
“I know you.”, a couple is coming up the trail. Long blond braids and a familiar face: Blaze, the physical therapist specialized on thru hiking, of course, a thru hiker herself and her partner are hiking. We stop to chat for a few minutes before I head in opposite direction, feeling lighter despite the miles still to go. The morning cold seemed less biting now. Running into the two fellow adventurers was the sort of moment that made the mountains feel less lonely, the kind that stayed with you long after you left the trail. People who understand the draw of the mountains, the pain of the climb, and the indescribable reward of moments like these.
A trail runner and his three white dogs pass me on the way to Monarch Pass. I feel slow after yesterday’s effort. Slow and really, really hungry. Earlier today the CDT went by some hunting camps, huge, sturdy tents and big gear boxes. September, it’s the season. Little did I know that there will be way, way more of them.
Day 83 – Getting the trail blues
Roaaaaaar, I flinch. The sound of the coffee grinder rips through the quiet hostel, painfully loud. I pour the grounds into the filter with careful precision, inhaling the rich, earthy scent. It felt like a ritual of sorts – grounding, centering. The upcoming interview looming large in my mind, a knot of nerves twisting tighter with every passing minute. Meekly, I grab my cup and go out to the patio, wearing my only clean clothes: a fleece hoodie and leggings. Do I look unprofessional?
The moment the screen is loading and the other person logs into the call, my nerves melt away. He is wearing fly fishing gear and sitting in his car. This should be pretty relaxed. Half an hour later, the interview is over, my mug is empty, through the window I can see other travellers rummaging around the communal kitchen.
3 months on trail – no reason to celebrate
Instead of feeling happy about the prospect of another adventure in the future, I suddenly feel lost and alone. Three months ago today, I started hiking the CDT. Glacier national park seems like a lifetime ago. The wave of emotion hits me unexpected and buries me under it.
I wander through downtown Salida, colorful buildings and picturesque streets, small businesses and independent coffee shops. Charming, really, but today I can’t enjoy it.
A few hours later, after Soggy Whopper’s (CDT class 2023) (propably the weirdest name so far, right, Karen?) girlfriend Julia gave me a lift* back to Monarch Pass, I was back on trail.
*she wasn’t even headed there, she saw me hitchhiking and had time to drive me up there… how can you not love the people in Colorado?!
Day 84 – Waaaait for me, boys
The CDT meanders through forests again, up and down towards Lake City (which, fun fact is nothing like a city). I run into Rockslide and Watermelon again, two Colorado Trail hikers, and we catch up. Inspector, Lumberjack and Mugwort should be not too far ahead of me and I am eager to catch up to familiar faces.
Day 85 – Lenny
I have been standing on the side of the road for over an hour, the handful of cars that passed me did actually that: pass by and not stop. I pull out my kindle while I wait for another opportunity to hitchhike. The road is surprisingly empty.
But I don’t get far in my book before I hear a vehicle approach. I stick out my thumb and try to make my smile not look as desperate as I am.
“Where are you from?”
“Germany”
The man just laughs – what’s so funny about that? He notices my confused look.
“Ich bin aus Halle (Saale).”
Lenny is a carpenter and has been living in Connecticut for the last 12 years, working on a horse rescue ranch owned by a wealthy philanthropist. His life story is captivating and each time he answers one of my questions, more pop up. The drive ends way too soon.
“Here we are”, he pulls up outside the general store. I’m a firm believer that people don’t cross our paths by accident, but that it is instead all part of some storyline that unfolds in mysterious ways.
Lake City is once again charming spot in Colorado that I wish I had more time in. The kind folks at the Presbyterian Church have opened a hiker center including meals, snacks, wifi, hang out area and friendly faces to chat – thank you so much!
Day 86 – and for Colorado’s next magic trick….
I wake up to an unfamiliar sound outside of my tent: another hiker twisting and rummaging in their quilt. The cold seeping through our layers (yes, I write a lot about the cold. It’s the theme of Colorado fall, I guess).
Mugwort and I leave camp together and are instantly stunned by the dramatic landscape. The San Juan Mountains unfold before us like a colossal, jagged kingdom, each ridge and peak carved from time itself. Above the treeline, the world was stripped bare, raw and immense. Muted greens and yellows vivid against the stark gray of the peaks. Excitement boosts my energy, eager to explore this beautiful section of the CDT, I’m almost flying over the trail.
Then, a low rumble, so distant at first that it could have been a trick of the wind. To the west, the sky was darkening fast, blue bleeding into steel gray.
Beauty in the brutal
Within minutes, the storm unleashed itself. Hail began to fall, bouncing and skittering across the rocks like mischievous spirits. The wind picked up, sharp and cutting, sending the hailstones flying sideways. Pulling the hood of my rain jacket tight against the onslaught, I crouch low, feeling the sting of each icy pellet. I look behind and see Mugwort’s bright yellow jacket in the distance. Reassuring myself that I am not alone.
But even in a storm, the San Juans refuse to lose their grandeur. The mountains, shrouded in mist and hail, seemed alive, their ridges sharp and untouchable.
When the storm finally began to wane, it left a thin coat of white across the rocks, as if winter had briefly staked its claim. The sun pierced the retreating clouds, scattering golden light across the wet stone. Words and pictures don’t do this place justice.
Magic, the San Juans are pure magic.
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