Part Sixteen: No Pain, No Gain

I. New Reality

I woke up groggy this morning. The shrill cry of a boreal owl had pierced the quietness of the night and left me twisting in my sleeping bag, searching for rest. I went through the motions: ate a quick breakfast, packed up, and moved on. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow.

My foot was already barking by the time I started walking. The pain came in stages – fierce and sharp in the mornings, then dulling to a steady throb as the day wore on. The two pills of ibuprofen I took daily lowered the aching, but by evening, it came roaring back, and I would limp into camp like a man twice my age, searching for relief.

Throughout the day, the trail shifted between ATV tracks and a narrow thread of dirt through the forest. I followed it religiously, escaping the darkening sky behind me. A storm was somewhere back there, trailing me like a hunting dog. 

I stopped under a bridge to rest, and sat on the cold pale stone, racked up on the riverbed. The water whispered past me, peacefully. I took a handful of Sour Patch Kids and threw them in my mouth – these chewy, gummy, sour-then-sweet flavored candies I was now addicted to. 

The climb ahead was long and steep – the kind that breaks something in you just to rebuild it stronger. The kind that forced you to draw energy from the depths of your body and mind. There would be a lot of those throughout Colorado. Up here, the trail didn’t care how much my foot hurt. It didn’t care if my spirits were low or my strength was running thin. It didn’t. So I kept going.

One foot in front of the other, trying to make it to camp before dark. The trail turned cruel – steep, uneven, roots sticking out like old hands trying to grab my feet, sharp rocks pressed up like a blade, stabbing through my shoes and making me reminisce about a time when I was pain-free. But I kept going.

At dusk, I pitched my tent in a clearing, exhausted, but my heart lightened by the distance gained. I’d gone farther than I’d planned. I was proud of that. As I zipped into my tent, something screamed out in the forest – eerie, sharp, and wild, echoing off the trees. An elk, maybe? I’d never heard one before.

The next morning, in the twilight’s cold, I stepped out to relieve myself. I stood half-naked beside a tree when a light suddenly flicked on in the distance – high in the trees, steady, unmoving. A headlamp. A hunter. He paused when our headlamps met, then his light turned and moved on. It was a strange moment.

The climb resumed. My foot wasn’t healing – but it wasn’t getting worse either, and maybe that was victory enough. Pain had become my trail companion. My shadow. It followed me at every turn, at every single step, and when I forgot about it – even for a moment – it tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me it wasn’t going anywhere. I lost hope that it’d leave. Instead, I learned to accept that this had become my new reality for the rest of this journey – I learned to walk with it.

I didn’t know how much longer I could keep this up. But I also didn’t care. My body could scream all it wanted, as long as I could take one more step – I was not quitting. 

II. Pit Stop and Tire Change

Wednesday, September 4th – Steamboat Springs

Cars sliced through the wet road with a hiss. Rain had fallen most of the morning, and the sun was only now coming out. I stood by the shoulder, thumb up, watching vehicle after vehicle barrel past without slowing. Rejection used to sting. But I was used to it now, it barely registered.

However, hitching here seemed to be more difficult than I expected. Despite the wide shoulder allowing for cars to pull over, nobody stopped. Most drivers were tourists, and they weren’t interested in picking up a wet, trail-dusted hiker. I can’t say I blamed them.

Finally, one car stopped. The guy rolled down his window: “Can you pay money?” he asked.

“What?”

“Do you have any money? 

“How much?” I replied.

“I’ll take you for forty.”

I laughed and politely refused. “How about thirty?”

“Nah, I’m all good man.”

I walked away, hesitant. But soon enough, another car pulled over. Mike was at the wheel, another hiker named “Semper Dry” riding shotgun. Trail magic.

Mike drove us into Steamboat Springs and even offered a ride back later. I resupplied at Safeway, grabbed a bus into town, and wandered into the town in search of a shoe shop – my last hope after the main outfitter had decided to shut its doors today for inventory. There I found a pair of Hoka Speedgoats. I knew it was a risky bet to try new shoes out on the trail, especially since these were not zero drop like I’m used to, but my feet were tired of suffering. I figured it was time for a gamble.

Back on the trail, clouds gathered again. I walked through intermittent hail and rain, put on my rain jacket, and kept moving. The sky finally cleared just before dusk, painting the last few miles in hues of gold and magenta. I made camp on a white, hail-covered ground and crawled into my tent as the temperature fell, and as rain started to fall again.

​​The following morning, the world outside was wrapped in mist, the sun a glowing orb behind shifting clouds. I packed in the cold, wearing my puffy coat and gloves. Clouds waltzed across the ridges as I climbed, fast but silent, like giant ghosts. 

The extra cushioning in my new shoes brought some relief, but by late afternoon, the pain returned, same as before. Deep. Relentless. The kind that wore you down. I stopped early, set up camp in a dry spot, and let the stillness settle around me.

Friday, September 6th

The trail led me through a burn zone. Blackened trees stood like silent, skeletal sentinels. The first climb hit hard, and I took breaks where I could. At the ridge, I caught sight of the Parkway Lookout – a small hut perched high above at the top of the steepest mile on the CDT. The climb looked brutal. And it was. But slowly and surely, I made it, taking my time. I sat down by the hut and ate lunch, watching over the whole land like a guardian.

The descent came fast, dropping thousands of feet to the highway, and I made up for the time lost in the morning. I crossed the asphalt and picked up the trail again through another burn zone. Strange mushrooms popped out of the soil, and late-season berries appeared on branches. My foot barely hurt, and for a second, I dared to feel hopeful.

I made camp by a weakened stream, the water softly trickling through the grassy meadow.

Tomorrow was a town day. I already felt the pull of it.