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Day 67 – 72: Colorado, it’s a crowd out here
Day 67 – a tough decision
After a cozy night in the abandoned radio station, I wake up to a text from my hiking buddy. Bad news. She isn’t feeling well and will head back to Steamboat.
A part of me wants to join her, hang out, and keep the gang together, but the louder voice reminds me of the race against winter if I wanna hike the San Juans and I really, really want to. In the end, I decide to continue to Grand Lake.
A few hours into my solo hike, it starts raining—warm rain, though. The trail is steep here, and I’d be wet from either sweat or rain. Eventually, I give up on taking on and off my rain gear and just let the summer rain soak me. Just before the climb to the Parkview lookout, at 12,225′, I look up to the sky, what are the dark clouds telling me? Is this a storm brewing or just rain?
There is a lower alternative on a forest service road, less exposed, less climbing. I shrug and descend, only to run into Scott (name changed), who had the same idea. Usually he hikes faster than me but today he is adjusting to my pace and we spend the grey afternoon chatting about hiking (duh!) and the music industry. Time passed so quickly we set up our tents after 37 miles.
At night the rain turns into a growling thunder storm, we’re hidden a good tree sheltered spot but the lightening keeps us up anyways.
Day 68 – Grand reunion in Grand Lake
“Off trail short cut”, I show Scott my phone displaying the Jonathan Ley maps. His route skips Bowens Pass, climbs along the blue ridge, which used to be the CDT. It’s interesting how the “official” version has changed over the years, who alternates became the official route and vice versa. The changes are not always for the best, but that’s debatable.
“We must be on the right trail”, he chuckles after we passed the third group of day hikers, bathed in clouds of detergent, sunscreen and perfume.
Hikers vs tourists
Grand Lake is a small town but close to the Rocky Mountain NP, making it a tourism hotspot. Souvenir shops line the street, shelves filled with gaudy trinkets: printed t-shirts, slogan coffee mugs and keychains. “Look at this!” one woman gasped, holding up bottle openers with a bear on it. “to remember our adventure?!”. Cheap symbols of places barely experienced. They’d go back home and shove the souvenirs in a drawer or on a mantel, where they’d sit untouched, quiet proof that they’d been somewhere. Proof that they’d done something.
The town is alive with weekenders from the city—women in spotless sundresses sipping iced coffees, couples posing by pastel storefronts, families gathered around ice cream carts. With my dusty backpack and dirty clothes, I don’t even stand out, I am just invisible to them. I pass unnoticed through the crowd, a shadow among the glittering, curated chaos.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a boutique window: tangled braids sticking out under my sun-bleached cap, a streak of dirt across my shirt, and tired eyes. It seemed like we aren’t even the same species, their vacations planned and packaged, their shiny sneakers that had never seen a trail.
Where the wild things hide
The hum of the town faded as I followed a small sign pointing to the Community Center. A plain brick building tucked behind the post office, its back doors slightly ajar. The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of old carpet and hand sanitizer. A bulletin board by the entrance was covered in announcements for yoga classes and potluck dinners. Two hikers sat in a dimly lit meeting room, their packs strewn around them like the shells of hermit crabs.
They look like me – dusty and worn, faces sunburned and yet glowing. “Dunda”, a bearded man in Altras introduces himself. “Pinecone”, I say with the same smile as always. Matt gave me my trail name on the PCT and each time I say it, I have to think of him. Fondly and nostalgic.
“Waterfall”, a second hiker with piercing blue eyes, working his way through a jug of milk and a family pack of Oreos.
“Hey, you’re THE waterfall?”
The blue eyes look at me confused. He raises his eyebrows.
“You started super early, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
I easy pack to the carpet floor, my body aching but my heart lighter. Here, among people who knew the language of blisters and miles, I didn’t feel so bad for splitting up from the girls. I text Scott to come here.
Gipsy, finally another woman hiking the CDT, appears. And to my surprise in the course of the afternoon, the little building fills up with new and old faces from the trail. Quilts are hung up in the sun, metal spoons dig into pints of ice cream. In the evening a local sticks his head out of a meeting room, “do you want some leftover pizza?”. The answer is never no.
Day 69 – getting the Sunday scaries
I arrived in Grand Lake on a Saturday. Two days too early for the post office, where my new shoes are waiting. I could hike out and hitch back in a few days or just zero. Most of us get breakfast in a small bakery before the tourists venture out of their hotels. Scott decides to zero. “Me too”, I say. The weather forecast predicts thunderstorms all day.
I wipe vomit from my mouth before getting up to wash my hands – avoiding the mirror because I know my eyes are bloodshot. Because I know I look as crappy as I feel. Disgusting. I walk back into the meeting room, lit by a single bulb that flickered faintly overhead. The community center is quiet and empty now. Everyone had left.
I lean my head back against the wall. My fingers draw patterns on the rough carpet as I stare at the floor. It was the kind of quiet that weighed on your chest like a stone, pressing down harder the longer you stayed in it.
The door burst open without warning, slamming against the wall with a loud bang that snapped me upright. For a heartbeat, I froze, the tension coiling tight in my chest. But then, there he was, a familiar, wide grin splitting his sunburnt face. Lumberjack.
“I thought you’re already in New Mexico” he says, stepping inside with the kind of energy that could warm even the coldest of rooms. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard my native language. His hair was wild from the wind, his clothes as dirt-streaked as mine, but his eyes sparkle with the light of someone who still had miles of jokes left to tell.
And just a few minutes later, the door burst open again. A bright yellow clad beam of sunshine walks in: LAF.
Day 70 – what do you mean, the campsite is full?
For the first time in 2,5 months of hiking, the campsite is full. There are 3 tent spots around the creek and they are all filled with tents. I’m baffled. Where are all these people coming from?
After picking up my shoes, LAF and I went back on trail. Hiking along the Colorado river before her back started hurting again. We split up and this time, it felt like I might not see her again. Everyone’s ahead of me now. But instead of letting the solitude get to me, I am eager to catch up.
But these tents don’t belong to anyone I know. It’s already dark when I realize I have to keep hiking to camp somewhere else. I pitch my tent in a mediocre spot, slightly irritated by the sudden influx of people in the backcountry. An hour later it dawns on me that the CDT and CT might be overlapping here. That explains the amount of people.
Day 71 – in and out of town
Heading south towards winter park, there is a fun, off-trail alternate to the CDT, connecting from James peak, Parry peak, Eva and Flora before descending. Although it is a slow moving side quest, the views are rewarding, towering high over Colorado under a baby blue sky. Maybe our unlucky storm streak is over?
After resupplying in Fraser, I run into Lumber jack, Raspberry and Scott. I’m a little relieved that only Lumberjack plans to return to trail the same evening, meaning we’ll have some 1:1 time. I’m oddly homesick.
On the bus, we start chatting to some local mountain bikers, one turns out to be a friend of dirty avocado after we tell him that we’re thru hiking. Small world.
By the time we’re finally making it back to the pass, the sky is already bleeding orange and pink tones. We chat while working our way up the steep trail, Lumberjack decides to camp before the plateau and we hug goodbye without making plans. I disappear into the dark night, tomorrow I’m tackling Grays Peak.
Day 72 – don’t sleep on 13000 feet
I am not sure what’s burning more: my lungs or my calves.
Luckily, the trail is empty this late. So no one is witnessing my embarassing feat of hiking up. The day hikers have long gone home, heading up this late to Grays means you gotta sleep on crazy altitude and who would do that? Oh, yeah – me.
The knife-edge ridge stretches out before me, narrow and precarious, slicing through the evening sky of molten gold and fiery orange, but the beauty of it feels sharp, a biting wind wind tearing at my jacket and whipping my hood back.
The surrounding peaks, once towering and majestic, now looked like humbled giants from here. Colorado has become a playground. The world beneath folding into a patchwork of valleys and rocks, all bathed in the fleeting glow of the sunset. It was painfully beautiful—so vast, so indifferent, it made my heart ache. I stopped for a moment, while the wind howls around me. The kind of view that made you feel both infinite and insignificant.
A rough night
I couldn’t linger here. The air was growing colder with every passing minute. Somewhere ahead, I needed to find a flat spot, some shelter, though I already knew shelter was a fantasy on this barren, exposed ridge.
A flash of light in the distance, faint at first, then unmistakable. Lightning. The forecast had promised clear skies, but nature had other plans. My stomach tightened. There was nothing up here but rock and air – no trees, no boulders, no escape.
My fingers, already stiff with cold, fumbled with the poles, the stakes slipping out of the loose gravel. I cursed under my breath, wrestling it into place, until finally it stood—a fragile refuge against the growing wrath of the elements. The thin walls flapping violently with each gust. I burrowed into my quilt, pulling it tight around me. Sleep came in brief episodes of exhaustion, broken by the relentless howling and the numbing chill in my toes.
Curled up against the cold, I waited for morning, counting the hours in shivers and gusts, each a reminder of how small I was out here. It was raw, it was brutal, and somehow, it was still beautiful.
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Comments 12
Google just sent me you Makes me sad I bypassed the CT part of CDT to beat the snow in ’04. I should have gone back to do it, but by ’11 I was too injured & couldn’t finish the non-AT part of the Vermont Green trail; although there was also a hurricane! I also did AT’89 & PCT’93. Now I’m not sure I can even do a 10 mile day hike on the flat Texas Lone Star trail, thanks to a 300 lb. Nigerian at work that thought it would be funny to jump on my back! Well at least I did the Alps Trail ’97 from Bratislava to Nice; & Austrail-ia ’06-’07 from Brisbane to Melbourne. Also cycled a 10,000 km circle through Europe in ’92 when nothing could be bought in East Europe but black bread & sauerkraut …. was only threads left of my tires when 100 m. from the Tallin ferry they popped! In Norway I lived off soda cans & even smuggled some cans into Sweden to buy my food. Got the last $20 out of my account as the magnetic stripe was falling off my bank card in Belgium! Any other trips will be done by kayak (like Mississippi River ’90) or electric bicycle. Keep up the excellent writing. I bet you’ve heard of the German tourist. I met her once after reading her blog. I think she has done every trail in the Universe! Sincerely David….Roadgoliath, Rivergumby, Gingerbreadman.
Hey David / Roadgoliath / Rivergumby / Gingerbreadman,
wow, your adventuring background is impressive and inspiring! The world is too big to catch every single mile, I’m afraid, but all we can do is try!
And hey, lots of rivers and lakes to be kayaked and I’ved heard of people cycling across the country on an electric bicycle – there are no limits 😉
Indeed, I read her book before the CDT!!
Thank you for your comment and keep up the adventures.
I live in the San Juans. I hike and I ski and I snowshoe in the San Juans. If anyone should be annoyed by the crowds of people coming here to scorn and snear at the tourists and the locals visiting elsewhere on weekends it’s me. You ARE a tourist. You ARE one of the people invading our backcountry and our quaint mountain towns. You ARE a GUEST in MY home. I pay taxes here to enjoy the privilege. You don’t. You wrote a brag blog about you and your trail buddies with weird names. I don’t. I post photos and information for my friends to enjoy, to understand the beauty of my state from the perspective of a resident who is here because of the outdoor beauty I explore. Why all of you snotty children feel the need to carry on about how much you have hiked and where is an insult to those of us who actually worked and planned to make this our home. Respect us. Don’t act as though OUR resources and OUR amenities like community centers are there for you to squat in. Buy shoes here, rent rooms here, eat here, while you take up space on OUR trails. At least then you contribute something to OUR economy.
Dear Carol,
my apologies for hiking in your state and thanks for your feedback on my blog, I will take it to heart and reconsider how my tone of voice comes across.
To clarify 2 things: Every thru hiker pays taxes, since well, everything is taxed.
Secondly, the kind locals in Grand Lake have opened up their community center for hikers, we were not squatting in there. We were following the rules and were warmly welcomed by the people.
I am wishing you a safe and pleasant wintersport ski season and keep up the comments! I think you are doing a tremendous job educating the snotty children.
All the best, happy holidays,
Pinecone (my apologies for the weird name)
Dearest Carol, after reading your miserable and misguided rant, your attempts at gatekeeping *public* lands confers to you the trail name “Karen”. Do you accept? Please let me know. And the next time I plan to hike in the San Juans, provided your mailing address, I’ll be sure to write you for permission. Good tidings to you Karen, be merry and bright.
Hey girl! This is a crazy take. Why read the blogs if you get so worked up by people existing on public lands?
Love,
Another Colorado resident
Oof Carol, you have so much to learn. For one respect is earned and not demanded. The lack of decorum displayed in your post certainly doesn’t help either. Maybe take the time to meet an actual thru-hiker, they’re some of the nicest, most respectful people around. Being a local you should set a better example for the region instead of being a crusty “get off my lawn” Karen.
Pinecone, I find your updates to be excellent – and apt descriptions of everything/everyone, and your mastery of English is a delight to read. Ignore the MAGAnauts above – we’re all part of this world. I hope the CDT continues to be an excellent journey for you…
Tschuss, machts Gut, und ein schone Reise…
Thank you! I am open to feedback but sometimes I don’t think it’s so much about the writing. Luckily, I have met so many wonderful, kind people on this hike, comments like that won’t deter me.
Thank you for your kind words,
appreciate it 🙂
Having thruhiked the CT is 1989 and 2020, this entry does not sound like the CT. Sound more like the CDT.
Hi Eric, thank you for your comment. You know this better having hiked the whole CT and done it twice. I am not sure what you are referring to, the CT and the CDT are the same trail in this section.
Looking at the numbers, the Colorado Trail Foundation estimates there’s annually 500 hikers completing the 486 miles trail. While the Continental Divide Trail Coalition estimates there are 150-400 hikers attempting to hike the 3000 mile CDT.
The towns mentioned and the Colorado River are not on the CT. I don’t think most of the pictures are on the CT either. Maybe you just posted the wrong post under this title.