Not In Denver Anymore, Toto

In thru-hike land, a day feels like a week and a week feels like eternity. Despite mentally and physically preparing for a challenging trek across Colorado, week one of my thru-hike threw me mishap after mishap.

My first day nearly became my last due to a surprise injury; I spent two very cold, soggy nights on the ground after my sleeping pad promptly refused to hold air; I was awarded a trail name & received trail magic for the first time; and I crushed my first 20 mile back-to-back days, all within a week.

Take a seat, grab some popcorn, and tune in to week one’s blood, sweat, and tears on the Colorado Trail.

Hiking the Heat Wave

Starting bright and early out of Waterton Canyon amidst wildfire smoke and a hot day ahead, my good friend Kyla and I enjoyed the flat, leisurely warm-up miles as we got all our pre-hike jitters out. Pretty soon, we were on trail and climbing, sussing out limited water sources and making friends each time we stopped. My pack was weighted down with 6.5 days of food (plus an absurd amount extra), but I was giddy with excitement at being on the trail I’ve dreamt about for over a year. 

Halfway through the day, I began feeling a stabbing, sharp pain in my foot — something was wrong. Sure enough, after a 16.5 mile push to the South Platte to camp with the gaggle of hikers who started with me, I found myself hobbling into camp, hardly able to stand.

I’ve been an avid zero-drop Altra Lone Peak supporter for years, even completing a shorter thru-hike in them with no injuries. However here, just a tiny fraction of my journey in, and I was already crippled with a foot injury.

In a heroic effort to keep me on trail another day, my beloved partner drove hours roundtrip to snag me an emergency pair of new shoes and hand-deliver them to me at the trailhead we were camped near, not remiss of an ice pack, cupcakes and fresh fruit.

I fell asleep that night on an anxious frenzy, wondering if day one on the trail — a trail I quit my job for — would be my last.

The Trail Provides

The following day was a long, dry stretch through the Buffalo Creek burn area so we got an early 4 a.m start to beat the heat. Watching the sun rise over the desert-esque hills was breathtaking.

Yet, as I trudged on, I couldn’t ignore the shooting foot pains that still plagued me. After many miles of this, I began to question if the fire station — our next man-supplied water source with a road into town — would need to be my bail point.

As the saying goes, the trail provides. I’ve always been a bit skeptical of this saying, but my trust in the process led me right to a hike-saving soul named Bob.

The section hiker, who’d suffered the same injury as myself, took matters into his own hands, showing me where and how to tape to reduce my pain and gifting me several pieces of KT tape. Within a mile of putting his medical advice into practice, my pain was gone.

The remainder of the day was dry, dusty and hot with little water and no shade. As we trekked on towards Bailey, I hoped that the first week mishaps were under control (boy, was I wrong).

After long days of spotting minimal water sources in near triple-digit temps, I rolled into camp in the pouring rain. In the middle of the night, I awoke on the cold, soggy ground with a deflated sleeping pad.

Every hour, I awoke to revive it; every hour, it sunk to the ground. So was the pattern the following night, in which I ultimately conceded the battle and slept in my rain jacket to retain body heat.

As the sun rose on the next day though, so did my spirits, as another angelic gesture emerged to save the day. My good friend (and impressive trail runner) beared the steep 5-mile uphill climb first thing in the morning to hand deliver a foam sleeping pad, along with sweet treats, to get me through to Breckenridge. It would only be uphill from here!

Rachel to the rescue!

All Trails Lead to Oz

After hiking through dense forests for so long, I dropped down into a lush, wildflower-dotted valley after Lost Creek Wilderness. A mellow, wave-y grade on maintained path was welcomed graciously after a rugged stretch of rocky wilderness steeps.

The valley before Kenosha Pass opened up, swallowing me whole in its greenery. As I meandered along the winding trail, I stopped frequently to admire the tall grasses swaying in the breeze, mama and baby moose munching away off-trail, and vibrant pockets of Mountain harebell, Alpine daisies, and Indian paintbrush that made up the meadow’s tapestry.

The following day, I awoke to a stunning sunrise and a long, gradual climb up to the famed Kenosha Pass. Living in Colorado, it feels extra special — and surreal — to spend days hiking to these destinations that I frequently drive to (in much less time). Kenosha Pass would be a significant milestone.

Again, scrambling my way up to the pass felt right, like I was finally at home in the mountains. At the top of the pass, I found myself happily reunited with two friends we’d made days prior, in the heat of the day near Jefferson — Siesta Queen and Pinky.

The day’s climbing was far from done (see: 2,000+ feet of vert up Georgia Pass to come), but we basked in the sun and embraced Siesta Queen’s namesake — a lengthy morning relaxation sesh.

It was then that I was named “Oz,” in which our friends giggled as they recounted a pivotal moment after we’d met.

On the hottest day, after our 10-mile water carry, I forgot my fanny pack with all my essentials and made the walk of shame back to the fire station to retrieve my things. Upon my return, Siesta Queen offered a tip: to click my poles together and turn in a circle to make sure I didn’t forget anything else.

“Like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz!” I exclaimed. I fondly recalled Dorothy’s signature ruby red slippers clicking three times.

Since then, I found myself repeatedly forgetting things every time we stopped for a break, which we ultimately dubbed an “Oz moment,” hence my forgetfulness.

After celebrating with a trail name ceremony, the day only continued to go up (in elevation and in joy). I received reviving trail magic at Kenosha Pass, climbed up and over the beautiful Georgia Pass to camp just below the crest, and logged my first 20 mile day.

From there, the next day was a jumble of excitement for my first town day, which was quickly stifled by terrifying lightning storms and heavy rains that forced me to scurry amongst groves of trees  

Despite the stormy weather, however, I hit 100 miles on the CT and shortly made my way into the town of Breckenridge, my tummy grumbling for a burger (which was swiftly satiated) and a much-needed rest for weary bones.

Ya Get What Ya Get

After nearly a full week on trail, I’ve found myself struggling to reflect — possibly because there’s so much trail left, my brain can only fathom to my next water source. In the past week, it felt like every Plan A, B, and C I’d schemed up were foiled, leaving me to adapt as best as I know how.

Like in life, not all plans go accordingly. But on a thru-hike, the stakes feel much higher when said plans go to hell.

In the wake of all the mishaps — the injuries, gear failures, and unmentioned blisters that wreaked havoc on my feet, it still feels mighty good to know I was capable enough to push through.

As I tackle the next section of trail, with high hopes that the worst of my misfortune is behind me, I’m eager to enjoy the beauty of the alpine environment to come.