Post-trip scoop: North Collegiates Loop

OK, so I already made three blog posts about this trip (one, two and three); that was the narrative, with all its emotional ups and downs. Here's the nitty-gritty about the trails I hiked and the gear choices I made.

This 58-mile loop I pieced together in the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness is definitely a good one for those looking to challenge themselves. While I did the loop in 4 days, there's nothing to prevent you stretching it out more (or even compressing it... though, yikes). You could also add a resupply or visit to Cottonwood Hot Springs into the trip. The loop incorporates three high passes and you can visit several nearby 14ers as well. It can definitely be made longer with side trips. Can it be made shorter? Only if you're willing to hike off-trail.

The loop can be found in its entirety on the Trails Illustrated topo map #148. (Note that the edition of this map currently in stores is inaccurate as to the current route of the Colorado Trail/Continental Divide Trail around the beginning of the Texas Creek section. All the trails that you need to hike for this loop are present and in the same locations as on the map, but the trail junction signs won't reflect the map in terms of what route the CT/CDT takes, which caused me a moment of confusion when I was out there.)

I chose to go counter-clockwise, leaving the most difficult climb for when my pack would be the lightest. I started at the Missouri Gulch trailhead. Head south out of Leadville, CO on Rt. 24. After you pass Granite, look for Rt. 390 on your right. The Missouri Gulch trailhead is well-marked on the left.

Symmetry in mountain and beaver lodge as seen from 1st roadwalk

From the parking lot, walk west on Rt. 390 until you come to the Sheep Gulch trailhead, about 1.7 miles. (This is one of two short sections of road-walk in the loop.) It's a short but steep climb up Sheep Gulch to get to the Colorado Trail/Continental Divide Trail, where you will turn west again. Though the forest here is very dry, when I went in late July there were plenty of small streams for water.

Furled gentian

The trail takes a left-hand turn and continues on a 4wd road, though I remember it being more trail-like than road-like... this becomes the Lake Ann Trail which, as it climbs, turns into one of the prettiest sections of the loop. Here you can make a side trip to climb 14er Huron Peak if desired. Lake Ann itself is one of the gems of the trip. Camping would be beautiful here in good weather; otherwise, there are spots lower on the trail. Lake Ann Pass is likewise one of the highlights of the trip.

Lake Ann

Over the pass, the trail descends into the forest for a good long time. When it finally reaches Texas Creek, make a left. Campsites are easy to find in the lower part of this valley. You will leave the CT/CDT here and continue until you see the sign for Browns Pass. Cross the creek and begin climbing. The area below Browns Pass is especially lovely, with a perfect little campsite among meadows of wildflowers. Views are awesome too.

Looking down Texas Creek valley from above treeline

Make sure you leave yourself plenty of time to finish the Browns Pass section before afternoon storms hit. The trail zigzags above treeline for a couple miles, crossing the Continental Divide three times and finally descending to Kroenke Lake. From the lake to the road, the trail is smooth and well-graded, pleasant walking. A side-trip to climb Mount Harvard could be made from here, though that would add another 11 miles.

Elephant heads from above

At the trailhead you'll need to just keep walking, down North Cottonwood Road, to pick up the Colorado Trail (Collegiate East). The road-walk turns beautiful quickly with towering aspen. Where the CT intersects the road, turn north. There won't be too much to break up the forest here, but occasional views out to Buena Vista and the pretty Harvard Lakes are nice. You'll cross the Frenchman Creek trail and eventually find yourself at the Pine Creek trail, where you'll be turning west into the last leg of the trip.

Old mining settlement along Pine Creek

The Pine Creek trail is largely exposed, with less shade than elsewhere on the loop. There are some interesting mining settlements here. You'll pass Bedrock Falls, which struck me as more of a rapids than a falls. Coming up into the Missouri Basin is awe-inspiring; the basin is massive and ringed by giant peaks. Here you could make side trips to climb 14ers Missouri, Belford or Oxford. Belford especially is appealing as it adds only half a mile and 1,000' of vertical gain to your trip.

I had planned to climb Belford originally but in the end chose not to, in order to finish my trip a day sooner. Either way, you'll be heading over killer 13,245' Elkhead Pass, one of the highest in the state. Take your time on the steep descent back to the car.

Trail conditions: A-
Certain sections were overgrown or oversteep and eroded, such as between the Continental Divide and Kroenke Lake, but most trails were well-groomed. There were no bridgeless river crossings.

Campsite & water availability: A-
There were many established sites with fire rings and logs to sit on, and outside of that the dryness of the forest and lack of undergrowth made it easy to find a place to lay down a tent. In late July at least, I rarely walked more than an hour without crossing a stream.

Views: B+
When there were views, they were stunners. High points include the Lake Ann Trail, Browns Pass area and Pine Creek/Missouri Basin. Outside of these, the forest was fairly enclosing and much of the loop is just a peaceful walk in the woods.

Wildflowers: C-
This area is very dry, and flowers are minimal. Exceptions included the Lake Ann trail, the section between the Texas Creek trail and Browns Pass, and around Kroenke Lake.

Solitude: B
It's certainly quieter out here than around Denver and Boulder, but I never went more than a few hours without seeing another person. It is fairly easy to find a place to camp where you'll have solitude.

Now for the gear! There were several items that were getting their first extensive trial on this trip.

Big Agnes Fly Creek HV UL1 tent: A-
I do like this tent. I'm not in love with it, but it is what I wanted: light (about 2 pounds), easy to set up, and looks good in photos. I'm serious. The HV model was just introduced this year, with a redesign to give slightly more head/shoulder room and a more vertical door to prevent rain entry. I've had 9 or 10 nights in the tent now and it's only a hair slower to set up than a traditional dome tent. I thought I wouldn't like the front entry door, but I do. I don't find it any more awkward than side-entry, and there are some advantages... I can reach for my gear in the vestibule without having to sit up, and the vestibule itself, while small, is more pack-shaped than the traditional triangular vestibule. I love the 3 mesh pockets on the inside for organizing my junk at night. The tent does have kind of a coffinlike feel to it, and my shoulders brush the sides when I sit up, but it turns out that doesn't bother me too much.

I had chosen this tent over a TarpTent Notch because I didn't think I'd want to fuss with getting the pitch right on a trekking pole tent when I was at my most tired every day. Oh, why am I not in love with it? I'm not sure it's possible to be in love with a tent that makes you feel like you're in a coffin. But the weight : ease-of-use : cost balance was right for me, considering there was a 20% discount and REI dividend in the mix. So far,  I've been pleased with my decision.

I don't know if I'll use the tent forever. The problems that I had with my knees definitely made me renew my commitment to going light... and I enjoyed being outdoors for a week so much that I was finally thinking, maybe I'd actually enjoy just sleeping under a tarp. We'll see.

Homemade polycro tent footprint: A-
Since Big Agnes is staffed by crazy people who charge $60 for the footprint to my tent, I made one myself out of polycro, AKA window shrink-film, for about $1. This plastic is puncture-resistant. (It's not heat-resistant, obviously, so don't leave it in your car all day... like I did with the first one I made.) It works well and I'm definitely pleased with the cost and weight savings. It's just a little tricky sometimes to get it laid out because it wants to blow away even more than a traditional footprint. I did duct-tape some bungie to it so I could fasten it to the tent poles.

Darn Tough light hiker wool/poly blend crew socks: A+
Wow. I love these socks. Maybe I'm odd but I think they're my favorite piece of gear right now. So soft, not too hot during the day, warm at night, just cushiony enough so that I don't feel all the grit that gets in my shoes. They also don't stretch out of shape. Plus, Darn Tough has a warranty where if you manage to wear out their socks, they will send you another pair for free.

Pacerpoles trekking poles: A+
These poles definitely get the Gear MVP Award for the trip. Pacerpoles are a brand of trekking pole with an especially ergonomic grip, allowing you to get more thrust with less strain on your body. I relied heavily on these to get me and my aching knees down hills. I could put quite a bit of my weight on them and never experienced any hand or wrist strain. The company offers free shipping to the US and a free trial period; check 'em out.

Note that I'm still using my 1992 Camp Trails Catskill backpack, which could delicately be called bombproof. I'd review this pack, but pretty sure it went off the shelves some time ago. Nonetheless, I do want to mention that I finally had something break on it: the stitching connecting the hip stabilizer strap to the pack ripped, which is why my hipbelt looks asymmetrical in the pic. I stitched it back up, of course. I've been trying on packs but nothing is as comfortable as this one, so it could be a while.

Sawyer Mini filter: D
This thing crapped out on me on the trip. The flow rate slowed until it was almost impossible to get water through, and repeated backflushing didn't help. So, while I loved it up until now, I think I'm going to abandon it and try the higher-flow-rate Sawyer Squeeze.

Adidas Terrex Agravic trail runners: ???
I was kinda forced to hike in these when my boots started giving me trouble in the first 6 miles of the trip (I had to hitch back to my car and start over; see link to part one of the story at top). Despite my worries about the soles being too squishy and about twisting an ankle, they did awesome. Except that at the very end of the week, a couple of my toes went numb and my foot swelled up. The doctor said my toes are hypermobile and are going to want to bend up too much. Soooo... honestly, I loved the experience of backpacking in trail runners, but it's in question whether I can actually wear them without injury. I would like to try some of the things he mentioned (taping my toes, different insoles) before I go back to boots though.

Leukotape: A
I put some tape on problem spots on my feet the first day of the trip and it stayed on all four days. Great stuff. Hard to find in stores but you can order it online.

Wet Ones sensitive skin hand wipes: A
I'm used to washing with a bandana and some camp soap while on the trail, but for this trip I switched to twice-daily "wipe baths" on problem areas. It worked well. I tend to get breakouts on my hips and shoulders where the pack rests, and the problem was cut about 75% with the wipes.

And a bonus:

Oatmeal: D
Oh, my God. Instant oatmeal becomes completely gross when you're forced to eat it every day on the trail. Never again.

I've discovered I get especially sick of sweet stuff after a few days, which is not only surprising as I have a huge sweet tooth in everyday life, but also kinda sucks because it's the sweet stuff -- Clif bars, candy bars, etc. -- that's the most cheap and convenient. Jerky, nuts, and the few kinds of savory bars that exist are a lot more expensive, and I can't digest cheese... I guess I'm thankful to like peanut butter as much as I do. But if anyone has suggestions for fairly healthy savory snacks that won't break the bank, let me know.

I tried to have more variety in my food this year than I did on last year's trip, but I still kinda failed. For anyone planning a long-distance trip, I don't think I can possibly overstate how much variety matters.

Finally, a bit of news: today I got word that my surgeon had spoken with the insurance company and I'm now approved for surgery on the pinched nerve in my shoulder. I don't know when it will be yet but I know they're trying to get me in as soon as possible. That, along with the fact that I'm waiting for my foot to heal, might mean no adventures for a while. But since there's apparently some interest in my continuing to blog, I'd like to see what else I can come up with to keep you entertained. See you soon!

Dehydration and disillusionment

This story is a continuation. To read the previous episode, visit http://sedimentarylifestyle.blogspot.com/2016/08/no-epiphanies-just-goats.html.

I no longer felt like an impostor in a heavy pack from the 90s, but like the real thing. I did know what I was doing!

That night, I managed to dump beef stew into my clothing, just before bed. In bear country.

The beef stew was my only freeze-dried dinner. I used to eat these more in the past, but since I'd discovered it was easy to make your own instant-cook dinners out of potato flakes or microwavable rice in a ziploc, I'd pretty much stopped buying the name-brand offerings. I'd brought only one on this trip, for a treat and some variety. These dinners cook best if you keep them insulated while they rehydrate, and I'd always done that by closing the seal on the bag and carefully placing it in between my insulation layers and my rainjacket. Well.

There I was, sitting on a log doing some chores when I thought, Wow, I can really smell that stew. Then I thought, Hm, I can really smell that stew. Like, more than I should be able to. And I opened up my jacket and yes, my friends, the package had leaked: the outside of my down hoody and the inside of my rain jacket were both covered in brown slime, peas, and tiny cubic chunks of carrot and potato. It was approximately 8pm and the sun would be down soon.

Using my in-line Sawyer as a gravity filter... yes, I know really the filter should be toward the drinking end of the tube.

(Interestingly, and unbeknownst to me, my shampoo had also quietly unsealed itself in the car and was slowly leaking out of my holey toiletries bag and onto my clean clothes.)

Though I wasn't crazy about being coated in stew in bear country, I wasn't afraid either; the honest truth is that we all smell like food all the time to bears, whether or not we can actually see the food on our bodies. But we get bits of food and drink and sweet-smelling toiletries on our clothing and skin throughout the day. Our packs smell like food. Our breath smells like food. (One might even argue that we are all, inside our skins, effectively stew.) And I wasn't alone here; there were several groups camped just a stone's throw away, so if a bear wandered in we could hopefully scare him off together. I would wash as much of the soup out of my clothes as I could and not worry about it.

While I wasn't afraid, I was annoyed and demoralized; I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep, but now I had to stay up another half-hour wiping and scrubbing and wringing. And I felt like a fool. The thing I had always done -- insulating food packages in my clothes -- suddenly seemed like something only a total idiot would do. And this was the third major thing that had gone wrong on the trip so far: first was the shoes, and second was my filter.

I'd been using a Sawyer Mini, one of the lightest filtering solutions. In the picture above, it's the blue-and-black cartridge below the bladder. I'd heard some people complain about their Minis, saying the flow rate inevitably got too slow and the filter too annoying to use, but I'd never experienced it -- until now. Though I'd backflushed the filter a couple times on this trip already, it wouldn't clear up, and water was barely coming through.

It wasn't a life-threatening situation -- I had iodine tablets, and could also boil water if I chose (and drinking straight from a stream won't necessarily make you sick) -- but I had let it result in something not so great. Because I had the filter in-line on my bladder, I was sucking water through it, and only a little was coming through with each pull. This meant, er, I had to suck longer and harder, but I guess despite my efforts I just didn't drink nearly as much as I usually do. And the urination situation was not great that evening. I knew I had to do a much better job the next day of getting enough water into my body, for my kidneys' sake. In the picture above, I had set up the bladder so that gravity would slowly force the water through the filter and into my bottle while I was doing camp chores, and then I could drink freely from the bottle and let it refill.

Cold morning at Frenchman Creek

The next morning I woke up in a bad mood. All of a sudden it didn't seem fun anymore -- the dry, half-dead forest, endless chores of packing and unpacking and cleaning, cold nights and mornings, being out here alone. It's so hard. Why am I doing this, when I could be having a hot shower and hanging out with my friends? Something easy? I got out of my tent. The morning was a cold one. A part of me was happy, though, since that meant I got to keep my down hoody on -- usually, I make myself take it off before I leave camp since I know I'll be hot after 20 minutes of hiking.

And the bad mood didn't last long. Morning is the best part of the day for me on the trail. It's so silent and peaceful and a wonderful temperature for hiking. When 9am hits, the day is "ruined" already -- hot and crowded with day-hikers. (Of course, it's still better than any day at the office!)

Fireweed in the morning light

I hiked from 6 to 9am without seeing anyone. It was blissful. I wished it could have lasted even longer, but a dozen noisy members of a youth group from Minnesota were climbing up toward me.

I think when people imagine me going backpacking alone they imagine that I will literally be alone in the wilderness, but in fact that three hours was the longest I went all week without seeing other people.

By 10 the magic and the good mood of the early morning had already faded. I had reached Pine Creek valley and the sun was beating down. Here I would leave the Colorado Trail and its community of friendly thru-hikers for the last time, turning west into an area where I'd likely only encounter climbers bent on bagging as many 14ers in a weekend as they could. I sat down heavily in the shade by the creek and, whether it was physical discomfort or frustration or loneliness or just exhuastion, felt tears come into my eyes.

I was tired and sad. I'd wanted to spend this week with others, sharing fellowship with friends or members of my hiking Meetup group, but once again this year it proved difficult to corral people who had the time or fitness level for a such a trip, or even one half the length. The people who did this sort of thing were out there -- they had been streaming past one by one and two by two any time I was on the Colorado Trail -- and I wanted to be with them.

I got up after an hour of moping and snacking and walked to the signpost where my trail turned off. It was there that I spotted a brilliant blue gentian -- the first I'd seen in days. Why here when they weren't at Kroenke Lake or Texas Creek? It's a mystery why flowers grow just where they do. I actually laughed.

Coming down the trail toward me was a thru-hiker. I don't know how, but it was usually possible to tell at a glance who was out there for the summer and who just for the weekend. It was a multitude of things, I think. A purposeful stride, open gaze, certain cliched thru-hiker gear items like Smart Water bottles, or just that they looked comfortable in their own skin and under their packs. This fellow stopped when he got to me and we talked for a while. He was from Tennessee and yes, was trying to hike the whole Colorado Trail.

Another thing about thru-hikers: they were more likely to be alone. I think most that I met were hiking with a buddy or partner, but many were alone, including one woman I had spoken to the day before. "Sorry for my off-key singing," she said as she approached from the north. "I do that whenever it gets a little too quiet on the trail."

"I do too," I said.

She looked like she'd just gotten out of college. I asked if she was a thru-hiker. "Trying to be," she replied. She seemed to still be a little uncertain about the trail and being out there alone, though I admire her more for it. When we parted I looked behind me and saw she had a sign stuck to the back of her colorful pack:

THRU-

HIKER

I wished I'd taken a picture. You'll have to settle for the guy above instead.

Resigned to some loneliness, I turned left and headed up Pine Creek valley.

Looking at the map before the trip, it had sounded wonderfully cool and shady. To be brief: it wasn't. It was gloriously open, which can be wonderful under the right circumstances, but it was a terribly hot and cloudless day by that point. I humped my way up the trail thinking, where are the pines??

A couple hours in, I was growing more seriously depressed. The trail was pure dust. The grass around me was dead, with a handful of dying flowers sprinkled in. This wasn't what I had come for. In fact, most of the landscape of the Collegiate Peaks had been a disappointment up close. Aside from a couple sections, it looked like it had had the life baked out of it. All year I'd been waiting to get away on my July trip into the cool heart of the mountains and see real green and rushing streams and meadow after meadow of wildflowers, and there had been very little of that. And I was bitter.

I'd had my mishaps and was feeling a bit beaten, and now there wasn't even a blooming flower to balance out the bad. At this point I thought, well, vacation's a wash for this year. That's just the way it is. I picked a place and it was the wrong place and things went wrong and it wasn't fun. The promise of that first night headed to Lake Ann won't pan out. I'll finish up and head back to my miserable life and try again next year.

I took a break at an old mining settlement, where I saw this little whorl of stones half-hidden in the grass. I walked it as if it were a labyrinth, and back out, and then stared around me at the same grass and withered buds.

The chinks of the log mining cabin were covered with flattened tin cans. Say what you will about its natural beauty, or lack thereof (I just did!), the Collegiate Peaks area certainly isn't lacking in history.

And I kept walking, because what else was there to do? A half-hour later I smiled when I spotted some wild strawberries ready to be picked.

Finally a live columbine (with friend!)

In the hottest part of the afternoon I indulged in a little bath at a bend in the creek that was hidden from the trail. It was too cold to get all the way in, but I splashed water over myself, scaring the trout. It was a pain, the rocks were sharp, and it took way too long to get it done and get dressed again, but I was still glad I'd done it. You can't just go through life year after year without taking your clothes off and getting in a creek once in a while. You can't.

By late afternoon I was finally approaching the upper reaches of the valley. I'd originally meant to stop here for the night. In the early morning I'd break camp and march up steep Mount Belford and then down to the car. But there was still light left, and maybe if I camped just a little closer, I'd have an easier climb tomorrow... so I kept walking. And walking.

I was in the Missouri Basin. I'd never seen anything like it. It was massive, many times the size of any alpine basin I'd visited, and ringed by 14,000' peaks.

Feet photo for Mom

It's impossible to illustrate the scale of the place with a photo. While still sore about the dead grass and flowers, I was beginning to feel impressed. The weather was pretty fine, still hot and windy now but not threatening to storm anytime soon, and I could have camped there above treeline with that amazing view all around me. But I was beginning to have thoughts.

If I skip Mount Belford and just keep hiking, they went, I can get back to my car and hit Cottonwood Hot Springs tonight. And I'll still have a few days of vacation left. Tomorrow I can go to Aspen just over the pass and see some real green, and real flowers.

Mount Belford was supposed to be the crowning triumph of my trip. On the fifth day of hiking, with a heavy backpacking pack, I'd muscle up to summit my first 14er, silently thumbing my nose at all those who were climbing it with a light day pack after a good night's sleep in a hotel.

But, you know what? 14ers aren't my thing. Wildflowers are. And I was sorely missing the color green.

There was some green, of course, and patches of stunted flowers here and there, as you see. I'll allow that some of it wasn't half bad.

Ahead of me was still Elkhead Pass, one of the highest in Colorado (the second-highest, in fact, on this Wikipedia page of same) and certainly the highest one I'd ever tried to climb. In the picture above, it's the lowest spot in the wall in front of me, and it looks so short! It would be another two hours before I was on top of it.

I was moving so damn slow. I don't know how much was exhaustion and how much the high altitude, but I could only take a few steps before I'd have to stop. There wasn't much to think about. Just one foot in front of the other slowly, for a long time. And then I was at the top: 13,245'.

Looking over the pass. The saddle in the middle distance is Hope Pass, at the bottom of which I first hopped on the trail with ill-fated boots.

Evening would come on soon but for now it was still hot as the blazes. Thanks to the shifting orientation of the trail, the sun had been precisely on my left all afternoon, and would continue. I was barely keeping ahead of having my left arm burnt to a crisp by repeatedly slathering on sunscreen. It was a relief to finally descend below treeline and get out of the sun for the first time in hours.

I still had a long way to go. It was 3,500' of vertical drop from the pass to my car, most of it on very steep trail. I was fixated now on the idea of making it to Cottonwood Hot Springs for an evening soak. No, I didn't want to wait till morning; by the time the place opened at 8am tomorrow it'd already be hot in Buena Vista. I wanted to soak in the cool evening air. It was going to be tough, though, as I'd read that they closed at 10pm, and it would be a stretch to make it to my car by 8.

I practically ran.

Though I've always been a bit clumsy on trail, twisting an ankle at least twice per hike (no, I'm not exaggerating), I didn't stumble once in the two hours I was racing down the trail. I was focused. And though it'd been a long day, my body now felt fine -- no aches and pains, no sore knees. I was flying.

One of the blissfully less-steep sections of the Missouri Gulch Trail

Still, not fast enough. When I burst onto the road, I wasn't finished yet. There was the dreaded road-walk. And I knew I wouldn't make it unless I could get a ride.

There was no one around. It was wednesday, dead mid-week.

Still, I picked up the pace, striking out hopefully through the dust. After half an hour, I heard wheels, turned around and stuck my thumb out. She stopped. It was a nice woman who was driving up and down the road looking for a friend who was supposed to be camping in the region. She told me to hop in. My car was safe and sound where I left it, and I turned and spontaneously opened my arms to this near-stranger for a hug, then stopped, embarrassed. She hugged me anyway.

I raced to Cottonwood Hot Springs. They didn't have any tent sites left, but I paid to soak, and took a long shower beforehand, washing out my trail clothing. I discovered at this time that my shampoo had emptied itself into my toiletries bag. Thinking the damage minimal, I rinsed the bag out and went to go soak.

It was dark at the pools. I found a quiet niche and lay on my back, watching the stars and fading in and out of sleep. While I was pleased to be here and proud of myself for doing another 18-mile day to make it, completing a loop that turned out to be about 60 miles with the boot-sponsored backtracking, I was really too tired to properly enjoy it. Plus, my legs were getting wobbly. At one point I tried to take the stairs into another pool and when my legs decided to stop supporting me I collapsed into it, laughing.

I did enjoy the hot springs after a manner, especially the slightly eerie feeling of not knowing what the place where I lay actually looked like, seeing little but the stars above and being half-in and half-out of sleep all evening. The pools were in fact open till midnight, and I exited only just before, heading to get dressed and then discovering that the shampoo was in fact all over the inside of my clothes bag.

Damn.

I was up after midnight washing everything out. The shampoo was ridiculously frothy and tenacious. But if I was heading back into bear country tomorrow -- and the Maroon Bells - Snowmass Wilderness is definitely bear country -- I didn't want anything on me to reek of fruity, flowery shampoo. While I scrubbed, staff members wandered in and out of the locker rooms impatiently, wondering when they could close up.

At 1am I was beyond exhausted, searching for a place to camp on the dirt roads outside town. I finally found a place on National Forest land to pull over and conk out in the passenger's seat.

Alpine fireweed (?), only slightly withered, from the hike down from Elkhead Pass

I didn't set my alarm, but the elusive 8 hours of sleep I'd been unsuccessfully seeking all week still failed to materialize, the sun pouring through my front windshield in the morning. I looked around. I'd parked right next to where the Colorado Trail crossed the road, a ways south of where I was last on it. I wondered if anyone I'd met on the trail had passed by while I was asleep.

It was thursday; I didn't have to be back at work until monday. Four days. Hey, you know what's a great four-day loop outside of Aspen? Why, the Four-Pass Loop. One of Colorado's most beautiful and most famous trips. I'd done a section of it last year, but I was waiting to return until I could gather companions. I didn't want to be in the most beautiful place in the state and have no one to turn to and say, "Wow, look at that!"

However, the way things stood... My hand was growing weaker by the week; even now it was difficult to grasp the zipper pull well enough to close up my jacket. It was withering like the flowers I'd seen in the Missouri Basin. And though I was going to be having surgery, it wasn't a sure thing that the surgery would fix it; there was even some small chance it would make things worse. In short, I didn't know where I would be in a year, a decade, or whenever I could find friends to do this with me.

Was it really so bad to experience great beauty alone?

A vista from last year's trip in the Maroon Bells - Snowmass Wilderness

Flexing my hand open and closed, I decided to do it. But that meant I had to get moving. I had to buy a new filter and maps and rent a bear canister. I rued the expense -- I already had the right map as well as a bear canister at home -- but it didn't make sense to drive back to Denver, and anyway, I'd spent nothing other than gas money on my trip so far. Was $60 really too much to spend on a week-long vacation? I know from experience that bear canisters always seem to be the first things out of stock at outdoor stores; true to form, the Buena Vista and Leadville shops were all out. I called the shop in Aspen. They had them, and I was on.

I also really needed a cold Dr. Pepper.

The Dr. Pepper was a little easier to secure than the bear canister. Unfortunately, when I opened it, it exploded all over me and the inside of the car.

I gave a big sigh. In so many ways, this was just not my trip. I pulled over at a gas station to re-wash my formerly shampooey clothing and the passenger compartment. But I was feeling committed now and excited about getting onto the Four-Pass Loop. I was really going to do it! The trip I'd been reading and dreaming about for years, always thinking I'd never be in good enough shape for it. My back-to-back 18-mile days had convinced me otherwise pretty well.

I headed over Independence Pass to Aspen. When I arrived in town to pick up the bear canister, I saw I finally had T-Mobile service again. And I had a voicemail. Against my better judgment -- I was on "vacation"! -- I listened to it.

The insurance company had denied my surgery.

My heart went cold and heavy. I pulled the car over and listened to the message again. I tried calling the doctor's office back, but no one answered. Tears were coming to my eyes for a third time this week. What part of permanently-losing-use-of-my-right-hand made this an elective procedure? Surely there was some mistake... but right now, I was tormented with visions of everything I would lose -- was losing, moment by moment -- as my hand withered. I wanted to race back to Denver and get the whole thing straightened out.

In the end, I pointed my car again toward the trailhead. I felt hollow inside, and wanted to cry a lot more than I had. My God, this year! But if I couldn't enjoy great beauty with a light heart, I could still take comfort from it with a heavy one. It didn't seem like the worst idea in the world to hike back into the wilderness for a few more days. Heaven knows, the ability to set one foot in front of the other on the trail now seemed the only thing in my life I had control over.

When I finally pulled up to the National Forest ranger station, they told me that overnight parking was full. (The loop has gotten quite popular in recent years.) I'd have to enter via another trailhead, adding 10 miles to my trip. Fine. I could do it. Though it would mean hiking into the dark, and I'd told myself I was going to be stopping by 6pm from now on and actually get 8 hours' sleep.

But I really wanted to do this, and what's one more night of pushing?

It was about 6pm when I was finally able to start. The moment I stepped onto the Maroon-Snowmass trail, I took a great, deep breath. Everywhere around me was green. It was rich and lush, a thick understory beneath bone-white aspen. I immediately felt better. The trail itself was red from the eroding sandstone, and patches of colorful flowers peeked on either side. Though it was getting dark, I was happy.

Hello, friend

Sunset on sandstone

I don't particularly like hiking in the dark unless it's a deliberate night hike, done with friends on a trail chosen for its safety, and I especially don't like having to make camp in the dark when I don't even know what my surroundings look like. But I was resigned to this because for me to do 36 miles and four 12,000' passes in just over three days was going to involve some hiking in the dark, and I'd rather get it out of the way first thing. Besides, I knew this trail. I'd taken it last year and I knew the locations of the very few campsites there were, carved out of the thick understory. There was a particular one I wanted to make it to before I crashed for the night.

I hit the steep part of the trail as it turned dark enough for me to need my headlamp. Rocks and roots loomed out of the darkness. This wasn't much fun now, and it wasn't going to be much fun till morning. This was now The Thing I Had To Get Through in order to get to the good stuff. As it became completely dark, I began to sing and didn't stop.

I sang everything I could think of, back to back. A random song would pop into my head and then I'd sing all the rest of that artist's songs that I could remember. There was a lot of Simon & Garfunkel (though not I Am A Rock, nor Sound of Silence). There was a little Arlo Guthrie and maybe some Joni Mitchell. I refused to let fears creep into my head, instead filling up the space with music. It was a challenge because I was moving steeply uphill, but I'd sing one verse, breathe heavily for a bit, then sing the next. Lawdy, I sang and sang.

I know I don't make the same choices other people make. I can't think of a single one of my friends who would have done this, or at least not my female friends. And really, was I afraid? I was what I usually am when alone in the woods in the dark: highly alert and a bit uneasy, but not filled with fear. Aspects of it were pleasant. I do love to sing, and I definitely loved how great the finally cool air felt, and how gorgeous the stars were. The forest was silent. In all it was a moment of great wonder and beauty, and spookiness.

Yeah, I did that.

And now it was 10pm and pitch black, and I couldn't find the campsite I was aiming for. All I could see in the glow of the headlamp was thick plant growth.

Stay tuned!!

No epiphanies, just goats

I was driving south out of Leadville when the views opened up again and I got a real glimpse of the mountains I'd be climbing into. And I thought, Dear God, why?? They're so high!

After poring over maps at REI, I'd chosen a 55+-mile loop in the Collegiate Peaks. In my core knew I could do it. I tend to be over- rather than under-prepared, by nature. But the trip I'd planned was more than twice as long as any loop I'd done in the past, and I'd never been to the Collegiate Peaks before, and, and, and. Between my excitement about the trip, the trepidation, and worries about my life in general, I'd gotten exactly 1 hour of sleep the night before.

Life hasn't been the smoothest lately -- I've been going through an extra-stressful period in the most stressful job I've ever had. Worse, I'm experiencing severe muscle wasting in my right hand due to a pinched nerve, and as the fibers die off, the lost muscle can't be regained. It's getting hard to hold a mouse -- or a trekking pole. I need to get into surgery as soon as possible before I effectively lose the use of my right hand. The doctor's office was trying to get me in right after my trip would finish up. It would have to happen, despite the fact that I'd also just found out my rent was going up $90 a month, and I needed to find a new place to live (and moving is hard enough when you haven't just had surgery). I asked my landlord if I could possibly stay a little longer without having to sign a lease; the answer was no.

I seriously considered cancelling this year's vacation just so I could maybe get moved into a new place before the surgery. In the end, I couldn't bear to cave into my fear. Things will get worked out somehow. Some day -- hopefully soon! -- this period in my life will be over; but I'll always have the memories of what I did on my summer vacation.

Now... from my experience hiking trails and listening to others who have hiked trails, including the big ones, I have gathered that if you go to the mountains looking for an epiphany, you will be disappointed. The idea of setting out on a 50 (or 100, or 2,000)-mile walk and finding yourself and finally knowing what you want to do with your life is only an idea. In reality, you will be the same person you have always been. Your flaws and problems and areas of indecision will remain. Change may exist but it is subtle; in other words, this walk was not going to solve my life. So I had a much more achievable goal for the trip: I wanted to see mountain goats. I really, really wanted to see mountain goats.

I'd seen them before -- up pretty close, even -- in Glacier National Park, where you couldn't avoid big wildlife if you were trying. But the one time I'd seen Colorado goats, it was from so far away that even with another hiker's binoculars I still couldn't figure out which white spots were goats and which were snow. I wanted to see goats for real. Not half-tame national park goats, but wild ones, shaggy on a mountain pass I'd worked damn hard to get to. My life was a mess; surely I deserved goats.

That was my hope as I set off. I'd chosen my parking place so that the loop would start out with the largest section of roadwalk I had to do; it's always a bummer to finish a big hike, triumphant but exhausted, and then realize you still have to walk four miles down a boring-ass road to your car. Best to get it out of the way first. It was 10AM and hot, and cars sped past, kicking up dust that set me coughing. I was at the tail end of a three-week cold, still a little congested, and just hoping my lungs were healthy enough for what I was about to do.

Soon I was able to hop on the trail, where the Colorado Trail Collegiate West / Continental Divide Trail stops descending from Hope Pass and begins to head west. I walked. I stopped to pee about 50 times. A hummingbird investigated my orange shirt. Shadows lengthened... I'd gone about six miles when I realized suddenly that my foot was killing me.

I looked at my boots. I'd never had pain before in these boots. They were the second pair I had owned of the same model and were crazily comfortable -- or had been, till now. Just a couple months ago I'd done a trip in them with no problems. Now, it felt like my toe was being crushed with every step I took.

I took off my boots and tried to soften the leather by rubbing a stone over it, so it wouldn't buckle against my little toe. No go. Then I stepped in a stream, hoping a soaking would make them more pliable. Nope.

When I looked closely at my toe I realized I'd developed some kind of cyst where the boots were pressing. It hurt quite a bit. I tried wrapping my toe; some thru-hikers stopped and offered supplies; but nothing I tried worked. I was afraid I'd have to give up on the trip when I'd barely started.

I limped back to the road and dragged myself pitifully in the direction of the car, exaggerating my limp and sticking my thumb out when an SUV passed. They kept going... then stopped a ways up the road. It was a family. They put the dog in the back and let me climb in, and I remain eternally grateful.

When I got back to my car I put on my trail runners, which provided some immediate relief, and drove to Leadville for more first-aid stuff. And a cold root beer (very important). I wrapped my toe a little better, stuck it back in my shoes and drove this time down the section I'd road-walked before so I could get back on the trail at a reasonable hour. I'd have to walk that section of road all over again at the end of my killer loop, but I put that out of my mind for now.

Hitting the trail -- again -- at almost 6pm, eight hours after I'd originally started

Demoralizing? Maybe a little, but I was so relieved to find I could hike with minimal pain in my trail runners that I forgave the lost eight hours.

As I climbed into the mountains on the Lake Ann trail, the forest got cooler and wetter and more beautiful. The sun was setting on the peaks to my left, turning them orange, and ahead of me were the jagged silhouettes of the Three Apostles. My heart filled up with joy, and my eyes actually filled up too. It was so beautiful I was literally crying. I couldn't believe I got to do this -- that I had the privilege of being in this place, seeing these things. I was in disbelief that such beauty even existed. I was also embarrassed and hoping I wouldn't pass anyone else on the trail just then. But that awe and ecstasy are what I live for, why my "vacation" was walking 55 miles with 30 pounds on my back. And I began to sing. First, "How can I keep from singing," and then any old thing, from Methodist hymns to Herman's Hermits. I was very happy.

The Three Apostles

As it got dark I set up camp in a meadow. Though I'd passed many people on the trail and there were others camped a bit downhill from me, it was my first night in the woods alone in a while, and it was spooky as ever. Every noise startled me. I had also set up the tent on possibly the lumpiest patch of ground I'd ever managed to camp on, and I only increased my sleep debt from the night before (though I will say I managed more than 1 paltry hour).

When I woke up, it was cold. There was ice on the tent. WTF, July? I was only at about 10,600'.

Frosted monk's hoods at dawn

But the trail was just lovely, with abundant flowers and views. In fact, I would recommend the Lake Ann trail to anyone looking for a nice overnight trip. When I reached the lake I ran into a group of four hikers who were out for the week; we would leapfrog each other on the trail for the rest of the day.

Above turquoise Lake Ann

Columbines from behind

Almost to Lake Ann Pass!

Looking north, with La Plata peak the highest point in the distance, on left

My trail runners were working just fine and I had very little foot pain. I was here! And I'd planned the loop so the biggest climbs and best views were for last, so surely everything was only going to get more beautiful from here. I dallied a long time at the top, taking photos and trying to figure out what distant peaks and ranges were with my map and compass. Most of Colorado's ranges have their own distinctive look; the Collegiates themselves I have always admired from the car, with their bare triangular facets.

As noon approached storm clouds did too, so I followed my new acquaintances down the other side of the pass and into the forest. I want you to know a thing: while my trip reports (and probably everybody's) are filled with lovely pictures of peaks, passes and flowers, depending on the trip, most of it may in fact look like this:

Here we are, walking for hours through the trees... in the rain

I'd always found the forest sections quite a bit boring, and when I'm bored my body seems to hurt more and the miles stretch on and on. But this time, perhaps because I knew just how much walking I had ahead of me, I seemed to go in with a more patient attitude and found the forest sections meditative rather than boring. I soon noticed just how empty my mind was -- and how much I liked that. My head felt clearer than it had all year.

I was walking south along the west edge of the Collegiate range, with a big basin and other, distant ranges glimpsed sometimes through the trees to my right. I caught up with the other hikers at a stream for lunch and we stared as a group of motor bikes plowed through. The forest was dry and devoid of any understory beyond the tiny green plants you see above, but just occasionally, the water table would near the surface and the forest would turn to aspen and flowers in a little oasis. I would cross a tiny creek and within steps the forest would be dry and dusty again without a flower in sight.

Toward the end of the day I descended into a gulch, with big peaks right in front of me. It was time to turn left into the Texas Creek valley. Abruptly the character of the forest changed, with big orange-barked pines standing aloof from each other along the flat valley floor. One of my favorite things about hiking in the mountains is getting to see just how much, and how suddenly, the plant communities can change as you walk. Before I stopped for the night I came upon a lone bunch of monkeyflower, one of only two places I spotted this plant all week long.

I don't see the resemblance.

That night I was slightly less spooked in my glade not far from the monkeyflowers, but still didn't manage to get eight hours of sleep. In the morning I passed the junction where, if I turned right, I would continue along the CT/CDT to Cottonwood Pass and then onto what was supposedly one of the most beautiful sections of the whole Colorado Trail, Cottonwood to Tincup. Unfortunately I hadn't been able to work that into my trip, but I knew that the four friends, behind me now, would be passing that way. They would have to enjoy it for me.

I climbed up through the Texas Creek Valley, passing sleeping backpackers in their tents but no one hiking. As soon as I crossed the creek to take the trail to Browns Pass, it was like a switch was flipped and everything became gorgeous, with flowers cropping up on either side of me and little streams trickling through everywhere.

When finally above treeline I looked back and thought, wow, I walked that whole valley.

I was alone on Browns Pass.

The path continued up from here -- usually, a pass is the high point! -- as it crossed and re-crossed the continental divide, and I walked for an hour alone above treeline while the trail meandered toward Kroenke Lake. Once again my heart sang and I felt immeasurably privileged to be here. There is a high I get from backpacking, a combination of endorphins from a good workout and awe at the incredibly beauty, and it's very much like a drug. Also like a drug, it doesn't last, but thankfully the only side effects I know are missing my friend's parties on summer weekends and the tendency to spend too much money at REI.

I looked at the mountains in front of me, and by God, I thought again, I walked that! I had come from completely out of the picture on the right, walked around the furthest-out peaks on the left, and then up the long valley. I had simultaneously a great awe for my own body and also for the people before cars and trains, who walked across this continent and every continent. If I could do it, then it really isn't such a big deal, is it. But look at it! Look how far that is! And that was in less than 48 hours.

Eventually my little cloudwalk ended and it was time to descend the east side of the divide, toward Kroenke Lake. Here the going got rough, the trail steep and overgrown with lots of roundish rocks that liked to roll out from under my feet. There was still plenty of snow on the east side of the divide, and more flowers.

Almost iridescent-looking penstemon

Sulphur paintbrush

After I took this shot I realized my trekking pole was in it, and took another shot without it, but perversely I decided I liked the first better for its symmetry. Elephant heads and Kroenke Lake

Now I was really getting into the groove of things. After lunch at the lake, I descended the long and nicely-graded trail through the valley, stopping to indulge in a new ritual I'd developed: washing my feet and socks in the stream. I'd never bothered to wash clothes before mid-trip, since most of my trips weren't long enough to warrant it, but the trails were dusty here and my trail runners were getting a lot more stuff in them than my boots had.

I scrubbed my socks under the water and attached them to the back of my pack to dry, taking the now-dry socks I'd washed the day before and putting them on clean feet. A little bit of civilization in the wilderness. As I continued on through the week I would come to really appreciate the routines I'd fallen into for setting up and breaking camp and for mid-day washings; they kept me on track when I was exhausted or demoralized, and restored a sense of normalcy when I was lonely or scared.

It was a hot day despite the clouds, so even though washing my feet in the freezing river had actually left me chilly, I still wanted to soak my shirt in the river too. I dipped it in the 40-degree water and pulled it on over my cold body, and it was still ecstasy, like the shock of jumping into a mountain lake and the first sip of a cold root beer combined. And somehow -- just like the one hot shower I got on my trip last year -- that moment and the ten seconds that followed were the absolute best of the trip.

My stint on the Kroenke Lake trail finished with a short road-walk through the tallest aspen trees I'd ever seen. I descended enough that I was finally seeing scarlet gilia; lovely but a little bittersweet, knowing that every thousand feet I came down, I'd have to climb back up again before I made it back to the car.

As I examine this sign now while writing the blog, it's making me learn things... ok, so the Collegiate Peaks aren't a range, but a section of the Sawatch Range. I'm not going back to change it. I'm tired.

I turned left here onto the Colorado Trail, Collegiate East section. (More on the CT and CDT later.) Now as I hiked north, I could look out to my right through gaps in the trees into a broad basin and out to Buena Vista. The forest was dry, dry, dry, but every now and then another aspen oasis would appear.

My first-ever sighting of bear claw marks on an aspen tree, above my head

My first-ever sighting of a high-heeled shoe on an aspen tree

I was feeling disappointed for not seeing any wildlife, when I looked to my left and realized I was seeing wildlife -- not just wild, but crazy: giant iridescent bugs, each over an inch long, clustered on a lupine plant, eating and mating. They were striking. I had never seen these things before. And I'd passed a bazillion lupine plants by this point, but only this plant had bugs on it. Nature, you wacko.

Some thru-hikers wandered in from the north, noticed I was staring at nothing, and then noticed the bugs. We ended up watching and talking about them for half an hour. In the end they thanked me, saying the random bugs were awesome and they'd never have noticed if I hadn't been there. (I'm embarrassed to say that when people pass me on the trail I'm often off to one side staring at something that nobody else can see, like a spider or a bit of slime mold, or nothing at all.)

That evening I had planned to stop at the Harvard Lakes, making a whopping 15.5 miles for the day, but I was astounded to reach them at just 4 o'clock. There were at least four hours of daylight left, and while I was tired, I wasn't too sore. It made all the sense in the world to keep walking. So though I was pretty slow on the uphills, I walked on to Frenchman Creek, hitting it at 6 on the dot. Time for dinner and bed! I had done an 18.5 mile day, twice as far as any day I'd backpacked on any previous trip in the mountains, and I felt just fine.

This bowled me over. Thinking back a couple years, I remember how I struggled to do 5 miles a day on our Rocky Mountain NP trip, or what a Herculean effort it was to make the 8 miles up to our camp below Conundrum. While I'd heard of (purported) human beings doing 20- to 30-mile days on thru-hikes, I thought you had to be in some insane kind of shape for that. I had my doubts that it was something I would, or could, ever do.

Now, suddenly, I felt as though I were "for real." In my mind the possibility opened up of hiking the whole Colorado Trail, even longer trails... I no longer felt like an impostor in a heavy pack from the 90s, but like the real thing. I did know what I was doing!

That night, I managed to dump beef stew into my clothing, just before bed. In bear country.

Camp at Frenchman Creek

Stay tuned for what happens next!