I leaned into the hissing cold shower, head pressed to my forearms, pressed again to the fiberglass walls that pressed back weakly. Wrapped in a threadbare towel, I drank deeply from the tap, hoping it might awake an appetite absent three days now. I sat doubled over, with head in hands on the edge of the bed, a single thought running around my head. “I wasn’t meant to be here.”

“Thank You, Failure” tells this story in full, but the short of it is; I was supposed to be on the Colorado Trail, and instead, I was bailing from the Oregon Timber Trail due to heat exhaustion and smoke inhalation. Sick, dehydrated, unfed, and very, very frustrated it would take some time to come to terms with that trip. Eventually, I was able to embrace its lessons and come to love the whole god-damned spectacle of it. But layered deep within those lessons I couldn’t shake the feeling I had that night in Paisley, Oregon, in that strange rented room where I spent two days hiding from the smoke. That deep knowing that I was supposed to be in Colorado.

Fast forward a year. 2019 chugged right along and I had a grand ole’ time riding my bike. Gravel Camp was a ripper, the Idaho trip was good fun and I was racking up the unpaved miles. But all the sudden it was Short Track season, and Cross would be right on its heels. Where was the big adventure? I hadn’t done anything to really stretch myself all year and I could see the Fall just stacking up.

My wife and I talked it through, and with a window in my schedule for late September, she basically told me “You need to do the CT.” Who was I to argue?

It was hasty and messy. I was physically healthy but hadn’t trained specifically for this type of adventure, and I was solo. So basically, it was like every other trip I do. The one difference? This was the freaking Colorado Trail, 539 miles, 72,500 feet of climbing and an average elevation of 10,000 feet.

Well I didn’t make it.

Oh sorry, did I ruin it? When I originally planned this trip two years ago, it was for July. Now, nearly October, I would have two hours less daylight per day and I’d made a decision before starting that I wouldn’t ride at night. It just wasn’t worth the risk, being solo with almost no one out on the trail to help if I got hurt. 2 hours a day, after seven days, is one full extra day of riding. This is just one reason I was behind schedule, and just one reason I pulled the chute. But that’s jumping ahead. Here’s how it played out.

My departure was sudden. With little more ceremony than a picture at Waterton Canyon trailhead, and a high-five and hug from my brother, I was on my way.

The 6 mile approach is lovely and VERY popular with Denverites getting out to enjoy the beauty, fly-fish, ride bikes as a family, and check out the big-horns. It lulls you in to forgetting that you’re at elevation and riding a fully loaded bike, but as I would learn, the CT doesn’t let you relax for long. As you reach the official start of the trail, it kicks sharply up and gives you a nice quick taste of what you can expect for the next week or so. Lung searing climbs, flowy single track, ultra-technical test-pieces, and unrideable uphill chunk. Day 1 was short because we drove down from Fort Collins, but as daylight faded, I reached my goal of the 40 miles and the start of the first detour around the Lost Creek Wilderness.

I slept well in the cold that night. I was still quite low (camped at 7500 ft), but the frozen dawn served as a crisp reminder that it was truly Autumn. Any precipitation up this high would surely be snow and I would need to avoid camping in exposed zones, otherwise I’d be pushing the limits of my 15 degree bag.

The Taryall Detour began harder than I expected with the first 30 of 74 miles rolling relentlessly up and over little ridges. I began to worry I wasn’t going to knock it out in a day as I’d planned. My goal was to be right up near Kenosha Pass so the following morning I could get up and over Georgia Pass early. I was maintaining my Summer strategy of staying off the high peaks in the afternoons, constantly calculating miles, time of day, riding time, hours till dark, and it was only Day 2. The difficulty of the morning had me stressed that I was falling behind schedule and couldn’t possibly get to Durango in the window I’d allotted myself. The Math, it wasn’t adding up. And this fucking gravel road just kept rolling with endless 500 foot climbs in and out of the washes. Time to take a beat.

I told myself “Look dude, you’re not out here to do math. No one really cares if you finish in 7 days, 9 days or not at all. You’re not racing. You’re here because it’s been calling you, so it’s pretty simple. DON’T, MISS, A THING.”

And that was that.

Sure, I still had to do some math, and be strategic with my riding, but I just took the pressure off myself so I could breathe it all in.

The second half of that detour flew by (mostly because of the 17 mile paved section I didn’t know about) and I stopped at the Taryall Saloon for a late lunch and re-supply before getting on my way.

Flying high on my full belly and having nearly finished the detour I COMPLETELY blew passed my turn for the CT re-entrance and merrily climbed 6 miles of washboard, 1500 vertical feet up, in the wrong direction. SHATTERED.

That very hard, but blissful climb had allowed me to turn off the brain for a while. The evening sun pulling brilliant greens from the grasses in the drainage and a gentle breeze creating an ocean like sway. I’d been so content to navigate the washboard and looking forward to setting up camp in the daylight that it never dawned on me I could have missed that turn.

I descended back down. 6 miles! Did you seriously just make a 12 mile wrong turn after an 80 mile, 9k foot day?

I was fortunate to find a nice little campsite tucked under some trees for shelter and a bit of warmth. 90 miles, 11k feet of climbing, 13 of them in the wrong direction, and a shelled body.

I made dinner, I took stock.

“That was HUGE day, and you screwed up. You got tired and made nav choices without double checking. You know better. But guess what? You crushed it too and Colorado is taking care of you so far with perfect conditions. DON’T FUCK UP TOMORROW.”

An early start beneath a breathtaking sunrise, coffee and tear-down, I knocked out the 5 miles to Kenosha and entered the Aspen Zone.

The next 12 miles of climbing up Georgia Pass are some of the most memorable of the trip.

They were HARD miles, but it’s all hard. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but much of it is. Getting into the Aspens was, well, I’ll explain that later. No, Georgia Pass left its mark because it felt like the gateway to the mountains in earnest. Cresting that wide open, grassy col; a saddle between unknown high points, being able to see all the way to Breckenridge and behind me all the way to Kenosha, this felt like the Colorado Trail I’d dreamt of. And I’d finally arrived.

Opting for an early night in Breck to do a bit of bike work and re-charge batteries I woke early on Day 4, made short work of an incredible breakfast at Amazing Grace and was on to the frigid climb out of town. Gold Hill and up into the Ten Mile range didn’t disappoint. With some brutal hike-a-bike sections, the parallels to riding in the alps were impossible to overlook. Wide open drainages beneath corniced ridgelines, scree fields and late summer runoff. High on the shoulders of 10 Mile, I met “Honeydew” (trail name). A 70 year old man from Seward, Alaska, he had these ageless eyes and was hiking the CDT solo while his wife “Cantaloupe” was taking a few rest days with a swollen knee.

I crested 10 Mile early in the day and dropped into Copper which was basically CLOSED till Winter. Inhaling a few slices of bad Pizza, I got on with the task of climbing up to Searle Pass.

Searle would prove to be my favorite climb of the trip. The riding was exceptional. It follows a massive drainage from the pass filled with glowing aspens, quaking in the breeze and only looking out of place for their lack of a moose. Buttery switchbacks and steep challenging rock gardens near timberline, the ascent pulled you along with the promise of magnificent views.

Near the top I met three thru-hikers whose glow and energy seemed to rival the very aspens they were about be enveloped in. We stopped and talked for a bit, grateful for the break, I cherished these brief encounters with hikers as they added another layer of color to an already perfect day.

I made Kokomo Pass shortly after leaving Searle. Dropping a raucous descent, I once again plunged into that golden light of a boggy meadow lined with aspens. I crossed and began climbing once more, this time toward Tennessee Pass. I would reach Tennessee, my fourth pass on the day, and first below 12k feet, in the dark, at my limit, with a significant mechanical, and altogether satisfied. Just over 40 miles and 7k feet of climbing, the numbers didn’t reflect the difficulty of the day, nor the majesty of it all.

I slept in a bit, knowing I was heading for a bike shop in Leadville that wouldn’t open until 10. The night prior, as I climbed Tennessee at about an 8% grade, I thought I’d snapped my chain. My pedal gave way to any resistance and spun freely, but when I looked down, all was in tact. I stopped, back pedaled and it once again engaged. This happened about 7 times on that final climb and I was certain the issue was in the hub. No Bueno.

Fortunately, it gave me the opportunity to hang in Leadville, meet Rafa (the owner of Leadvelo) and get the hub serviced and a brake-line bled. But it killed a half day. As I made my way toward the Mt Elbert trailhead, the math began to creep back in again. Not enough riding hours, too many delays. But once I made it to Elbert, math was replaced with nostalgia and I surrendered to the ride once more.

8 years prior, nearly to the day, I’d summitted Mt Elbert with my dog, Blue. It was a day nearly identical to this one. Warm but with that gentle breeze that carries the promise of a frigid autumn to come, Blue and I naively went for a walk and ended up on the top of Colorado’s highest peak. He was that kind of dog. So, I might have shed an odd tear for my buddy, well hidden beneath the exertion of climbing Elbert’s vast shoulders. I miss my pal.

Next up was Twin Lakes and a landscape that seemed to transport me to New Mexico. Two more hard climbs, two more incredible descents, and I finally made my way through those iconic tunnels that mark the gateway to Buena Vista.

Day 5? 6? Was I beginning to lose track?

I knew it didn’t matter anymore. Just like it didn’t matter how hard, or how long a hike a bike section was because, I still had to get up the damn thing. The only thing that really mattered was being able to take in the reward of moving beyond it, the view, the descent, the simple end to difficulty. Whatever the payoff, I was grateful for it each and every time. And they were plentiful.

On the descent to Princeton Hot Springs I spied a pretty horrible sight. Far to my South, a mountainside was a blaze and smoke peeled up the ridgeline and filled the adjacent valley. My lungs had a flashback to the year prior but before the anxiety could take hold, I worked out that the fires were far enough in the wrong direction to come into play. But they served as a reminder that thus far, nature was taking it easy on me and how quickly it could all change.

Foose Creek seemed like a lovely place to make camp that night. It turns out that I shared that opinion with a cow moose and my night was filled with endless moo’ing as she roamed all around the river valley, circling the camp, never dangerously close, but always annoyingly loud. I didn’t sleep. I just wasn’t comfortable in that little meadow all night. Not afraid, just maybe feeling the effects of a week solo, with some very difficult days planned ahead. I woke early, broke camp at sunrise and tried to rally. But I knew right away, my legs hand nothing to give.

It was Day 7 and for the first time on the trip, I felt truly fatigued. I walked the most pedestrian of rock gardens, and gentlest of inclines. My heart rate soared at the least bit of difficulty and when the final pitches of Foose Creek climbed impossibly vertical for about 200 feet, things became dark, very dark. The trail had turned to scree, so loose I could no long push the bike up and lock the brakes because it would just skid back toward me. I had to turn the bike sideways and sort of shimmy the whole thing up before taking another step. We repeated this inelegant dance for what seem an eternity. But as is the way, the CT rewards. At an unnamed pass just South East of Monarch Resort, I arrived, broken. But as luck would have it, I’d have to swallow the pain, because I was to share that little summit with 6 day-riders who had shuttled from Monarch. They kindly offered to take my photo, and prodded me about my experience.

The day stretched on with the usual mix of brutal and serene, chunk and flow, but it was something else that would bring my trip to a screeching halt on Sargeants Mesa.

Ever since Breck, I’d known my system was flawed. Put aside being way behind schedule, late in the season, and alone, my real problem was power. I had redundant navigation tools (iPhone, Explorer GPS, Wahoo) but my rechargeable carriage that I’d planned to use to power these tools had failed to work, and I’d been milking things along for days. Purchasing new AAs should have allowed me to top up, but it was dead in the water. The weight of this had been building, and at Sargeants it came to a head. My analytical inner monologue listed out the facts:

1. You feel good (I had rallied pretty well in the afternoon)

2. Your bike is fine

3. You have food

4. You have the equipment to stay safe

Here’s the problem

1. You need power to navigate the remaining detours

2. If your GPS completely dies, family who are tracking are going to freak out

3. Sargeants Mesa is supposed to be the hardest part (but you can’t tell if it’s in front or behind you

4. Those are definitely snow clouds and you’ll be sleeping at 12k tonight

This was my only bail out option until at least the next day and even this would require a solid 15 miles to a town. My foundation was good, my mind was good, I’m confident I could have pressed on.

But I didn’t.

It wasn’t even that hard of a decision. Disappointing? Yeah, sure. Do I feel like I bailed with my tail between my legs because I was unprepared, unfit, and mentally defeated? Not remotely.

In fact, I felt like I’d given things a pretty good go with the time I had to work with. A few things had gone wrong, some my doing, some just bad luck. I’d been inefficient a couple times and it’s amazing how quickly you can rob yourself of half a day of riding. Bottom line, it just wasn’t going to go.

I dropped about 4,000 feet over the next 10 miles and did another 6 or so with my head down into a cross-headwind to the town Saguache. I found a roof and a bed and within 12 hours my brother had made the drive down from Fort Collins to pick me up (because he’s my big brother, still). He wasn’t about to let me ride 25 miles to catch a bus that would take a full day just to get back to Denver.

So I’m left with this question, “how loudly are the San Juans (the uncompleted portion) calling now?”

Answer?

It’s deafening.

The Colorado Trail: Trip Report