If there is such a thing as a transition day on the CT, day 4 was it. Camped aside Halfmoon Road I slept off and on, waking to the buzz of CTR racer’s hubs cruising by in the night and the cars of dawn hikers heading up-river to start their Mt Elbert climb.

The shoulders of Mt Elbert, late in the Fall, are beyond compare with aspens in full bloom. But mid-summer, it also does not disappoint. What is it about these aspen groves and their gentle applause and green green embrace? It’s magnetic. It makes you just want to stay right there like some fairy tale where you’d live an impossibly long life and ask the passersby of the way of the world and tell of the things the forest had seen. Anyway, I like it there.

Alas, Twin Lakes was calling and that long winding road into Buena Vista.

Settle an argument for me will ya? My brother has told me that the locals pronounce it Beeuna (like beautiful) Vista. Which to me is just wrong. Then again, I’m from Portland where they insist Couch Street is pronounce Cooch Street. Anyway, leave a comment if you have the inside track on this one. Till then, it’s still a proper Bwayna Vista to me.

While in BV, I got some new pads and a new rotor on the bike, loaded up on groceries at the natural food store and got not one, but two Impossible Burgers at the food cart (eat one now, one later). The skies dramatically opened up for the first time of the trip, but I was safely stuffing my face under an umbrella with the other diners.

I rolled out of BV, climbed and descended Mt. Princeton and made camp at the Chalk Creek Trailhead where I would feast on m second burger, and rest after 65 miles and 5700 feet on the transition day. No easy days on the CT, but that’s about as close as you get. Especially when you know Day 5 is Fooses Creek, or as I know it, god-damned Fooses Creek.

Before get to Fooses though, I’d have a wholely different experience altogether.

5. Let them in

Shortly after starting Day 5, I came across a woman running the opposite direction with a number pinned on and followed closely by a man wearing a “Pacer” bib. She thanked me for pulling off the trail and I didn’t think much of it. Clearly a race was going on and judging by how she was moving, it was going to be a long morning for her. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The next pair I saw were a couple of men in their 20’s. Again, I pulled aside but this runner was stoked to see me.

Runner - “Whoa! Sick setup! You going all the way to Durango? NICE! Good luck, thanks!”.

Me – “Thanks. Hey what race is this?”

Pacer – “It’s the Lonesome 100.”

Me – “OH, holy shit. How far in are you?”

Pacer – “He’s at 94 miles!”

Totally gob smacked. 94 miles in, and this dude’s stoked to see me? Asking ME questions? Look, if the roles were reversed, I know myself well enough to say, I’d be non-verbal and barely capable of any human interaction. But here’s the thing. He wasn’t the only one.

In the parade of runners I would pass (because apparently the woman I passed early on was near the front of the race) almost EVERYONE was incredibly nice and a very unsuspecting number of people were as stoked about what I was doing, as I was about what they were doing. So much so, that I really didn’t mind pulling off the trail like 50 times in 15 miles.

People say that the CT is as much about the people you meet along the way. I think that applies more to hikers than riders. Riders don’t get nearly as much interaction. But this morning was a gift. In no small part because I was around people in MUCH more discomfort than me. I just kept thinking, if these folks can run 100 miles, climb 23.5k, in under 36 hours, I can keep pedaling, and do it with a joy in my heart.

With the 100 mile runners in mind, I turned my attention to climbing Fooses Creek, and the formidable looking clouds over Monarch Pass.

At 8 miles and 3,000ft, the Fooses Creek climb isn’t the worst thing on paper. In a downpour, it’s a different story. I set an easy pace, hoping the afternoon thunderstorm would move off the pass and allow me safe passage. Ultimately it would, but I’d be soaked for much of the 4 hour climb and thoroughly beaten down by that final insanely steep pitch.

Descending down into Marshall Pass, hail covering the trail could be measured in inches, the temperature dropped, an eerie fog settled in, and runnels of water poured from hillsides and game trails alike. I’d narrowly avoided being caught in what seemed to have been one hell of a storm.

Before finding a dry bit of ground to sleep on, I was greeted by a a family of trail angels hanging around the Pass. I’d sit down with them to a plate of baked beans and share stories of their adventures and mine. A bright spot on an extremely dreary and difficult day, I would meet them again before the trip was through.

It’s ironic that the following thoughts were formed while nearby, a massive party was going on, 4 wheelers with blaring speakers were ripping around the roads and MANY guns were being fired to the roar of some little crowd.

When you’re adventuring alone, you have a unique opportunity to let others in. Whether it’s the perceived vulnerability of being solo, or because it makes me more likely to engage, people WANT to help you. They might be inspired by you, concerned about you, or they might just be more willing to let their guard down around a single person; whatever drives this shift in interactions, letting people in when they come forward has produced some of the most rewarding interactions I’ve ever had. It's made me realize how people can be the most beautiful of layers making up the landscape and has become something I look forward to on these trips as much as the adventure itself.

6. You can’t hold back the tide.

By morning, the hail covered ground had barely melted away enough to expose the cow shit covered ground when I donned my rain gear and set out for the legendary Sargeants Mesa.

I won’t bother trying to describe why Sargeants is so hard. It doesn’t really have a beginning, and it definitely seems to have no end. When asked, some speak of it with a level of contempt and loathing that strikes fear into the heart, while others seem unbothered by it. In my preparation for the ride I asked everyone I knew, “What makes it so hard?” The answers always left me wanting, and I would just have to ride into the truth.

So for anyone planning the trip, the answer is basically…Yes.

Is it really that hard?…Yes

Is it a ton of hike a bike?…Yes

Is it a ton of climbing?…Yes

Is it basically the Fire Swamp from The Princess Bride (minus the ROUS’s)?…Yes

Most importantly,

Is it just a matter of putting your head down and pushing through 20+ miles of discomfort?...Yes

A laugh out loud moment with a thru-hiker, a strange fall on a greasy corner, a deeply bruised foot, looming clouds but dry trail…so…much…rock. Sargeants Mesa would come and go. An exercise in patience and resilience. It cannot be forced. You move with the tide, not against.

Riding clear of Sargeants and into the evening, I’d share a moment with a thru-hiker as we rolled out of an unattended angel station where I scored a Gatorade. I asked her how her trip was going and she talked of the many ups and downs, but that today was an up. She knew she had a good place to camp and a good dinner ahead of her, and that her day was nearly over without too much rain. When she asked me about my trip, I quickly reflected what she’d just said and it was the day’s lesson.

“It’s the same when you’re on the bike, but that tidal shift of mood, energy, discomfort; all happens multiple times in a day. Nothing stays as it is out here for more than 4 or 5 hours. If it’s hard, it will pass. If it’s sublime, that too will come to an end. You just keep looking ahead to the next tide and accept what it brings you.”

And with that, the tide brought me stunning open ranch-land, a small sign welcoming hikers to a Trail Angel camp run by a couple from Missouri, and a plate of incredibly tasty potato salad.

This night I camped roadside. The mosquitos were Alaska thick. But when I woke in the night and stepped outside, I was met by the most powerful display of stars and milky way I’d ever seen. The sky as it was meant to be. This was the moment when travel had finally settled into my bones. I’d let go of agenda and expectation. I was simply a human moving forward on a path, trying to experience every moment to its fullest.

The Colorado Trail: 10 days / 10 lessons - Part 2