With the emotional and literal High Point of the trail behind me, it’s almost impossible to summarize the magnitude of the final two and a half days. The further I ventured into the San Juans, the more I realized that the previous night’s harrowing experience hadn’t fully been digested. I’d lost the calm and grace I’d momentarily experienced in the night beneath that magnificent sky. In fact, I felt I was experiencing low grade PTSD. With storms still in the area, I carried significant anxiety as I approached each subsequent mountain pass and every jet that crossed the sky above was the sound of rolling thunder. Early in the morning, I overtook hikers on the climb up an unnamed pass and as they methodically donned rain gear and pack covers and moved steadily about the business of making progress, I was frantically looking at the sky for any sign of lightening, spiking my heart rate in an effort to clear the pass before being forced to repeat the mistakes of yesterday. To say I was unsettled is an understatement.

The morning was filled with ups and downs (emotional and in terrain) as I crisscrossed the Continental Divide. I willed myself to take in the jaw dropping majesty of those mountains but I couldn’t escape the urgency to push hard for Silverton. I wanted to get DOWN. My nerves finally got the best of me as I approached a pair of hikers setting up a tent in Minnie Gulch. The sun was on us, but like the previous evening, there was a wall of darkness down valley, and it was moving directly for us. I was NOT going to ignore the hikers this time. It was before noon, but I made what I consider the best decision of the trip… I stopped, and had a talk with myself.

It went something like this…
”Look dude, you’re freaked out. Everything you have with you is soaked and from the looks of it, Mordor has mobilized and is heading your way. Let’s do the smart thing and throw the tent up and wait this one out.”

And so I did. While the sun was still on me, I laid out my bag, pad, and down jacket to dry and put up the shelter. I also decided that even though it would mean cutting it close on calories to get to Silverton, I would cook my final meal and have a hot coffee. If I got pinned down for the rest of the day and night, so be it. I would focus on recovery. But no matter what, I would take the conservative approach to calm my nerves and return to being happy in the high mountains.

And guess what happened?

No sooner did I scoop my last bit of dinner for lunch and prepare for the storm that was barreling down on me, did it LITERALLY disappear. It didn’t turn, it didn’t peter out, it simply disappeared. The sun was shining, my gear was drying, and with an audible laugh of “holy shit” I scrambled to get packed up. I wasn’t about to waste my full belly, caffeine high, and clear skies waiting around, I was heading for Silverton!

The approach to Stony Pass is a marvel, and my words will do no justice describing the unparalleled beauty and magnitude of these mountains. It’s why you have to go and see, be out there for yourself to feel the awesome power of it all. What I will describe however is how absolutely horrific the Stony Pass descent is to Silverton. HOW in the world the Northbound racers tackle this is beyond me. I was on the rivet for 14 miles, shaking out my cramped hands and trying to avoid being run over by side by sides who must have been shaking their heads inside their dust covered full face helmets. Endless switchbacks of baby head loose rock and shale made for brutal decent, but in the end I made Silverton for a late lunch.

I sat outside as the tourists swarmed, the clouds swirled, my cache battery charged, and I stuffed my face with what was apparently a notable amount of food, as the nearby diners made mention of it more than once. Perhaps they were commenting on the the good fortune of being upwind from me because of my holy hell rancid smell. Whatever it was, everyone was kind and I was soon on my way.

I was pretty beat, but I made the rare call home to check in with my wife as I started the paved climb out of town. My plan was to camp on the outskirts of town, but I was chatting away with an earbud in and the next think I know, I’d finished the climb to Molas Pass. This was it, the final leg of the journey. Less than two days remained.

I slept well this night. I woke early and spoiled myself with a hot coffee as I packed up. I sat in my vestibule and watched the sun rise over the mountains and felt such gratitude to be able to simply wake another day and to only need to keep moving my body.

Oh yeah, and I got a chunk of wood stuck in my eye as I was hanging my food bag. No bueno.

The climb up from Molas Lake is huge, but it’s also largely rideable and quite popular with hikers and runners. It was refreshing to see people after having gone through such a remote section the days prior. But soon, the distance from the trailhead, the difficulty of the trail, and high mountains would thin the crowd to us travelers once more. I was ready for more adventure. First on tap was Rolling Pass which, after riding with my retired friend Randy for a while, I had all to myself. I descended and worked my way further into the depths to then climb Blackhawk Pass, the penultimate significant high point, leaving me only Indian Ridge the following day.

I rode hard all day and made very good progress. I knew at this point I would finish the next day and I began to really take it all in. The mountains were changing rapidly as the average elevation lessened. More tree-topped ridge lines, wider valleys, and facing South, more gentle run outs to the valley floor. Evening approached, and I’d kicked it into a very low gear with no firm agenda, just to ride on a little further and try to find a memorable campsite for my last night.

At 5:30 I made a deal with myself, “ride until 6, then you can begin letting yourself look for a site”. I was tired, and this seemed fair. But at 5:45, I saw a sweet site and I said “NO, ride till 6”. 5:50 came and the same thing happened and once more I shot down my inner plea to camp. At 5:55 I passed thru hikers sitting across from their camp looking out over the most pristine valley and enjoying their dinner. I pressed on, running out of steam and now I was descending off the ridge, thinking my silly arbitrary rule would have me missing out on a good site. Alas, at 6:01 I came into a meadow that held a camper van with mountain bikes on one end and a trail angel camp at the other. While I sought solitude, this seemed a sign too good to ignore.

The mountain bikers were the most welcoming humans I could have ever hoped to meet. They were doing their own shuttle ride of the CT in sections (cuz they’re smart) and they fed me dinner, and shared stories and laughs and I was full of gratitude to have had the opportunity to spend time with them. They offered to host me in Durango, gave me beta on the next day’s ride, topped off my water, asked me endless questions about my adventure, and we became fast friends. “Hunter, you and your crew were good for my soul and once again, thank you!”

I woke early the next morning to the sound of Randy’s hub buzzing by the meadow. I may ride faster than him, but that dude knows how to wake up early and get after it. I imagine he rode, on average, 2 hours more per day. So impressive.

Randy packed a tiny drone and captured this shot on a knife ridge deep in the San Juans.

I repeated the prior day’s casual start, allowed the sun to warm my body over coffee, gathered my belongings and did a final mechanical check. I said my farewells to my new friends and they said they hoped to see me on the trail as they were planning to ride the same segment. I assured them they’d catch me quickly, having 9 days in my legs and carrying all of my gear. They would in fact catch me, but incredibly it would be on top of the final 1000 ft climb as we dropped in on the 8 mile descent to the finish of the CT.

The day was hard. They’re all hard. There are no rest days on the CT. Indian Ridge stood up steep, and remote. Back into the big mountains. I floated a massive scree field and descended rowdily, endlessly. Filled with mixed emotions, “Finishing Day!” I’d exclaim to thru-hikers and they were happy for me, but I was being tugged to slow down, spend another night, to ride on.

This last day, I found something. I realized… I LOVE this. I mean, you can’t go out and do something like the CT without enjoying it right? But part of the motivation for me to try something hard and scary was find out, do I love it? Do I love being made to feel so small, to make critical decisions on my own, to push way beyond what I thought were my boundaries, to engage with strangers, get scared, and yet, still create space in my heart to receive the gift of it all? Do I love all that? It took 10 days, but I have my answer.

My wife asked me on the phone that evening- as I lay on the hotel room bed she’d booked, in the clothes she’d ordered from the mountain shop for me to pick up, and in my post double-dinner food coma haze, “do you think you could ride back?”

And while we had a good laugh and joked around at the idea, the truth is…yeah, I could ride back.

The Colorado Trail Part 3: Finishing Day(s)