Crashing a Colorado Trail Thru-Hike

A story about a few nights on trail, four ounces of butter, and a lot of gratitude.

As I was rolling into Leadville last week, I started getting a flurry of texts from my friend Nicole.

“Are you here yet?? <3 <3 <3”

“Wanna take us to Safeway when you get in? Lololol.”

The transition from real world to thru-hiking world was happening fast.

I just finished a big roadtrip that took me to a million different places to do a million different things: skiing on Mount Hood, mountain running in Idaho, backpacking in Colorado, crewing my brother (and cheering my ass off) while he raced 100 miles on his mountain bike in Leadville, more backpacking in the Sierra, and celebrating my dear friend Meredith’s wedding in San Francisco.

When Nicole found out I’d be in Leadville for Jameson’s ride, she invited me to crash her month-long thru-hike of the Colorado Trail for a few days. Through a beautiful display of serendipity, she’d be passing through Leadville the same week as the race.

I’m trail-curious about most long footpaths in the US and the sport of hiking them from end-to-end, a sucker for any excuse to frolic through the wilderness with friends, and I adore Nicole, so, it was an easy decision to RSVP “hell yes” to her invitation.

Which is why I was pulling up to an eclectic hostel at 8:30pm and shoving around my piles of running/hiking/crewing/wedding gear to squeeze her little hiker family into my car so I could run them to the grocery store for fresh fruit, fresh water bottles, and frozen “town food” to make in the hostel’s microwave. They’d been hiking for over 100 miles by the time I saw them and a day off-trail and in town was a chance for them to clean bodies and clothes, scarf down calories that aren’t dehydrated or mashed into a bar, and bum rides to the grocery store for things you can’t find in the middle of the woods.

There’s a lot of crossover between long-distance running and long-distance hiking – and there’s also a lot of ways in which the two things diverge. I’ve never had to hitch a ride to a grocery store during a big run to get a big bucket of honeydew melon. But I was excited to explore more of this world where that’s a thing that happens – and spend a few days seeing why my friends love it so much.

After a night of microwaving burritos and thrashing around the hostel bunkbeds, my brother dropped us off at Tennessee Pass to hike into the Holy Cross Wilderness.

We set off along the trail with remnants of civilization protruding from our very full packs. Nicole had a bag of popcorn strapped to the top of her bag. Tom had fritos on his. And I had a full stick of butter poking out of the front pocket.

While I’ve spent a good chunk of nights in the wilderness, I’m still a bit of a backpacking newbie, especially compared to the seasoned crew I was with. I saw Nicole’s very dialed gear list for the trek and it was an impressive spreadsheet of ounces and pounds. “Everything I need and nothing I don’t,” she said.

I was pretty sure I would feel silly about something unnecessary that I packed for the trek – but I was also sure that that thing would not be four ounces of butter.

Our plan was simple: hike to water, hike some more, hike to camp, eat, sleep, repeat. The simplicity of the task-at-foot created space for sinking into a deeper presence on trail and finding a deeper appreciation of everything good that surrounded me: my friends, the trail, the wild landscape, the promise of mac and cheese at the end of the day.    

I squealed when we reached a vista that revealed a chain of massive peaks and cheered when the trail wound into a bright green meadow that I imagined many a moose had hoofed through. I reveled under the vibrant blue sky, appreciating just how clear and bright it was after driving through hours and hours of thick smoke to get to Colorado.

And when we got to our little campsite across the trail from a murky lake, I gleefully pulled out my tiny backpacking stove to cook dinner. My 550-milliliter pot is *just* big enough to cook a box of mac and cheese – but it requires constant stirring as the water boils over in chaotic bursts and bubbles and the whole affair resembles a mad scientist experiment gone wild and cheesy.

But the result is a steaming bowl of melty buttery cheesy mac – which might be one of the greatest pleasures in life, especially when you’re living out of a 20-liter pack and one set of clothes. I “mmmm”-ed and “OH MY CHEESE”-ed and “praise butter!”-ed through every single bite.

I was a happy camper when I tucked myself into my cozy little tent, my belly full of extra buttery mac and cheese and my legs full of extra beautiful trail miles, surrounded by three friends and the quiet night.

When I woke up in the morning, I could feel the crisp alpine air on my cheeks but my body was smothered in the toasty warmth of my down sleeping quilt. I withered around, joyfully soaking up the heat inside my little cocoon of down.

“But have you ever felt anything as wonderful as the toasty warmth of a sleeping bag on a cold mountain morning?” I yelped. My entire body was giddy with heat.

“Warm squish squish squish!” Nicole cried from her tent.

I made myself a steaming mug of mountain mocha (a gourmet blend of instant coffee and hot chocolate) while still wrapped in my navy quilt. I was bliss drunk on the moment. Warm body. Warm drink. Nothing to do but hike through the Colorado mountains before finding a place to make my next pot of mac. I looked out at the trail that meandered past our little campsite. A soft strip of inviting dirt under another delightfully clear sky.

“I like living outside,” I sighed.

“It’s a good life!” Nicole cried back.

We each packed our trail life into our bags and started hiking what Nicole calls “accordion style” - each leaving camp at a different time and spending some miles alone in the woods – before regrouping at a bubbling creek to filter water and snack and splay our bodies into starfish stretches on the dirt. Then leaving again in pairs or trios or hiking solo for a bit – stretching out and squeezing back together all day - like the push and pull of an accordian.

The rhythm of the hike was a beautiful balance of serenity and connection – of conversation and reflection – of work and rest. I rolled along the undulating terrain, oscillating between sinking into my own thoughts and chattering with Nicole, Iris, or Tom.

Thru-hiking is like trail running in the way it strips away filters and thrusts you right into real talk. I found myself in soulful conversations about grief and art and money and relationships and trail everything.

We stretched out after lunch and I was alone again, but never really alone. I felt the satisfying warmth of knowing I was sandwiched between my friends all doing the same thing. Our connection persisted through our miles apart. I bounced down the trail, present and happy in each and every step.

As I hiked, I knew I was getting the smallest glimpse of what a thru-hike actually entails. I was getting spared so much of the pain, suffering, and challenges that my friends will encounter during many weeks on the trail – screaming tendons, altitude sickness, brutal climbs on the 28th day of hiking, but I was finding something special during my days of thru-hike crashing: space that invited me to feel such deep gratitude for such simple things.

For the warmth of my sleeping bag, for the buttery goodness of boxed mac and cheese, for the joy of sandwiching myself into a pack of hikers and feeling the soft earth beneath my feet, for clear skies and vibrant landscapes, for being fully present in connection and reflection.

As I recognized how much gratitude and joy I was feeling for such simple pleasures, I wondered if I could bring some of that with me when I walked off trail. Where I’m still surrounded by so many good and beautiful things - big and small - but where it is easier to let my gratitude blinders hide those things behind the stress and anxiety and chaos of life.

It’s much harder for me to find radiating happiness through a stick of butter, or the warmth of the morning sun, or a few miles of chatter, when I’m worried about remembering to buy laundry detergent, or grappling with insecurities or grief, or stressing about all of the to-dos I didn’t do.

But how much better would those stressful days of life be if I could just as easily find that same full body happiness through a clear sky, or a pot of mac and cheese, or a soulfilling conversation with a good friend?

When I woke up on my last morning on trail, it was my mom’s birthday – a grief milestone that will probably always feel like an extra painful day.

When Nicole popped her head out of her tent, I was stirring my hot chocolate and instant coffee together.

“If you want to talk about it, I would love to hear a birthday memory about your mother,” she said. Her voice as soft and inviting as the trail outside my tent.

I cradled my coffee, letting the steam warm my face, and started sharing stories about my mom. About the time she rode a million laps of a highschool parking lot to match her age. About the time she ran a 5k with two left shoes because that’s what she had with her. About the ways she made us feel special on our birthdays - and all days, really.  

We hiked out as a pack, chattering our way through magical tunnels of aspens – with sunlight spilling through the wispy green leaves. I held my mom close as I hiked. Giggling about her two left shoes as I glanced down at my feet on the trail.

As I approached the trailhead, I saw my brother waving in the distance. I bounded down the trail and jumped ahead to give Jameson a huge hug.

As we drove back toward Leadville, I thought about how hard grief milestones always will be. And then I thought about all of the things that were still bringing me joy on such a hard day of grief: waking up in the woods, a steaming mug of mountain mocha, walking for miles on a trail surrounded by friends and propelled by soulful and silly chatter, holding onto endless memories of my mother, and most importantly, getting to spend the day with Jameson. I had no idea what we would do with the day, but I knew nothing would make my mother happier than knowing her two “babies” were together. It was so special that we could be together on her birthday.

I looked up at the bright blue sky outside of the window and felt so much gratitude for all of it.

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