As I thumbed a ride out of Winter Park I couldn’t help but being nervous. Nervous that my hike was over. I had spent the last day and a half resting and rehabbing a calf muscle that wanted nothing to do with me. I had hobbled into town the day before and thought I might be heading home. But with the help of some medically educated friends, a lot of epsom salts, and absurd amounts of pressure applied with a cork ball, there’s a chance that I’ll make it.
The trail climbed quickly up to the divide from berthoud pass and I could feel the soreness in my legs and the twinge in my left calf muscle where the pain had been just two days ago. Somehow, I felt good. The zero day in Winter Park had left most of my body feeling refreshed and the climb back up to the divide felt comfortable. Like a server at a restaurant checking to see if water glasses are full, my brain kept coming back to my calf muscle. Always running diagnostics, checking every step, feeling every strain and every flex. Somehow, the incredible pain from just two days ago had subsided. I was hopeful. I was optimistic. But I was also worried.
The days miles ground on under my feet, and as fraggles, 3, and I walked the rocky divide, a bank of dense dark clouds slowly washed over the ridge line. Like turning a light switch on and off the clouds would block out the Sun for a moment, then move on and leave us back in the intense sunlight. It rains for a short while, so I don my poncho to keep myself and my backpack dry. The sun is setting as I put my tent up. With a stomach full of ramen noodles, I hide from the bugs.
As a kid I played with Lincoln Logs and before me, covering a mile of trail, is the largest pile of Lincoln Logs I have ever seen. Fortunately for me, a significant portion of the trail had already been cleared of the now horizontal timber. The quarter mile took nearly half an hour to walk over, under, and around.
The remainder of the day that followed was a long hot descent toward Grand Lake and the Colorado river. The 30 miles took up most of the day and when I finally arrived in the Hamlet of Grand Lake, I was crushed to find all the restaurants in town had closed for the night. Fraggles, .3, and a sulked to the grocery store, where we picked up some supplies and a friendly cashier offered up the side porch for us to eat on. I set up my tarp behind a local church and called it a day.
At 3am the sprinkler system kicked on and blasted me out of my dreams. Fortunately for me, .3’s tarp took most of the spray. I rearranged a few items and closed the doors on my tarp, hopefully everything will be dry by the time the sun comes up.
My internal alarm clock tolled and my stomach growled at the prospect of a breakfast not in bar form. A local bakery sold me a hiker-sized slice of coffee cake, and a pile of eggs and potatoes. It didn’t stand a chance. The remainder of the morning was spent on chores. I bought 3 days of supplies at the small local grocer and ate a picnic lunch at a bench out front. A local trail angel offered us the use of her shower and laundry machine. Fraggles, .3 and I, gratefully washed ourselves and our clothes and headed out of town.
Pink ribbon marks the trail.
North of Grand Lake the CDT makes an eastward loop into Rocky Mountain National Park but a recent forest fire meant that section of trail would be closed to this years crop of thru-hikers. Instead, I decided to walk a few miles of paved road, before rejoining the trail where the fire damage had been cleared. Most cars gave us plenty of space, and I did my best to tune out the road noise and folks in too much of a hurry to move over and slow down.
With my feet back on dirt and a steady rain challenging the integrity of my rain poncho, the trail wound it’s way up to a moose-filled meadow and my campsite for the evening. Dinner of ramen noodles was quickly consumed and I was under my down quilt nearly an hour before dark.
As quickly as the sun seemed to rise, it felt like there had never been a night. By this point my morning routine has become so efficient, I can practically pack up in my sleep. I know that my glasses will be hanging from a tent door zipper pull, just a few inches from my face. My left arm muscles remember exactly where the air valve on my sleeping pad lies, always a twist away from introducing a stiff back to solid ground. A variety of stuff sacks now in their rightful locations, I take the next steps toward Steamboat Springs.
It takes two more days, but I make Steamboat in time for breakfast. In the previous 60 or so hours I had walked 67 miles, much of it through forests scrubbed naked with wildfire. To no one’s surprise, just 50 miles north a new fire had started to burn. Through a combination of sources, I learn of the National Forest closure and potential re-routes around the affected area. I am doing my best not to worry about it. There’s food to be eaten and rest to be had. I’ll figure out the fire stuff tomorrow.