I never quite know what to write about my time in trail towns. When my shoes are off, clothes are clean, and food is in my belly, it’s rare for me to want anything more than put my feet up and enjoy whatever mediocre action movie TNT happens to be showing; ideally with a pint of chocolate ice cream and a crisp IPA. The 24 hours .3 and I spent in the town of Helena were pleasant, efficient, and restful.

I’ve now spent almost half my time on the trail with .3, an Englishman in his early thirties with a dry sense of humor and a love for Haribo gummy bears. We are a good team when decisions need to be made and I appreciate his independence when our preferences don’t align. It’s comforting to have a hiking companion, someone to double-check my reading of the topo-map, to assess risks, share the burden of route-planning, and laugh at my exceptionally bad jokes.

From the hotel, we walk to a nearby grocer and resupply for the short stretch to Lincoln. As I re-pack the junk food that will fuel the next two days, I make some of my first plans for post-trail life. Canada isn’t much further, and the thought of actually finishing this beast is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. For now, I am trying to focus on being present and enjoying the myriad ways thru-hiking brings me joy. Experience tells me, I’ll soon have plenty of time to worry about ‘after’.

Sweat drips down my forehead at the same rate my ice cream sandwich is melting all over my hand. The sun bakes the air, hazy with wildfire smoke, as .3 and I thumb a ride back to the trail. We are immediately on top of the Continental divide, where shade and water are scarce. Cows lurk around every corner, their manure covering every inch of ground, and I stop to enjoy a snapshot of nature reclaiming an abandoned wooden train trestle.

There isn’t much water on the official CDT, so .3 and I opt for an alternate that will traffic us through farmland and near much-appreciated streams. The walking is easy and a kind man chats us up from his truck. He searches his pockets for something to give us and the palmfulful or Ricola he hands me is a gesture I won’t soon forget. When I bed down for the night, I can feel the creep of cold air pushing into my tent from the valley floor. Morning comes and the sun starts her meandering ascent. Crystals of frozen condensation cling to the inside of my tarp and sluff off, like a molting cicada, as I shake it. My bag is packed with fingers stiff from the cold and I start walking as quickly as possible, hoping to regain feeling in my appendages soon.

Steam rises from my cup of instant coffee. The spring to my right, pumping clear water through the middle of this Wyoming cow pasture, is a welcome sight. Frost-imbuned leaves brings simultaneous joy and panic to my soul. Winter has booked her flight and will be arriving shortly. I eat a stick of elk jerkey, a pop-tart, and some dried fruit, to try and quell the insatiable beast that is my stomach. It feels a bit like trying to douse a forest fire with a squirt gun.

This day of walking feels good. Hot and dry and smokey and free and high and stunning, like so many days before it. I drink from a trough designed for cows and flash back to New Mexico for an instant. The soles of my feel remember every mile but my brain has a hard time conceptualizing the time and distance I have walked. Thinking back on all those miles, I am reminded that simple things are good things: cold water from a mountain-top spring, hot meals that fill your belly, and flat places to pitch a tarp. It is getting late as I near Stemple Pass, my destination for the night. A storm is brewing on the horizon but we find shelter near an outfitter that has set up shop right on the trail.

High Divide Outfitters and proprietor Dave, offer the best selection of ultralight backpacking gear I have ever set eyes on. His place, now tucked onto the hillside above Stemple Pass, was recently relocated from Southern California near the Pacific Crest Trail. I follow a hand written sign to the shop, which doubles as his home, and buy a set of over-mittens and a poncho to help battle the increasingly cold weather. Shopping completed, .3 and I set up our shelters on the flattest swath of rocky ground we can find. The wind picks up just as I’m zipping the door of my terp-tent closed. Thoughts of soft cotton sheets and down-filled pillows rock me to sleep.

My alarm rings and I have no desire to leave the cocoon of my down quilt. Twenty five miles to the town of Lincoln and cold thunderstorms in the forecast eventually convince me to start moving. It takes me 9 hours to cover the distance to Rodgers Pass and when I arrive, my shoulders are grateful to shed the burden of my pack.

A couple on vacation picks us up and sets us down in the middle of downtown Lincoln, Montana. Not exactly a booming metropolis, I can see from one end of main street to the other. Pickup trucks occupy parking spots in front of businesses called, The Montanan, Scapegoat Eatery, and Bushwhackers Steakhouse & Saloon. Point 3 and I check in to a historic log motel, joyfully named ‘The Lincoln Log’, and do our best not to move muscles not directly associated with eating or finding the next movies to watch on Netflix. Guilt momentarily creeps into my psyche as I lounge on my twin-sized bed, pint of Ben & Jerry’s in hand. I could be moving faster. I could be back on the trail tonight. Canada is close, winter is on its way, and sitting in town stuffing my maw isn’t getting me any nearer the end of this trail! Then .3 cracks a joke and I snap back to reality. The reality that people are one of the best parts of this trail, that this adventure will be over far faster than I can fathom, and that I need all the rest I can get for this final stretch of trail. Another spoonful of Chocolate Fudge Brownie hits my palate and I sink deeper into my bed for the night. All is well.

The fence line on my left stretches to the horizon while the caffeine from a small-town cappuccino continues to elevate my heart rate. I woke up in Whitehall’s municipal building and relished packing up warm, dry gear. A pile of hikers, including Hush, Sideview, Caveman, .3 and I, made our way to the Tex-Mex diner across the street and overwhelmed the small staff with our ample breakfast orders. With a pile of chilaquiles in my gut, .3 and I began the short walk to the west side of town, where we could resupply. On the way, it became apparent that his knee hadn’t recovered from yesterday’s strain and there was no way he would be walking out of town today. We paused at a coffee shop to discuss his options and decided to split up. I would walk the 34 miles to Butte solo. He would take the day off and meet me there for a subsequent day of rest. Not an ideal situation, but one where we both get what we want.

It was late morning when I left .3 at the coffee shop; my cappuccino in a too-big paper cup and my backpack loaded with the luxuries only a 1-day food can provide: a bag of salad, greek yogurt, a ripe nectarine, a spotty banana, and fruit smoothie. The first dozen miles west of Whitehall followed an interstate frontage road and a few slithering ranch roads. With ear buds in my ears, I called a few friends and passed the miles catching up on the lives of those not walking 14 hours a day.

The pavement faded slowly into gravel, then dirt, and eventually a messy network of 4×4 trails. Grey clouds threaten rain but only a few drops fall. My legs are heavy but I am determined to make it to Butte before dark. By 7pm I’ve covered most of the distance and rejoined the official CDT. An hour later and I’ve made it to I-15, where a local trail angel is waiting to give me a lift into Butte. I catch up to .3 at a shabby Motel 6 in a run-down part of Butte and inhale some mediocre Chinese food. The 34 miles my legs put down, linger heavily in my muscles, and I can tell the day off tomorrow will be thoroughly enjoyed.

The zero in Butte was a hodgepodge of curious experiences. Half the locals I spoke with encouraged me to carry a gun. A short bus ride to the grocery store included a stop at the Emergency Room, so a passenger in the throes of a bad methamphetamine trip could get medical attention, and a beertender, who happened to hail from Wisconsin, invited me to dinner and ended up shuttling .3 and I back to the trail the following day.

The rest proved enough for .3’s knee to sufficiently recover, so we packed our bags with 3 days of food and set off for Helena. Despite an afternoon start the miles flew by and by the time we stopped for dinner, we’d managed to get 25 miles closer to Canada. My back against a lodgepole pine, I spread a healthy quantity of cream cheese onto an everything bagel. As I began to top my carbohydrate and fat sandwich with crumbled bacon, the raindrops started to fall. The forecast foretold of rain but I was unprepared for what followed. Hastily, I loaded my pack and donned my poncho. I walked while I ate and kept my eyes peeled for sheltered camp sites. Thunder boomed and lightening struck, a bit too close for comfort. Cold rain ran in rivulets over my eyes and darkness settled in. My hands ached as rainwater sapped the heat from my skin. No campsites were to be found.

When I finally spot a patch of ground worth pitching a tent on, my headlamp has already been in use for half an hour. I dig my shelter out of my backpack and try to set it up while keeping the rest of my gear dry. Occasional lightening strikes illuminate the scene, though the added light does little to warm my aching hands. When I finally crawl under my tarp and change out of wet clothes, I couldn’t help but think of the man in Jack London’s short story, ‘To Build A Fire’. For the first time on this trail, I am concerned my skills won’t be enough to keep me warm and dry.

By noon the following day, the cold and wet had been long forgotten. I hadn’t slept particularly well the night before but I stayed warm and dry enough to see the sunrise. A few brisk miles of walking brought the feeling back into my fingers and toes. The trail wandered across high flat ridges and wove through dense young groves of lodgepole pine so thick, it felt like walking through a maze. Water was scarce, so the combination of burn scars and logged-out forests, meant hot walking and a backpack heavy with H2O.

As soon as I hear the traffic on Mac Donald pass, the soreness in my muscles intensifies and my stomach starts to grumble. I’m ready for rest. When we step up to the road, my gut tells me this hitch is going to take a while. Surely we will bake in the sun for hours as hordes of drivers blast past, their truck beds and back seats entirely passengerless. Fewer than 5 cars pass when a black pickup truck pulls over and motions for us to hop in the bed. Crisis averted.

If I’m honest, Dubois wasn’t the best spot for a day off. Hotel rooms were priced like the place was under siege but restaurants didn’t seem to get the memo and most of them were closed over the weekend. I may not have had my choice of eateries but I did manage to get off my feet, take in some soccer, and take the edge off my appetite. I can now also cross, ‘Ride a giant fiberglass jackalope’, off my bucket list.

Leaving town felt like a fresh adventure. Half a day of hard rain and a soggy morning stroll to the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park, .3 and I left the official CDT, the comfort of App-guided hiking, and struck out on our own. The Trail Creek Fire on the Idaho/Montana border is the primary reason for our detour. A desire to avoid long road walks and to see some beautiful scenery the official trail avoids, also played a part.  We are following a version of the Big Sky Alternate that will take us through the Absaroka range in eastern Yellowstone, then work into Montana along the Gallatin range and the Sky Rim trail. From there we will pass near Big Sky and walk Northwest into the Spanish Peaks and Tobacco Root Mountains, eventually wiggling into Butte, where we will rejoin the CDT.

In many ways this doesn’t feel like thru-hiking, since I can’t put my head down and grind out 30 mindless miles. There will be more time consulting maps, more guess-work on food & water, and far fewer hikers, as most folks are opting for direct routes to Butte. Like the high-route in Wind River Range, it’s a chance to step outside the confines of this mostly-defined trail and take control of my direction for a while.

The rolling hills north of the Winds give way to wide river valleys wrapped in tree-covered mountains. Pairs of Sandhill cranes squawk as I encroach on the snacking grounds. The trail is muddy and water is abundant, and so is the voluminous excrement from untold numbers of equestrians. As I dodge horse manure, grizzly tracks remind me to yell, ‘Hey Bear’ as often as I think about it.

Shed elk antlers litter the hillsides but few hikers are on the trail. We crest Eagle pass at 9,486ft and follow a marshy river until my feet meet the pavement of highway 20, just outside the National Park’s easternmost entrance. As I walk along the road, the countless RV’s, vans, and family sedans that pass me by are stuffed with people and camping gear. I think about the adventure they are on and wonder if they’re doing the same?

It’s breakfast time and the protein bar in my hip belt pocket is doing it’s best to attract the attention of my uninterested stomach. The battle is lost when I spot a roadside lodge serving breakfast. We squeeze in to a booth and order like we haven’t eaten in years. The pancakes, eggs, hashbrowns, and ham steak don’t stand a chance. Nor do the 4 cups of weak coffee I slurp down to bolster my interest in walking the last few miles of the day. My stomach full, I bumble down the road a few miles to a blip on the road called Pahaska Teepee, where I spend the next 3 hours trying to thumb a ride into Cody, Wyoming. When, at last, a kind soul pulls over, I feel sun baked and am as enthusiastic about the prospect of a shower and laundry, as I am about getting off the road and out of the sun.

A long ride into a spread out town made chores feel rushed. I hurried through laundry, a shower, and resupply and through a stroke of good luck we got back to the trailhead before dark. PCT thru-hikers and current Pahaska Teepee employee Cy, grabbed us in downtown Cody and made sure we had a ride back and stomachs full of Dairy Queen. It was dark when we got back to the trail and with rain in the forecast, .3 and I set up camp under a nearby bridge. Not the most glamerous spot, but it was sheltered and the deer who came to check us out were well intentioned.

A lack of overnight traffic meant I slept well, but the rain looked like it wasn’t going to blow through anytime soon. We grabbed breakfast at the Pahaska lodge and lingered over coffee. Then we lingered over lunch. Finally the rain stopped, so we set out to cover a few miles before the heavy overnight showers could set in.

When I wake up, my right side has gone completely asleep. Camping options had been limited the night before and the storm was blowing in as I searched for flat ground. Just as I fell asleep hard drops started to hit the paper-thin ceiling of my Dyneema tarp. Each time it rains, I’m amazed at my 10oz shelter’s ability to repel rain. Now I just need someone to invent a self-leveling tent floor.

Yellowstone is not a place I have ever been drawn to visit but I’ll admit the wide valleys, abundant wildlife, and lack of visitors in the backcountry have changed my mind. Bear tracks litter the trail but I have yet to bump into one. Bison are everywhere, like massive roving boulders, and they have little interest in where I want to go or even that I exist. One morning I even got to see a young grey wolf bound up a steep hillside like it was an afternoon stroll.

Three days after leaving Pahaska, we walk into the tourist hub of Mammoth. We grab a hiker/biker site in the main campground and get lucky with a speedy hitch to the nearby town of Gardiner. Resupply is easy, laundry and showers are enjoyed, and I make short work of an Elk burger and fries. A van-dweller gives us a lift back to Mammoth and I enjoy a beer on the patio of the Hot Springs Hotel. Tomorrow I’ll cross the Wyoming/Montana border; the last major landmark before Canada. As I inflate my air pad and tuck in for the night, memories of the last three months replay in my mind. It’s been one hell of an adventure and can’t wait to see what the last month will bring.

As unsexy as it is, thru-hiking a major trail in the US is mostly a mindless activity. A phone app guides you to water, camping, and resupply points, so there is no need to read topo maps or plan more that a few days ahead. A hiker can focus on walking and know that the majority of the logistical challenges will be easily sorted out by a few clicks and swipes on a smartphone.

The Morgan Creek fire threw all of that complacency out the window.

Sitting in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Express, Ohm, Fraggles, .3, and I are trying to find a reasonable work-around for the 30 or so miles of closed trail. We’ve commandeered the business center computer and have spread maps out on all available surfaces. Maintaining continuous steps from Mexico to Canada is one goal I hope to accomplish on this thru-hike, and figuring out how to get around the fire is proving to be a challenge. In the end, I decide to walk a combination of CDT, Forest Service Roads, and a paved highway paralleling the divide. The re-route will add a few miles and by the time I get back to the trail, I’ll be in Wyoming. It isn’t my dream scenario but I’ll try to make the best of it.

A final round of town food, in this case gyros from a Greek spot, and it was time to hitchhike back to the pass with Fraggles and Ohm. Point 3 decided to catch a ride around the road walk, so we’ll have to catch him further up. Back at the pass, we spend a few miles talking about mindfulness and the carpet of wildflowers now in bloom. The talking stops when the mosquitos descend on us. I don my headnet and squish the thirsty insects by the score.

The next morning, we leave the official CDT at Buffalo Pass and begin the first gravel Road walk of the detour. I’m thankful for the company, the audiobooks, and good air quality so close to an active fire. The three of us dodge an afternoon thunderstorm under an awning near the busy Strawberry Park Hot Springs. As bathers in bikinis strut by, I eat my lunch of rice and beans and try to psych myself up for the miles of paved road that will cap off the day.

My trail runners greet the asphalt and I know I’m in for a beating. Two more hikers, Squashy & MacGyver, join us on the road we decide to make the best of it. As we count down the miles, there are dance partys, sing-alongs, and lots of stories told. We enjoy shade and snacks at a local general store, and find our way onto dirt roads before the end of the third day. When I set up my tent for the night, it is in the State of Wyoming. The 70 days it took me to walk here have been harder that I anticipated. The end feels nearer and yet there are still a thousand miles to walk.

It’s 5am and I’m back on the trail. The plan is to meet my family in Lander, Wyoming in 5 days but between here and there are 200 miles and a long stretch of hot exposed trail in the Great Divide Basin. I walk until dark and cover the first 37 miles through heavily logged forests and rolling hills. The next morning, glad to start the day with a lighter food bag, I set out on the long road walk to Rawlins. My goal for the day is 43 miles, of which about 30 are on pavement. The lack of water & shade have me roasting inside my sun hoody. A few kind motorists stop to offer encouragement and water, while cyclist on The Great Divide route fly by at 12mph.

In the hot and thirsty hours before I finally walked into town, I drooled over the menu of the Thai restaurant and kept my feet moving to dance music. As soon as I could see Rawlins on the horizon, I called the Thai spot and placed my order. At 7pm I walked into the restaurant after 43 non-stop miles, the three dishes waiting for me didn’t stand a chance. I hoovered up the calories and made my way to the cheap hotel room, shared with 3 other hikers, where I’d do a quick round of shower laundry and get to bed ASAP.

In the morning, I resupply and am walking North by 7am. Ahead of me lies 120 miles of sage brush, sand, and sunshine and I’m going to cover the distance in 3 days. The first day I’m rattled at by a juvenile snake, watched by an army of beef cows, and regularly reminded by my feet of how far they’ve walked in the last 72 hours. Day two north of Rawlins brings more of same terrain. The breeze smells like sage and my constant application of sunscreen mixes with trail dust to form a layer of mud that clings to my calves. In the distance I can see a black SUV and I quicken my pace.

Waiting at the car is Mark, a friend from Madison who recently moved to Wyoming, he got word of my whereabouts and asked if he could meetup to provide some trail magic. The cold beverages, crispy bacon, and fresh fruit were like mana in this desert waste and an opportunity to see a familiar face, after so many weeks away from home, was a huge emotional boost. I had another 25 miles to walk, but the miles felt easier after Mark’s oasis.

A little after 9pm, I make my goal for the day and set up my tarp near a tepid cattle pond. Every muscle in my body is sore and as I crawl under my quilt my feet and back are already protesting the 5am alarm. When dawn comes, I start to visualize the soft hotel bed that awaits me in Lander. That thought, and the fact I’ll have two whole days off with my parents and sister, helps keep my feet churning along the flat two-track road. It is so hot, my appetite is non-existent and I struggle to get calories in. I catch up to some other hikers on a gravel road. Their company and conversation make some miles disappear and by the time 8pm arrives, I’ve managed to cover the final 40 miles to the highway.

My feet feel a bit like they have been run over by a tractor but otherwise my body has held up well through the self-impossed flagellation of five consecutive 40 mile days. When I get to the road, lack of cell service and poor communication on my end, means it takes a while for me to meet up with the family. In fact, I end up hitchhiking to Lander, where we are reunited in front of a Pizza Hut. The reunion may not have gone as we planned, but it doesn’t change how happy I am to see them. I’m ready for some time off my feet and a few Spotted Cows, maybe see if I can beat my sister in a game of cribbage.

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.

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.

The ceiling in the hostel bunk room felt like it was inches in front of my face. No alarm was ringing, yet the clock in my brain insisted on my eyes opening. Naturally, I had been trying to sleep in. Damn circadian rhythm.

Last night, after 10 trail miles, a day full of hiker chores, and 5 square meals, I spent a few late hours catching up with an old friend from the Appalachian Trail. Slider (Rick) and his then very pregnant wife Stroller (Bec), live in Leadville and run a small hotel with their young daughters. Their eldest daughter, Evie, was still in utero when we summited Mt. Khatadin at the end of the Appalachian Trail a decade ago. It was cool to see the time-gap since my first thru-hike personified in a wonderful little human.

After packing up our things, Fraggles, Point 3, and I met Slider, Stroller, and their daughters at a Cuban sandwich spot. The espresso was strong and sweet, while my sandwich was cheesey, crispy, and stuffed with eggs and ham. I could have eaten three of them. I should have at least ordered a second one, especially while amongst hikers who understand what so much walking does to ones stomach.

Last year, on a trip to Decorah, Iowa I made a quick stop to catch up with Tim (Hawkeye) & Nina (Kombucha) from my 2012 PCT thru-hike. We shared our lives and reminisced about times on trail. As I said goodbye, we acknowledged how good it felt to be in the company of a person who understood what we had done. There must be something about such an intense shared experience that builds strong connections. It was this kind of connection that came up while catching up with Slider and Stroller in Leadville. Though we hadn’t had a conversation in over a decade, it felt like it hadn’t been a month since I saw them in Maine.

As the time to leave town neared, Slider offered to give us a lift to the grocery store and back up to the pass. I hustled to buy food for the 2 day stretch to Breckenridge, packed my food bag in the parking lot, and was back on trail by 11am. My 25 hours in Leadville had come to an end.

The trail quickly gained the divide and I crested Kokomo pass just as the first wisps of ominous clouds poked their tendrils over the ridge. The decision to keep going or bail directly down to treeline is never an easy one. For starters, I’m not a meteorologist. And, well, that’s really all there is to it. With only a few miles to treeline and no thunder heard as the storm approached, we decided to make a run for it. My poncho in hand, I walked as fast as I could but managed to get soaked as a torrent fell upon us in sheets. The dark clouds moved on as quickly as they had come, though I knew they’d be back soon. As the first thunder boomed in the distance, I questioned my assessment of the risk. A few nearby marmots made their opinions about my presence known and I hustled for treeline.

The next morning I woke up with my tarp pitched a stones throw from Copper Mountain Ski Resort. The rain had come back last night, but my ultralight Dyneema Composite Fabric (DCF) shelter had withstood the barrage and my gear was dry. Cold instant coffee, shaken together with a packet of Carnation instant breakfast are the first calories I take in today. The trail begins to climb nearly 3,000 vertical feet, from tenmile creek to the ridgeline above Breckenridge. I’m sore, soggy, and ready to eat food that doesn’t come in individually-wrapped squares. I cover the 14 miles to Highway 9 before 11am and am enthusiastically met at the highway by a free bus.

One hearty bowl of pho, a massive chocolate mousse cake, and a few espressos later and I feel like a human again. A somewhat feral human whose only drive is snacks, yes, but human none the less. The free bus takes me to a grocery store, where I hide from mid-day thunderstorms and buy enough food to get me to Winter Park in 3 days. At 4pm I’m back on the free bus to the trail.

The five hours spent in town feel jarring once I’m back in the woods and I spend the next few hours thinking about the contrast. Somewhat distracted, I had failed to check this stretch of trail for water sources and managed to leave town with only 700ml of H2O. A dozen thirsty miles later I heard the soft gurgle of a stream. It was nearing 8pm and I had managed to walk 26 miles while spending 5 hours in town. Tired.

For the last 300 miles, the CDT and the Colorado trail have paralleled one another. The tread has been smoother, the trail better signed, and there have been a lot more hikers about. Today, as the trail climbed above treeline toward Grays Peak, the two trail split. I laughed out loud. The split wasn’t signed, the trail tread disappeared, and immediately climbed straight up the rocky ridge. Welcome back to the CDT.

The two and a half days between the CT/CDT split and Berthoud Pass are some of my most challenging on this trail, maybe on any trail. We are constantly above treeline and the threat of storms informs everything I do. Added to that is the fact that my left calf muscle has seized up on me. Turns out, 7,000+ feet of vertical gain every day for the last week is hard on your body. As I climb a scree-field toward the summit of Grays Peak, every step feels like my my Achilles is being shredded like pulled pork. The scenery is incredible but thoughts of long injury recovery and quitting are pulling me out of it. When I reach the summit I am at the highest point on the Continental Divide Trail. At least it’s all downhill from here.

Despite my gloomy attitude and the gloomier weather, Ohm and I decided to forge ahead. It did not look like the weather was going to break anytime soon, so instead of sitting still in Salida, we started back toward Monarch pass just as it started to rain. At the top of the pass, while donning my poncho and slowly walking North, I knew I would be okay.

As I worked my way into the mountains north of Salida, the views got bigger and the threats of weather posed logistical challenges every day. While the trail climbed up and over high passes, one eye was always on the horizon, watching as the days storm brewed up bigger and bigger clouds. Passing sounds from plane turbines were constantly analized. “Was that thunder or just a jet?”

If we were lucky, our tents would be set up in the relative protection of treeline as the afternoon rains blew in. If we were unlucky, we’d be running down the pass as fast as possible, while dark clouds and cold winds pushed us off the ridges and soaked us in a sideways rain. As we entered the Collegiate West mountains, the temperature dropped and snow fell in the mountains above us.

After two days and 50 miles I crested Lake Ann Pass (12,585ft) and a dusting of fresh snow crunched under my feet. Ohm and I carefully navigated a steep scree slope to avoid crossing a small cornince. We then descended a few thousand feet into the Clear Creek valley before climbing 2,000 feet in two miles to the summit of Hope Pass. My calves ached and stomach groaned. I hadn’t been taking in enough calories during this steep stretch of trail. Making quick work of a Snickers, a honey bun, a granola bar, and a few handfuls of kettle chips, I was ready for the descent to Twin Lakes.

Twin lakes isn’t much of a town. Just a handful of businesses catering to those passing through. Thankfully, this meant a General Store and a BBQ food truck were waiting to exchange ice cream and enormous burgers for some legal tender. It’s often strange to be a hiker in populous areas. We spread out our gear to dry, hoard public power outlets, air out soggy feet, and consume unreasonable quantities of food.

The rain started just as my gear was finally dry and I huddled under a scrap of shelter to keep from re-soaking my stuff. The plan had been to continue north from Twin Lakes but the last few days of cold rain collided with the current weather and convinced me I needed a roof over my head more than I needed a few more miles north. The sentiment was common and, together with a few other hikers, I decided to sardine myself into a cheap cabin just outside of town.

Tennessee pass, the access point to the town of Leadville, was only a day and a half further up the trail. After leaving our cramped cabin, the morning sun and cold-brewed coffee helped keep my feet moving. Later, as a cold rain crept in overhead, my feet kept moving just to keep me warm. I set up my tarp in the rain. The spot I had chosen was cramped and cambered, and I slept poorly. When the sun finally started to rise, I couldn’t wait to get moving. In part to warm myself up after a cold night and in part to get myself in front of a big plate of breakfast food in Leadville.