Author: Jen Roby

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The Colorado Trail Pt.I

by Jen Roby, posted in Uncategorized

I have dedicated three years to researching and segmenting this trail. Despite the extensive time spent shuttling cars, familiarizing myself with trailheads, and grasping the technical terrain, I found myself unprepared for what lay ahead. I am still processing everything, but one thing is certain – I could never ride this trail again without recalling every little detail of this profound experience.

I embarked on the trail with a glimmer of hope and a well-stocked backpack. As a first-time bikepacker, I admittedly had some uncertainty, but my confidence in my gear reassured me that everything would work out. They say ignorance is bliss, and I was blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. I focused on the present, and the present was a beautiful 72 & sunny day. I couldn’t have been more thrilled to start in such wonderful weather. Although the Colorado Trail Race began on the same day, they started at 4 am in the rain. I’m thankful I allowed them to get a head start and began my journey in dry conditions.

The first couple of miles were spent trying to find some solitude and get into the mindset of being alone. I couldn’t shake off my worries about the possibility of encountering a suspicious stranger while setting up camp by myself. My previous experiences have left me extra cautious, even on a popular and supposedly safe trail. As a solo female cyclist, I’m used to receiving unsettling comments, mostly from men. While I can usually brush them off during short rides, the extended bikepacking trip kept me on edge. The encounter with the man who rode too close behind me and later caught up only intensified my unease. I made a point to bike past him quickly in the evening, ensuring he wouldn’t find out where I set up camp. I truly want to believe this trail attracts nothing but the most wholesome, wilderness enthusiasts and it was nothing more but paranoia.

The first two nights alone were actually quite peaceful. I found some of the deepest sleeps in my bivy and began to question why I was so worried this small, unsteady tent wouldn’t work out. I stumbled into a desolate campsite and spent the last hour of dusk setting up my bivy, feeling like a wilderness pro as I chucked a bear bag of snacks into a tree. My McGyvered bag was loosely hanging under a nearby tree like a work of art, completely ineffective against any bear with a sweet tooth. As I prepared to make some tea before hitting the hay, I realized in horror that I had forgotten to test my old MSR stove light! To my dismay, it was busted and unable to hold any propane. Looks like I was going to have to survive on cold water and uncooked meals this trip. Not a big deal, considering I had already cycled 110 miles in the first two days and my body was ready to call it quits either way.

Day three brought a sudden onset of intense knee pain. What did I expect going into this trail with little to no training?? Waking up, I felt incredibly stiff, and initially thought that getting back on the bike would alleviate the discomfort. However, after fifteen minutes of pedaling, it became evident that the pain was not subsiding. I remembered that a friend had given me a small painkiller for such situations, and I took it immediately. As I made my way towards Kenosha Pass and Highway 285, I began to feel sluggish and questioned whether my limited food intake was taking its toll. Reflecting on the earlier conversation, I realized that the painkiller was intended for nighttime use as it induces drowsiness. Despite feeling incredibly sleepy, I persevered up the gradual ascent towards Georgia Pass. When the rain started, I dismounted and sought shelter, grateful for the small piece of gear that protected me. As the rain persisted, I continued walking, unaware that this would saturate my down sleeping bag. Fortunately, I had arranged checkpoints with friends along the route, which made the prospect of reaching Breckenridge seem more manageable than the daunting journey to Durango.

Well, Chloe in Breckenridge played a pivotal role as my first trail angel. I failed to anticipate the extent to which my sleeping bag would become soaked in my unprotected backpack. Although it was far from ideal, the sheer size of the bag left me with no choice but to place it there. Looking back, I should have invested in a smaller quilt sack and distributed the weight onto the bike, as lugging around a 20-30lb bag took a significant toll on my petite shoulders.

After a warm night rest in Silverthorne, I returned to my mission at the Gold Hill trailhead. I felt so great it didn’t even bother me that this was the day I would climb not one, not two, but three passes. The trek up Gold Hill was enough to drain any 100lb person with a 60lb bike. I took a quick bite over lunch on the summit until I was rudely reminded that sexual harassment exists out here. While scarfing down pesto noodles, an oblivious hiker was loudly talking to her friends about a recent encounter with another female backpacker, and I was sadly too disturbed to continue eating. Her vexating spirit ruined the summit and I embarked on my way down and across to Kokomo pass. I later encountered a man behind me. I was taken aback that someone was following me and quickly reminded myself its the Colorado Trail. DUH they are following me. I decided to engage and determine myself if he was friend or foe. Turns out he was super kind and soft spoken. We spent the later part of the pass casually talking as he watched me wheel my heavy bike over ginormous boulder rocks. Then there was Camp Hale and Tennessee Pass. I was determined to get to my next point of contact, Matt, the owner of the coffee shop Zero Day in Leadville. I desperately looked at the sun setting and remainder climb on my gps. I was going to get stuck on highway 24 in the pitch black of night. There are six bike detours on the Colorado Trail, two of which I did not feel comfortable or willing to risk biking on in the evening. I used the garmin inreach borrowed from my friend Justin, and sent the SOS to Matt asking him if he could pick me up 10miles outside of leadville.

To my surprise, not only could he come to the call, he was there in twenty minutes. I had the best downhill ride of the entire trip racing through the dim single track after Camp Hale. I was in a video game, dodging broken tree trunks and keeping an eye out for stray moose. I made it to the lot in time and only had to sit in the still of silence at 9pm for a brief time. The hum of a distant generator in the vast wilderness was a bit eerie and I was so grateful to see his truck high beams blazing down the dirt road. I was safe.

After another restful night, this time on the floor of the coffee shop listening to the pouring rain outside. I was beginning to wonder if I was really toughing it out here. I spent the next morning lazy stuffing my face with coffee and pizza, so incredibly grateful for friendship and how it is carrying me through this endeavor. At this point, I am not thinking about the finish…the only thing getting me through each day is the small goals of looking forward to the next friend I will be seeing on and off the trail. Taking this all day by day, and so far, it seems to be working because I am in great spirits.

It appears my first hiccup will really happy later in the journey …on the Colorado Trail Pt. II

The Colorado Trail Pt.II

by Jen Roby, posted in America, Colorado Trail, scary, single female, travel

If you have been following along, you will know from reading “The Colorado Trail Pt.I” that the start of this trail was magical.

I was gliding along with the wind, soaking up the sun and enjoying my alone time in the wilderness. Each day boosted my confidence in conquering challenges. After some support from friends in Breckenridge, Leadville, and Buena Vista, I was ready to test myself away from the comfort of cities.

A new friend from Carbondale, Brad, offered to join me for a segment. He had participated in the Colorado Trail race but had to drop out on day two due to physical issues. I mention this not to highlight his failure but to provide context for his later behavior on the trail. Entering Buena Vista, I enjoyed a nice dinner with an new friend and took a zero day to wait for him. My body felt great and while I knew I could go straight into the next few segments, it was always a good idea to take the day to eat as many carbs as I could. 

Things started well. I was in a positive mood, and while he didn’t greet me with the same energy, I appreciated his effort to set aside his negative emotions from the past week. I was excited to have someone join me, even though I wasn’t sure what our experience would be. After a hearty meal, we set off down the county roads toward Mount Princeton.

This segment was special to me because I had been staying in a remote cabin with views of these mountains. For months, they had inspired me, and I was finally ready to ride across that mountain line. Yet, I found myself questioning if I had truly faced any challenges so far. My past self had underestimated my abilities, but maybe I was more intuitive than I realized.

A few miles in, I noticed Brad’s overcompensation. He rode ahead on the climbs, offering to push me as if I hadn’t been riding nearly 50 miles a day. At first, it felt supportive, but soon I realized it was more about him trying to feel strong. When he quit the Colorado Trail race, he seemed to forget I was still on my own journey. The day became filled with his pompous knowledge of the trail, and his “screw you breaks”—pausing to wait for me only to rush ahead again—really got to me. I began comparing myself to him and feeling inadequate. By day’s end, I had made fewer miles than usual and felt weighed down by his presence. We had a mediocre sleep in the woods, not even close to the location of my desired campground. I felt like Brad was a ball and chain, and it frustrated me that I was prioritizing someone else’s needs over my own.

The next morning, I resolved to start fresh. I had already told him I needed to go solo at Monarch, which felt like a relief. However, he took my boundaries poorly, creating tension. During breaks, he constantly checked his phone to make plans with another girl, which annoyed me. I didn’t care who he saw or what he did after our segment; I just wanted him to be present if we were going to be doing this ride together.

Halfway through the day, I realized his energy was ruining my experience. I gave him the option to leave early if he wasn’t enjoying himself. Instead of catching the subtle hint, he became defensive, criticizing me for putting on headphones to avoid his complaints about his bike. I felt embarrassed to argue in such beautiful surroundings and angry at myself for letting him get to me. A tear slipped down my cheek as he tried to comfort me, but I felt manipulated.

When he rode off, I felt a mix of anger and sadness. I had let someone disrupt my journey, but I knew I had to move on. Arriving at the Shavano Angel Trailhead, I remembered the legend of the Shavano Princess, who turned her tears into riverbeds. I decided my tears would fuel my resilience. As the weather turned gray and rain fell, I embraced the moment, realizing I loved being out here, growing stronger every day.

There was nothing else I could do but get back on that bike and ride. So I did. I rode all across the Sawatch Range, across Highway 50, up and over Monarch Mountain, even made it down the valley and into the start of Sargents Mesa. I rode that bicycle as if nothing else mattered. I was a machine and this was my tool to get to my final destination. I didn’t know what would be ahead, but to hell or high water, I was going to find out.

My biker friend Austin asked to join me for some segments later in the second half. I welcomed his positive energy and everything fell back into place riding with a real supportive friend. He was on this trail to experience bike-packing and test out his gear for later races, such as The Tour Divide. Together we embarked across some of the steepest terrain the trail offered.

While I heard this segment was known to mentally break down riders, I didn’t find the baby head rocks too frustrating to climb up and down. I was in my element again and little rocks were not going to effect me. I found happy distractions of raspberry bushes planted all across this stretch, a gentle reminder that there is always something beautiful in the midst of struggle. Over the next couple days of quiet contemplation, the negative thoughts returned. Yet every time I was reminded of that horrible encounter, I was already chanting to myself, “don’t let the bastards win”. And I absolutely didn’t.

By this point, the rain was here to stay. Each day brought in late summer monsoons that would sweep across the lower half of Colorado. One minute it would be sunny, the next a brisk wind would sweep the land and lightning would form in the distance.

That night was spooky sleeping in a creaky fallen tree forest. At least Austins’ tent was close to mine, so should anything happen, I didn’t feel alone. The bivy was still holding up and we managed to stay warm despite the high alpine night temperatures.

This was the section where I finally experienced my first bit of trail magic. Up until now, the places that had coolers were all emptied by the racers. I was so excited to see tents, camper RVs, and a subtle smoke from a Coleman. We rushed over to say hi to new friends and could easily smell the pancakes. An older man welcomed us with a tin foil-wrapped burrito and ushered us toward fresh coffee. Am I dreaming? Everything I wanted for breakfast when I thought I had to settle for my dry trail mix.

We thanked everyone and took off before the next rain cell came in. Our goal was the Cathedral Cabins where we would reassess the weather. It was a long day up and down county backroads, but we found water resources and couldn’t be happier to be out of the scorching sun.

At this point it was nothing but gravel roads. We passed San Luis Peak and could see the hint of a full moon peeping during the day. I was so excited for the upcoming evening as I really wanted to bike throughout the moonlit night. The roads are not too traveled out here so it would be us and the occasional elk that roamed the night. We made it to the cabins just in time for a passing rain storm. We were calculating the milage left and realized we should pick up our pace if Austin wants to get dropped off and return to work by Monday.

So we declined the cabin night stay, and instead I rented a quick hot shower to refresh myself for the night to come. I had plenty of energy and was eager to ride in the darkness. The last of the rain fell for the night and we headed out back into the wilderness, toward Silverton. If we were lucky, we could get to the hight point of the trail just in time before the heavy lightning storms passed through the next day. There was no such thing as a zero day now.

We made it out of the gravel road and onto the highway, with over 75 miles that day, across 12,000 elevation gain when we decided to pull over at this truck run off. It wasn’t an ideal stay for the night, however it was past midnight and I had officially hit a wall with no more energy to burn. I was so tired that at one point I took a break only to find myself completely sure I could just sleep on the side of the highway. Austin saw this and made the call to find the next immediate camp spot off the highway.

This was about day nine when I started to notice my sleeping bag wasn’t completely dry. It was building up condensation over the past rainy days and became less comfortable to sleep each night. At least I had my wool pants to shield my bare legs from the damp cold.

Each morning was a brutal wet start. There was nothing to prep for each day. I would quickly pack and immediately put on the same outfit – that was as warm as I was gonna get.

We head toward Silverton, however have to bike across the highest point of the Colorado Trail, Coney Summit, at 13,270ft. We ran into a few backpackers on this section and I could tell everyone was nervous about the consistent thunderclouds overhead. It was the biggest question looming over everyones mind – should we hike up and over now or after these pass?

Austin and I felt like we biked enough throughout the night to set ourselves up for a quick crossing with little rain. We marched upwards and onwards as the clouds grew more ominous. At one point we heard the thunder and saw the lightning snap so quickly apart that we decided it was best to ditch our bikes for a few minutes to watch it drift overhead. I’m not quite sure why lightning doesn’t scare me the way it does others, but I was blissfully entranced by the stomping clouds above.

We carried on with our bikes and eventually made it to the peak. Below us was a wide valley that curved across many mountains. It started to hail, and we quickly grabbed my tarp to wait under. During this time, I could feel the heat of Austin sitting next to me. I hadn’t realized how soaked my clothes were or how prickled my fingers felt. I began to unconsciously shake, and Austin looked at me. “Jen, you are blue! You need to eat something.” It was clear I was beginning to experience hypothermia. The restless wind, pounding ice, and wet clothes did nothing to help. Austin embraced me, and in that moment, I questioned if I was strong enough on my own or because of the support of another person.

While the sun was nowhere to be found, you could tell it was setting and night was approaching. We safely made it to lower elevation, but still were well above 12,500 in that valley. We decided to camp in the nearest site, next to a lake. That night we attempted to share a tent for warmth, but our bags were still very damp. It was the least we could do but it didn’t help much. This was the first point of the trail when I began to feel miserable and worried the sun would never return.

Forget the bastards though, it is now me and Mother Nature.  Some days you are working with her, others against. Regardless she should be respected and I now know that The Colorado Trail Pt. III would prove to be my ultimate test – one that I am so grateful to be alive and able to share the story.

The Colorado Trail Pt.III

by Jen Roby, posted in America, friends, hiking, life & death, Packing, scary

I got through the mountain towns in The Colorado Trail Pt. I and have come to realize that I am embarking into the remote wilderness. The Colorado Trail Pt.II challenged me mentally far more than physically, but not really due to circumstances from the actual trail.

By this point, I was ready for anything. To be honest, I was expecting it to turn to crap by this point anyway. I was envisioning a hollow shell of my former self slowly pushing her bike up the Rocky Mountains and gasping for breath and food. However, that girl was nowhere to be found, and in her place was this fierce warrior who woke up each morning by the dawn’s light, swiftly packed her little belongings, ate a quick meal bar while skipping stretching, and mindlessly strolled onto her bike, eager for the next eight hours of pedaling, knowing it was eight hours closer to her final destination. I really was getting to Durango, even if I had a busted bike, body, or brain and needed to be wheeled there. This stubborn determination was the main driver in the following days to come.

To recap, my friend Austin came to join me for some segments in the later half. We hadn’t seen good weather for a few days now, and it was beginning to wear on me. I also realized my helmet’s MIPS were busted many months ago, which explained why I was getting so many headaches. To relieve the pain, I would place the helmet on my handlebars, and at one point, I was so frustrated with it getting in the way of my brakes that I punted the helmet clear across the trail into a nearby bush. I felt childish knowing Austin was watching my personal temper tantrum. Between sniffles, I muttered, “It’s not sustainable to leave plastic out here, right?” There is a hint of a smile as he kindly states, “Yeah, you’ll probably want that on the downhill.” This man was my emotional rock, being extra patient with me, and I was grateful for his friendship in the final segments of this trail.

Day eleven and I had lost all my bike repair gear. I didn’t realize in the haste of putting on all my rain gear that I had dropped my bike pump and entire bag of parts. We gathered flowers to create a subtle message for whomever may find my lost gear. (To my surprise, someone in fact did, and I retrieved it a month later in Eagle, Colorado). Had a quick double lunch in Silverton but needed to make miles before nightfall. These next miles were said to be brutally rocky, which is exactly where I suspected my tires would bust.

We ride the rest of the day, taking little breaks, knowing we are on track to finish by tomorrow. There are only 35 miles left to go, and then we are in the final town of Durango! However close it may sound, it still feels so far away as we watch another storm approach. We take a quick dinner break and find the tarp again, despite how wet our clothing already is.

The storm doesn’t seem to break, so we decide to just call it an early night and try our best to stay dry before we head out early in the morning. The rain is pelting us as we quickly set up camp. We are under the protection of a large tree, and Austin feels like a gentleman by giving me the most protected area. I am wary of the spot because there is a large tree root sticking out from the ground. Yet there is no time to delay, so we quickly sprawl out our tents and climb into them for the cold night to engulf us.

Ot has been raining for six straight days, and unfortunately I have no way to air out my equipment inside while riding. All my dry bags even keep the moisture in ironically. I am protecting my electronics before hopping into my wet bivy when I realize I can’t find my wool pants. Great… I guess I will just sleep in the shorts I was wearing all day. My rain gear is dripping, so that is out of the question. Disappointed, I slide into my wet sleeping bag, knowing full well it is no longer useful in 15-degree weather, let alone the 30-something degrees it would get to later that night.

I struggle to find comfort in my bivy that night. Despite which direction I moved it, I was still banana’d over that root and it felt like my head was lower than my feet. It was subtle enough to not bother fixing it due to the heavy amounts of rain still consistently pouring down. I inevitably fall asleep due to the exhaustion from the ride.

BOOM. Around midnight, a loud clap of thunder wakes me. At first, I am simply uncomfortable. My sleeping bag is sticking to my bare legs, and I’m suddenly aware of how wet my socks are. I begin to shiver uncontrollably, but when I try to warm up in the fetal position, I am restricted by the narrow seam of my sleeping bag. My breathing has increased to shallow breaths, and I try to focus on counting deeper breaths. Nothing is working, and after ten minutes of rapid panting, I realize I am having a low-key panic attack. I try not to think about the lack of oxygen in my bivy and begin to focus on counting in hopes of controlling them. I can’t even sit up as I am forced to understand the bivy is much smaller than it already is.

I am slowly being asphyxiated. A quiet, helpless sob escapes me as I pretend I am in front of an open fireplace. I need space, I need warmth, I need air. The sobbing grows louder, and I am hoping Austin is sleeping through it all. His tent is far enough away that he possibly cannot hear me through the rain pelting down. I open my bivy wall enough to let some fresh air in, but I am rudely disturbed by the brisk cold that seeps in.

I am shivering more, and my breath is still shallow. The tears stream down my face, freezing on my cheek as I question if this is how I am going to die. One single cold night, just a day before the finish. Panic continues to swim across my body as I fail to get my fragile body under control. Then blackness consumes me.

BOOM. Another rain cell passes overhead and I awake to the same bad dream. It is only 1 a.m. and I don’t recall falling asleep an hour ago. My body must have been so stressed it completely shut down to reset. By the crick in my neck, I am able to deduce that I passed out suddenly from fear. My body was still freezing, and I felt the beginning of another panic attack approach. My sleeping bag gathers more water with each frustrating turn of my body. The root under my back is digging into me, forcing me to balance on a downward slope as I feel the pool of water collect against my wall. This is my life raft, and I am so close to letting go. Minutes feel like hours as I fight for warmth and oxygen. The rapid shallow breathing returns, followed by the inevitable hopeless sobbing.

Austin calls out from the other tent, “Jen… are you okay…?”

I am not okay. I attempt to speak in between the tears, “Not really… I don’t know how to make this stop.”

He tries to reassure me that it will pass, and I go back to counting my breaths in distraction. No use. I am so desperate that I plea out into the darkness. “Can I come over to your tent?” There is a silence as Austin says what is on both of our minds. You can hear the pain in his voice as he states, “No, I don’t think that is a good idea, Jen. You will just get colder walking into the pouring rain. You need to stay put and keep whatever heat you have. If it helps, I have water in my tent too.”

I wonder if I should use my GARMIN GPS to call for a rescue helicopter- however my past experience with this device failed me. They had to wait until the storm blew over to land on the mountain, and even if they could get to me, it would still take a few hours to organize. I had to accept this was my fate and that even someone as prepared with equipment, test trials, and devices for maps/location could find themselves in this situation.

I feel helpless and at a loss for words. Austin is right. But I don’t know how to ignore everything that is happening right now. I am begging for my life. I once read that hypothermia takes only a few hours to set in. At this rate, I know I wouldn’t last long. Not if my breath continued to stab my heart. I return to my uninterrupted breathing and crying saga until darkness consumes me again.

BOOM. It is now 2am when a third thunderclap wakes me. I can’t believe this is still happening and am convinced I already died. That’s what I get for always chasing type II fun. I just had to feel the rush of living on the edge, and now I am departed, yet trapped in my undertaking.

My neck is now throbbing in pain – I clearly passed out again. I hate this so much. I can’t be dead because the shortness of breath is returning, telling me I am still fighting for what little is left. I am more aware than ever that I am in a coffin being waterboarded. Each pelting drop is felt through my thin walls, and I cannot retain any heat. These final minutes pass ever so slowly as I contemplate how I will actually survive this.

I am cramped on my side to create space for air. Suddenly, there is a warm palm on the small of my back as I feel heat surge through me. My breathing stops, and I am in a fuzzy, peaceful haze. I accept the delirious state I am in as I hear a voice inside my head, soft yet clearly saying, “It’s going to be okay.” I wonder if it is Austin, but I know he is too far away to sound this close. Something, someone is here with me. This tent is so small, but someone is inside here with me. I must be hallucinating or possibly having the worst dream of my life. The peaceful dread is temporary, and my breathing is uncontrollable again. I am so scared as I feel myself slipping away from reality.

I am in limbo, and this is my personal hell.

Flashbacks of all the times I have managed to escape death in the past appear. He has visited me so many times and over so many nights. Yet this time I fear he is finally coming to take me. Everything has led to this point, and I feel the pain of nostalgia recalling that I’ve seen this coming years ago. I am convinced that death must be in the tent with me. I am not sure why he would be so kind as to reassure me, but I am pretty certain that if some light appears, I am totally walking toward its warmth.

Death is beginning to feel like a strange embrace, and in this moment, I would surrender to the whispers of anything that offered solace. My chest aches relentlessly, each breath a tumultuous battle—IN OUT IN OUT IN OUT—like a mother enduring the raw intensity of labor. I ignore the tears that freeze upon my cheeks, my desperate search for oxygen overshadowed by the weight of despair. I crave a reason to cling to life, or perhaps a reason to surrender to this inevitable fate. I am weary of the fight, yet my body resists fiercely, and I am left questioning why this relentless struggle rages on within me. The lightning is within a mile overhead yet now the idea of getting struck by electricity sounds dangerously inviting.

Then I am reassured by a name. Michael. Who is Michael? My nervous system takes over again, and blackness embraces me a final time.

I am greeted by the song a of a single bird as morning light finds it way across my thin wall.

My body is incredibly stiff, and my neck is throbbing in pain. But I am still here. I rip out of my bivvy and sit upright for a long time. I am paralyzed by the senses that flood me. I somehow survived the darkest night of my life – AND WHO WAS MICHAEL? Deep in my gut, I know who he is. He is Saint Michael. I’m not even Catholic and know it was Saint Michael who came to me. In that moment, I recall a second name – Brandon – and quickly brush it off because I know so many Brandons.
I focus on the songbirds and the gentle wind, but I am numb to the perplexing confusion. Did I really make it through last night? Austin steps out of his tent to hand me my wet shoes, and I am aware that this is reality and that I have been given the gift of another day.

I snap out of it as he says, “We are getting the hell out of here today.” I am convinced by those words because I know I would never survive another night in that alpine cold with my damaged gear.

Our spirits lift along with the fog as we start seeing signs that we are 20 miles, 10 miles away from the exit. I am soaring through fields of wildflowers as I recall every night on this trail. Twelve days later, I am able to say I made it. I’m not sure how I did it, but it is almost all over. Just a few more miles and I will be on a real road again, heading toward real food once more. I no longer feel like a machine as my body slowly passes the finish marker. DURANGO. I am finally here and blissfully aware that I have a new life ahead of me.

I took one last photo of myself, a before and after on the trail. While I did not ride in underwear, I really needed to see what the weight of this trail did to me. A lot of people don’t talk about the struggles of someone trying to gain weight, but I honestly tried months prior during training to gain at least 15 more pounds. Despite the 20lbs of protein in my backpack, I knew I would never take in the right amount of calories. The trial was complete, and with it, took a piece of me.

I remember sinking into the longest hot bath that night after finding solace in a cozy bed and breakfast. As I released the tight braids that had confined me, I felt an overwhelming sense of unfamiliarity, as though I had stepped into a different reality. That same day, many miles away, someone else was fighting for their life. It was hours later that I would receive the heartbreaking news about a dear friend who had passed away the same hour, coinciding with my own exit from the wilderness. I find myself still grappling with the questions of when and why people leave us. It feels so unjust that some of us are granted second or even seventh chances, while someone I cherish like a brother has faced a sudden accident. I can’t shake the deep connection to him, both here and beyond, especially since I heard his name, along with that of Michael, echoing in my thoughts that morning. Life can be so cruel and fleeting. Though it is not my story to tell, Brandon will forever hold a place in my heart, and I will always remember that heart-wrenching August night.

Zanzibar

by Jen Roby, posted in Africa, life & death

I thought I was leaving the difficulty of the third world behind by choosing to spend Christmas on the beach in Zanzibar.

Little did I know that Zanzibar would also be the place I revisit breath-work for the first time since Thailand 2013, and would unleash whatever emotional damage I must have been repressing for over a decade.

The unexpected unveiling of a new path in my journey was not a pursuit of my own making. However, as fate would have it, a serendipitous encounter led a newfound friend to refer me toward her healing guy in Zanzibar. Apparently the power of breath can take you on a hallucinating individual journey to your deeper issues. Firmly attuned to the subtle whispers of the universe, I heeded the recommendation and embarked on the enchanting voyage. Swiftly, I discerned its profound resonance within me. Though it was fleeting, during the abbreviated session, I transcended the confines of my physical form, drifting inwardly. Amidst my sixtieth breath, a revelation materialized before me: I was engulfed in a pool of liquid, stuck in the sticky goo of whatever it was holding me back. I cried out for help, but nobody was around to hear me. I was utterly and completely alone.

Then hours later my voice became raspy and while I didn’t feel under the weather, I noticed a difference in my sound. My voice was gone.

That was two months ago and now I’m just going through the motions. Unable to sing, unable to talk for long periods with people, and unable to trust that my body is okay. That I’m okay.

Looking back Tanzania was irrevocably the most difficult part of my trip. I don’t know what exactly cracked in me in those last weeks, however the trip to Capetown, South Africa didn’t help my healing progress.

I was tired, worn down, solitary, and definitely feeling more lost than before. I was content with going along with the flow, however something was bubbling deep down.

Realistically, I really should not have pushed myself as hard as I did in the end. I even went to a vineyard where I drank for the third and final time in Africa. The wild sulfates of South Africa bruised my chords, and whatever was blocked from the breath work, got inflamed and just lingered around for weeks after.

I don’t quite know what to make of these symptoms, and I’m certainly past the point of wanting to google it…but I guess this post is a long-winded way of saying, I give in, and I still have faith it will work out.

My voice will return in its own time, even if it takes a while to heal. I understand that this may be a quieter season for me. Although it’s difficult knowing that I won’t experience music in the same way as before, I believe there’s a purpose behind all this uncertainty. Dear Africa, I trust that you had a reason for taking my voice, but I kindly ask for its return now.

Safari in the Serengeti

by Jen Roby, posted in Africa, love, travel

To say there is a lot of feminine energy in my family is an understatement. My father came from a big military family that traveled across Europe, the southwest, and eventually Texas due to an unfortunate childhood accident in Germany. San Antonio had one of the best burn units. While my two twin brothers are the only Roby’s to carry the name, the rest of our large Texas family is all women. Each blessed with a variety of talents. Looking back I’ve been incredibly blessed with the ability to see them every holiday, every year and watch us all grow in love. I know now that this love that binds us together is a directly reflection of our mysterious grandmother.

My grandmother is the reason that triggered this trip back in April, so it makes sense to begin the story with Anne Beckett Yeargain, aka, Honey. I don’t need to dive into too much family history other than this woman was pure gold and the first person to come to mind when asked who I want to be like when I get older. Honey had so many stories, both good and bad, and possessed this incredible maternal instinct not only with her children, but her childrens’ children, her childrens’ children children, and even her childrens’ children children children. Her memory never failed her, and even at the ripe age of 96, she still carried the soul of a timeless spirit.

I am grateful to be here today because of her, and to be traveling through my dream continent that only child form Jennifer knew I would experience. When I was a young girl I would lay in the soft Texas grass, spending hours looking up at the clouds. I would picture myself in faraway places with this sense of determination and familiarity. I would dream about Africa and all the animals I would see one day like a vivid reoccurring dream; it was a bright blue day and the grass was fresh with spring. Animals surrounded me and I was home.

These early wanderlust thoughts kept me going through all the gray days of doubt. Perhaps it was the National Geographic channel, or the release of The Lion King that fueled these ideas. My younger sister, Emily, and I spent countless hours pretending we were lions on our next door neighbors ridiculously sized rock, roaring and eating grass as if we were lions living in Pride Rock. Looking back, the only thing more ridiculous than this random boulder in their front yard, were the random little wild girls running around on all fours. It was a time of simplicity and innocence that I would give anything to go back to, just once.

While I knew I would end up in Africa someday, deep down I doubted this faint notion. Perhaps it was always meant to stay high on a pedestal. Ironically the only other place I placed on a separate pedestal was Spain. While I had many opportunities to visit, I wanted to speak the language fluently before I set foot in this country. It wasn’t until early this year after the death of my grandmother that I had the clear understanding I would be connecting these places, one leading me toward the next. All my previous solo trips have been stepping stones instructing how I would navigate this journey.

It wasn’t until I hit my previous destination, Rwanda, that I got a little rattled and unsure of my purpose. Everything up until this point has lined up so perfectly that it just felt right. Then I hit a bump. I felt fear, loneliness, and shortly after, sickness. I gave myself the patience to heal for a few days in solitude, but for the first time this entire trip, I felt weary of my next move. I watched the stormy clouds roll past Mount Meru with sobering sadness. I am near the continents two largest mountains, and yet I feel no desire to climb them at this point in my life. It is the beginning of the rainy season and the views from the summit would not be nearly as rewarding this time of year.

Where should I go, what should I do? Then it hit me, as if my inner child was tugging at my own heartstrings. You’re in AFRICA JENNIFER. The wild animals are calling, go to them.

I inquired around the village and booked the first safari that felt right. While there are so many options, depending on your budget, timeline and destination, you will know the right package when you see it. Just like that, the puzzle pieces starting lining in place again, and everything flowed in harmony.

The next morning of the tour I was the first pickup. For the first time in days I was eager and energized. I had my small bag packed with my sleeping liner, safari clothes, bug spray, and toiletries. I looked around the empty safari vehicle thinking, the only thing missing is my sister. She should be here with me. We should be reliving our childhood together.

The guide picked up two ladies along the way. The first was a lovely older German woman, and the second was a younger British gal. The three of us would share this massive seven person off road vehicle for the next four days. I was ecstatic!

The beginning of the trip started slow and easy. We squealed at the first sighting of a mongoose family at the entrance of Tarigeirgie Park. Then proceeded spotting a of the Impala, giraffes, elephants, hippos and even the first sighting of a lion pack. The highlight of this park was a special moment when we waited by the water and were the only people who watched a herd of elephants enter the water for a social bath.

Elephants have always reminded me of my mom for some reason. I first encountered wild elephants in Thailand, where I immediately thought this must be her spirit animal. They say an elephant forgives but never forgets. They also say in order to put an elephant into captivity, one must first break their spirit. I learned the sad truth behind the logging industry, as well as the commercial tourism for elephant rides. I’ll never forget the video they showed us of the beautifully strong creature bound by all fours in a tiny bamboo pen. They whipped this elephant every day, for weeks, until it finally caved and bent a knee to their master. This was the moment when the elephant no longer felt it had something to live for, and gave up. Yet seeing them at this sanctuary park years after being rescued from captivity, they found a way to accept the past and live the remainder of their life being happy. Despite all the tragedy this animal endured, they were still able to love people. The wounds and gashes across their body would tell you otherwise. Deep beneath their playful trunk is sorrow-filled past that only their black eyes may show. My wild mother is strong in many ways similar to the elephant. It was during this special group watering hole experience that I suddenly wished my mom was here to see this. To feel the love and laughter alongside me.

Later that night we ate dinner on the outskirts of Arusha. We placed our bags into the luxurious glamping tents before racing back out for a hot meal. The small group of us were relaxing over the first course of carrot ginger soup when from a distance we could hear a faint growl. We all immediately stopped talking in unison to listen to the creature. The deep growl grew into a louder grunt and we could tell that it was coming from nearby, just beyond the bush. Fear prickled our skins as we quickly retreated inside the caged kitchen area, all silently acknowledging it was definitely a lion.

After dinner a small tribe came out to play drums and dance. When it came time for audience participation, everyone was too full to move. Everyone except for the older German woman. Her thick, silver-blonde hair bounced to the beat of the drum as she danced with the locals. Her vibrant spirit was youthful beyond words. A nearby stranger smiled toward me and asked “is that your mom?”

In this moment I realized my mom was here all along. She would have been dancing here just as this light-hearted woman. I would later looked at my phone during the pocket of Wi-Fi and see my mom text for the first time in weeks to see if she could call. Life is funny like that and our wavelengths tend to be connected like the Aspen tree root system; when one person feels, the other does too.

The next day was a whirlwind of an experience – we had to cross the crater inside Ngorongoro National park to enter into the Serengeti. I’m Swahili Serengeti translates to “endless land” and it’s true. The park is significantly bigger than the other two and stretches for miles into Kenya, where herds will migrate through two times a year. We spent the day chasing hyenas, warthogs, more lions and even found the rare leopard.

She sat high up in the top flat acacia tree, napping on her sunlit perch. This beautiful feline was the hardest to spot in the park. There are about 1500 of them in the 40,000+ square foot park, yet they manage to hide themselves so well. Blending into their environment, this solitary cat is completely at ease with her surroundings. There was a moment when we exchanged glances and I felt my sister alongside me. Gone were the days when we climbed high up into the oak trees, yet here I was decades later wondering if a piece of her was up there with that regal cat. The sun kissed her face as she stretched and stalked her way across the branches. She knew we were all watching and it didn’t phase this Queen of the Serengeti.

Later that night we would enjoy dinner before heading toward our small camping tents for an early morning wake up. You could not stand up in these, but the water at this site was actually heated compared to the previous cold showers. By the washrooms an elephant would stampede across our site, waking everyone up. The British gal and I were sharing a tent and laughed about life. I felt this kindred bond with her, it was so easy to open up to her. We giggled gossip about the different types of people in the world, and how no matter where you go, you can find them everywhere. In that moment I realized my sister was here all along. This is exactly what Emily and I would have been doing had she been here on this trip. A few hours later some water buffalo would loom around our tent, eating grass and nuzzling our canvas walls, just like we would have done many years ago in our neighbors lawn. The next morning the guide would tell us someone on this trip has some big animal energy because it’s not normal for this many nightly camp visitors. I’m not saying it was the power of us three women together, but some secret part of me wanted to believe I had the power to whisper them closer.

The third day was potentially the highlight of the entire trip. We were on the usual hunt for all the big cats when our driver with eagle eyes caught a faint beige dot in the distance. The cheetah. As we “illegally” went off the path to get closer my mind raced about the last time I even saw a cheetah. I don’t recall seeing them in the zoo and was eager to see how petite they were in real life. Over the past years I formed a respect for this animal due to not one, but two readings about spirit animals. Both times the cheetah card was drawn for me: “an animal of solar force that uses passion to fuel forward momentum. When in balance, there is boundless energy” was amongst other definitions that stood out for me. I could easily trace the connection.

As we approached the area we zeroed in on a beautiful small cheetahs slinking across the grassy plain. From behind her popped up another cheetah, only slightly smaller! A mother and her female cub. I was delighted to share their space as we turned off the engine to sit with them. After they became more comfortable with our presence, the young cub completely took me by surprise. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the vehicle, with a personal roof toward the front. I stood on the seat, making eye contact with the cheetah. She circled the car toward me and I could read her next move. Just like how my cat at home would dip prior to jumping onto a surface, this cheetah was about to pounce on top the car to take a closer look. My adrenaline spiked as she curiously climbed toward me. Reason told me I should be scared, but my body didn’t want to move. I asked the guide below if I should come back into the vehicle, but he reassured me by whispering “no, no”. Not “don’t worry the cat won’t attack you” or “maybe you should come back in” but simply, “no, no”.

Our eyes locked and I felt so much love for this animal sitting in front of me. She was young, unweathered, and beyond playful. She started nibbling at the plastic roof handles in front of me. The entire group was going wild for how bold she was to come hang. She explored everything from the windshield wipers, the exhaust pipe, the handles. She wanted to know everything about us. I placed my hand upon the glass between us as she sprawled across the engine. Her paw lifted toward my hand in this pure moment of understanding. I see you. You see me. We are one and the same. It was like looking through the glass at my inner child and connecting with her on so many levels.

She lounged around for almost thirty minutes as we all patiently spent the day together. Life was precious and so were these moments binding us. I looked around the field and it suddenly hit me…this is not how I pictured the Serengeti. Every picture I’ve seen prior to coming here was dusty dry desert. Yet looking around we were surround in fresh spring. The lush green endless fields bloomed with life as butterflies dancing across flowers. With the cheetah still by my side, together we looked around for predators. The horizon had a small herd of elephants and when I looked up, the blue sky was filled with pillow clouds. dejavu swept over me as I looked up at the endless sky. This is exactly what I imagined so long ago while I was a young girl staring up into the vastness. It was as if my future self was always sending a message back to my child self, letting her know time would heal everything and this land would bring me to realize I was never alone. How could I fear abandonment when I’ve always have this same sky to remind me of the place of endless land and endless love?

I would go to bed that night completely satisfied, not only with all the cats of the day, but with a renewed hope for the future. What if it all works out? I don’t think I ever left myself consider this as an option. If I ever forget I can easily be reminded through all the feminine powers in my life; the legacy of my grandmother, the wonderfully maternal aunts that came after her, my fierce mother and graceful sister, my new niece, and not to mention the countless cousins on my dads side, along with the Caribbean cousins on my moms. We are all a few years apart, and scattered across the United States, like some magical star dust across the continent. These woman are my rock. They are my history and a stable reminder that I am never alone in this world.

And that’s just my family. Don’t even get me started on my friends. I am beyond lucky to know these women and will forever lift them up, as they lift me. While all the big cats may be in Africa, I’m certain all the powerful felines are sprinkled everywhere in between, an ancient line of goddesses that keeps this world a little less dull.

Racing around Rwanda

by Jen Roby, posted in Africa, Farming, life & death, scary, single female, tourist, travel, Uncategorized

There comes a time in every long backpacking trip that you hit your first big low. Sometimes followed by a high…and then another low. While it is not my nature to focus on the negative, I think this particular segment of my trip has burned a memory deep in my mind. One in which I will carry, both the good and the bad.

Continue reading “Racing around Rwanda” →

One day in Madrid

by Jen Roby, posted in Europe, tourist, travel

While I could have spent endless days walking around this city, I decided to make my time shorter here so that I could see some friends down south.

The city was a stark contrast to Barcelona – it was certainly more clean, and there was a buzz in the air that I couldn’t quite understand. I didn’t try to because I simply liked it.

I took a 3 hour train into Madrid. The Atocha train station was one of the coolest I’ve seen in years due to the massive indoor garden tucked inside the train depot. I walked less than fifteen minutes to my hostel, Latroupe, and immediately walked back out into the young night.

I found myself at the largest palace in all of Europe, the Palace of Real Madrid. While in line I met a new friend, Manuela from Belgium. She was Italian, spoke multiple languages and worked in the sports industry in Brussels. Meeting her in the que really flipped my not so great morning around. I accidentally went to the wrong location for my 40€ tour – for the record I despise group tours but I thought the palace had limited tickets per day and it was my only way of getting in last minute. Turns out all I had to do was pay for another palace ticket in person on the spot. Honestly really grateful for her refreshing change of pace.

We carried on past the Palace and into wine and tapas. Of course I had to get my new Australian friends to join since they were around the area. It turned into a fun last minute party. Manuela, Louis and I had coffee together afterwards. It was a cute lil girls night out. Then she had to catch a business dinner and Lou and I carried onto more wine. I promised myself I would stop taking advantage of all the red wine once I leave Spain.

Ended the night feeling incredibly grateful for solid female company and the ability to talk freely about the future and some of the more scary things regarding it. We said our goodbyes and I headed back to my hostel where I would grab my backpack and take the late night train into Seville. Spain has felt so lively each night that I felt perfectly safe roaming the streets after midnight.

The Prince of Egypt

by Jen Roby, posted in Africa, tourist, travel, Uncategorized

I purchased the last minute flight from Marrakech to Cairo knowing it was my best port of entry to Arica…yet also knowing that the US government has deemed it a class 3/4 zone of terrorism and that all travel there is highly advised to cancel. Whatever that means.

I researched the visa entry ahead of time, and apparently got denied for having the wrong information in my application. It is quite possible I got got, however for $25 it seemed like a learning experience. One that would set the fate for if I actually enter the country, or just pull a Tom Hanks and live in the terminal for a casual 36 hours. I was prepared for both outcomes with a flight out of Cairo. Later found out that spending the night in the terminal never would have worked because they have a TSA pre check before the TSA check. It’s ridiculously high security that would only let me in 3-4 hours before my flight.

So thank goodness my visa did go through, on the spot, in person. I was contemplating the outcome when I met this engineer who sat next to me on the flight – was scribbling all sorts of calculations in his notebook like a mad man. We got to talking and he reassured me he is Egyptian and I should easily get a visa on the spot for $25. No problem.

Sure enough he was right. Mohammed was so kind as to wait for me on the other security check side. It was midnight and while I luckily had a hostel pre arranged in the hip area of Zamalek, I unfortunately failed to prearrange a pick up. While I really don’t like to plan this far ahead when I am always on the go with limited internet, I am learning it is helpful in these foreign countries, really ANY country, including America, to prohibit the airport taxis take advantage of you.

Typically in these situations I am reassured that I know I can pull out cash from the airport atm, and ideally get Wi-Fi to google the average price for a ride. In this case, the airport Wi-Fi was difficult to access requiring a local number and I was prepared to pull out Egyptian pounds to have a cab driver take it all.

While I did not show it, I think Mohammed could sense the concern in my eyes each time I said, well it will all work out. I was certainly not his burden and all this was a problem I got myself into. He did not owe me anything but to my surprise, he wanted to help. Throughout this trip, I am constantly reminded how people just want to help. And it’s not always just in exchange for money.

Mohammed saw I couldn’t connect to Wi-Fi, offered his number to use, and then when the Uber app was down he said he was getting my ride as a welcome to Egypt gift. His sister was waiting outside when we approached. The air was thick, the night sky was lit up with all sorts of fluorescent lights, and the pure chaos of the arrivals area was more than I expected. I pushed any worry at bay and smiled, soaking in the hustle of everyone around. I was in Cairo!

They were both so kind as to wait with me for the Uber Mohammed called. Also, there was no point in which I doubted his man because he was pure throughout our conversation on the plane. Finally he speaks to his sister in Arabic and they offer me a ride toward the direction of their house and my hostel, where he would call me another Uber that would be easier to get. All of this plotting could scare my younger self into saying “no thanks, I’m good” however I once had a travel friend years ago tell me “I like to constantly place my faith in humanity” and that expression has never left my mind. I certainly didn’t want to jump into a taxi after midnight and wanted to believe the best in these two people standing in front of me.

We get into her 1993 Toyota sedan, and I am humbled by the modest life of this mother with two kids. It was incredibly late and I could easily see how she would deny the ride. Yet, they both were insistent on helping me get safely to my hostel. We pull over fifteen minutes into driving on this crazy four lane road. The road didn’t even have white lines and people were just merging quickly into random lines. The hazards are flashing and Mohammed says “the ride is coming”. It’s almost comical at this point that we can just switch vehicles ON THE HIGHWAY. Apparently Ubers will pick up anywhere here. I was still not panicked and completely trusted them.

Transferring into the Uber we say our goodbyes, and exchange numbers should they ever be in Colorado. I then arrive at the hostel at 1:45am and feel incredibly exhausted as I check in. Kareem, the owner, is calming and helpful as he shows me my private room. When it comes time to pay he tells me they don’t have a credit card machine. This was common in Morocco too, and I assume they want to avoid all the fees. Plus, cash is king.

I explain that I’ll need to get to an ATM and Kareem says, no problem you can pay in the morning. I am relieved and say, “thank you. I’m so hungry but also so tired. I think I’ll go to bed”. I am then surprised when he replies, “you’re hungry? I will show you a shawarma place” I kindly, yet shortly reply, “no, sorry I don’t have cash” and he simply says “no problem, it’s my welcome to Egypt gift”.

I’m starting to wonder what the heck this welcome to Egypt gift thing all about. The past two people have said this to me and I’m embarrassed that I was expecting something far more different, purely based on negative stories others told me. I take him up on the shawarma and go to bed with a content belly and heart. I am so used to locals treating me as a walking bank account. It’s a fair exchange in my opinion, I contribute to extorting your community, which thus becomes reliant upon tourism, and in return you learn to take me for as much as you can.

Maybe there is something more to this place and these people, and that is such a beautiful change of pace.