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.
