Life Lessons on the Colorado Trail

On August 15th I set out to thru-hike the 486-mile Colorado Trail in 28 days; unfortunately after 11 days I had to call it quits- I had failed. And this was a great thing.?

It was sometime in May earlier this year when it hit me. In two months’ time I will quit my job, and before I start a new position, I am going to thru hike the entire length of the Colorado Trail. When I first formulated the idea it washed over me like a wave of refreshing, cold water after a long hot run. To say I was excited would be an understatement. I had next to no prior backpacking experience (besides a two night outing on the Appalachian Trail with three other people back in December of 2010) and had not yet camped alone in Colorado since moving here in August of 2020. Yet a project of this magnitude had been weighing on me for some time- I wanted to give it a shot. Why did I think I could accomplish something like this??

Additional considerations started piling up- I lacked a lot of the requisite gear for a trip like this (including the basics- sleeping bag, tent, backpack, etc), I had never sourced my own water or hung a bear sack before, and how the hell was I going to keep myself supplied along the route? Where would I stop? How many miles will I be able to manage day after day after day? How heavy should my pack be? How many days’ worth of food should I have on me? Suddenly this project became much more intimidating.?

The Colorado Trail is composed of 28 segments, each one running from one established trailhead to the next. While it would be nice just to neatly complete one segment each day and then camp at the end of that day’s segment, it became clear this would not be the best way to go. The segments ranged from 10 miles to 32 miles; having an inconsistent daily mileage with that much variance did not sound ideal to me. And, there are certain places where camping is not possible. It quickly became evident that learning each segment in-depth to discern the best stopping points (for camping as well as water sources, etc) was going to become another task added to my list.?

To be honest, sifting through the logistics was fun for me- it could be done from the comfort of my own home, and I got to play around with numbers the whole time. Anyone who knows me well knows that I enjoy playing with numbers. Now, I certainly had to make a lot of assumptions- namely, an estimation of what my daily mileage/elevation gain should be. While I’ve had a lot of experience with long day hikes and big trail runs up to this point, I did not know how my body would perform under the specific parameters defined by this activity- hiking with a 35-45 pound pack on my back for several hours each day, day after day, at high altitudes, over undulating terrain. 15 miles? 20 miles? 3000 feet of elevation gain? 4000 feet? What was sustainable and what was crossing the line??

I studied the segments, mapped out potential routes on a day-to-day basis, and figured out the best resupply points along the trail. I acquired the necessary gear, field-tested everything, and packed it up with everything I thought I would need, adding food last, to decide how much would be feasible to bring. I landed on a 42-pound pack that could carry 5 days’ worth of food, and 3.75 liters of water. The biggest unknown that remained concerned my ability to stick to the plan that I created for myself. I did two separate hiking days where I took the pack with me, filled up with everything. On one of the outings, one where I was planning to sleep overnight, I got deluged by a thunderstorm at 10,000 feet for several miles; later I discovered at the campsite I had forgotten a lighter, and therefore no way to make food. Safe to say I booked it home and did not stay out in the woods that night. Looking back, this was a weak area in my preparation. I should have done more outings with the pack, as well as longer hikes, to determine how my body would respond to longer outings.?

With everything in order, my anxieties soothed by the level of detail through which I prepared, and my body rested and ready, it was time to set out on this journey. Since my parents were meeting me in a few towns along the way for resupply, we settled on specific dates that I would meet them. That meant that each section of the hike had to be done in a certain number of days. The first section, from Littleton to Breckenridge, was 104 miles. I allotted myself 5 days to get there. The daily average came out to 20.8 miles.?

Needless to say, I made it there in 5 days. I was feeling ragged already and totally exhausted, but I made it. Looking back, this was another big mistake. I should have done this first section in 6 days, not 5, and let my body acclimate to the specific demands imposed. I learned that starting my days at 7:30 was too late, especially for 20+ mile days; on a few occasions I was stumbling into camp around 4pm and afternoon showers were either threatening or had already started. Plus, the heat of the afternoons combined with the cumulative fatigue from the morning resulted in a compounded effect- it became exponentially harder to put one foot in front of the other by the end of the day.?

Luckily, there were very few 20 mile days after that first section. In the hotel room in Breckenridge that night, I took another look at my daily plans for the rest of the trip and rearranged them to have a more even distribution of distance as well as vertical gain. Section 2 of the trek was probably going to be one of the easier remaining sections. Five days and 80 miles to get to Twin Lakes, where my dad was going to meet me. While there still were a few big climbs, the average daily mileage was only 16 and that helped to prevent me from burning out. I did, however, notice over the last three days of that section that my feet were more and more achy by the end of the day, specifically both Achilles. This did not concern me too much, as I was switching into a new pair of trail shoes after day 10.?

The resupply stop in Leadville was great- new clothes, new shoes, new food, and I housed a giant pizza and a bunch of candy as well. Section 3 of this trip was probably the hardest remaining 5 days planned; it was almost entirely going through the Collegiate West option and, while I had no 20-mile days, I did have 4 out of 5 days that contained 4000 feet of elevation gain or more. Day 11 started immediately with the climbing; I had to go 4.6 miles and 3300 feet up to Hope Pass, which was followed by a steep descent and then more gradual climbing to reach my campsite. The actual climb went pretty well; I was able to get to the top without any breaks.?

The hike down from Hope Pass was where the problems started. While I was passing into a beautiful area of the trek, the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, the weather that day was overcast, foggy, and drizzly/rainy. In other words, total shit. I got rained on at the top of the Pass and then again once I was down the other side. I lost the rain protector for my pack- some branch must have ripped it off during the descent- and so I used my rain jacket instead. Which meant I was getting soaked. Worse yet, once the trail started going uphill again, I noticed my pace slowing and the pain in my feet worsening. Both Achilles were aching, as well as the feet generally. It was bad enough that I couldn't even complete the scheduled distance for the day- I had to stop and camp after 12.3 miles even though I had wanted to go about 2 miles more. This fact, coupled with the fact that I had some long, vert-heavy days in front of me, caused me to take a serious pause and think about my options.?

What did I want out of this trip? Had I gotten out of it what I wanted? What would I stand to gain if I continued on, despite the worsening inflammatory processes developing in both feet/ankles? Cue the emotions: anger, disappointment, sadness. I cried. I tramped about camp like a spoiled kid who didn’t get his way. I wanted to finish what I started, dammit! Being a physical therapist as well, I have an intimate understanding of pathological processes and the timescales on which they typically develop. I knew the Achilles issue was still early, but based on the worsening symptoms over the last few days, I could be fairly confident that this issue was only going to get exacerbated over the coming days. I really did not want to be dealing with a nagging injury, especially as I enter my thirties. So, I reached out to my parents, and officially decided to pull the plug. It was a hard decision to make. There still is a part of me that doesn’t agree with the decision- that I should have continued on, accrued more mileage, at least made it over halfway to my goal- but I think the decision I ultimately made is a sign of personal growth.?

There are many instances in the past where I took my body too far, ignored the warning signs, and continued to push myself. I had to pay dearly for those mistakes. I did not want to make the same mistake.??

The vision I originally had for this project was, of course, a successful one- I completed the entire trail, in 28 days like I planned, and came out the other side a better man. I had undergone a 28-day transformation of mind, body and soul- and overcame all the hurdles that had been in my way- learning the important lessons, internalizing them, and letting them bake into hardened wisdom. But, that is obviously not what happened. Instead, I stopped after 11 days and 200 miles. I gave up the goal when the going got tough, and I ceded to the oppressive discomforts that had made themselves known on day one. I had failed.?

Failure- that is not a fun word to say, is it? In our society it’s almost taboo to mention yourself and failure in the same sentence. Who wants to acknowledge failure? We love to celebrate the victories, the successes, the juicy narrative where the main character overcomes all odds, displays a winning amount of grit, and sees it through to the very end, emerging victorious. Those stories are wonderful, and should continue to be uplifted. However, I think we’re missing something big.?

No one goes through life without failing something. Failing a test, failing a class, failing to win the state championship, failing to secure grant money, the list goes on. We all have those experiences. Unfortunately, they are quite uncomfortable to experience, and perhaps even more uncomfortable to talk about. The good news is, word is starting to get around. There are a lot of smart people speaking out against societal inertia to stifle all talk about failure- after all, failing is a skill, isn’t it? And if it's going to happen to us, multiple times, throughout our life, why not lean into it? Acknowledge it, talk about it, and most importantly, remove fear from the equation. We mustn’t be afraid. It is the fear itself we should be afraid of- it is the fear that handcuffs us, changes our behavior, allows us to avoid the short-term discomfort of failing at an enterprise, and therefore depriving us of important lessons and long term growth that could have otherwise propelled us forward to a more promising future.?

So, I’m happy with the outcome. I’m happy that I put this big, intimidating objective on my calendar, told people about it, prepared to the best of my abilities, and went out there and gave it my all. I’m happy it came to an end early, and that I acknowledged my defeat to my friends and family. I’m happy that I failed. Because why? Because now, the fear is receding. The fear doesn’t grip me like it did before, when I was facing a plethora of unknowns. This failure has been liberating, confidence-building, perspective-shifting. I can’t wait to go out to the big wide world and try again. And fail again. And continue to get back out there, learning and growing and sitting with the discomfort of it all. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be celebrating a few more successes along the way.?