I did a lot of backpacking in grad school, mostly on the Appalachian Trail for anything from a long weekend to a week or more. It was my nearby wilderness escape and I would sneak out in the dead of winter or the height of summer, sometimes with friends, but often solo. I loved the single-mindedness of it, the linear problem solving, and the freedom to do or do not as I chose. The mid-Atlantic mountains tended toward easy logistics and plenty of civilization-adjacent hiking. It was easy to walk out the door and spend a while re-threading my head. Yeah, let’s do some of that again!

I obsessed over gear all spring and ended up with a finely-tuned kit. Choices were made and compromises pondered. Experiments showed what I needed and what I could easily leave behind and that I could haul a 25 pound pack for 20 miles and 3000+ feet of elevation gain per day through mountains much gnarlier than what’s found in Virginia or Maryland. Scale the weight up a bit from a two night to a five night trip and it’s still a far cry from what I used to lug around with me. I was ready to make and sleep in the bed I’d carried.

I obsessed over routes and what style of trip I was looking for. The mountains in Colorado are not like the gentle Appalachian hills with frequent road crossings and amenities of civilization. However, the Colorado Trail offers the most AT-like long, linear system with plenty of infrastructure and even a thru-hiker culture all it’s own. I chose a 120-mile stretch near the mid-point of the nearly 500-mile CT with a mid-point resupply option and several options for ending locations. I’d take the bus to the south end and then hike north as far as I managed before taking the bus back home. The style was keen and the stoke was high.

Then a wildfire closed down the Mt. Massive wilderness and my plan A became untenable. However, as I learned last year, once you’ve got all the food and gear packed, the destination is pretty easy to switch. After my great trip to the Weminuche Wilderness in June with Matt and Dan, I decided a revisit was in order, so I decided to hike south-western terminus of CT: drive the seven hours to Durango, take the train north to Silverton, and just hike the 105-ish miles back. I’d stumble out of the woods after five or six days and could play it as it came. Logistically, this seemed to have a wonderfully unconstrained theme, the kind of thing I used to resonate with. I’d pack enough food for five nights but not be sad if I managed to cover the distance in only four.

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Day 1:

The Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad is scenic and fun and certainly the biggest tourist draw to either town. It is not the most convenient (or inexpensive) way to get between the two ends of my hike, but there weren’t really any other options. Trying my best to slip into the long linear flow of a really long hike, I embraced the tourist mentality and enjoyed the wrombling north for four hours on the entire length of the Animas River Canyon. I wasn’t alone in using the train to access the backcountry as there were dozens of backpacks lined up to be loaded into the baggage car; most headed to Needleton (for the Chicago Basin 14er-bagging crowd), a few to Elk Park (for the CT and Grenadiers folks), with me the one and only pack bound the entire way.

Lots of backpacking adventures ready to begin Okay, this is pretty scenic. Hitting the trail at long last!

I was itching to get going by the time we wobbled into Silverton on a hot and cloudless noon, and within a few minutes of getting off the train, I was striding out of town. I set a sweaty pace through humid forest along the lower slopes of Kendal Mountain following the fabled course of the Hardrock 100 ultramarathon. My aim for the day was fourteen miles to Highland Mary Lakes a few miles (and a few thousand feet) up the hill from the Cunningham Gulch trailhead which was itself about ten miles by trail or road from Silverton. Given that I’d done ten hard miles on the first day the last time I’d been here, after starting in mid-afternoon, I figured that more miles and elevation should make this hard but doable with an earlier start.

My options were a long, boring dirt road hike around Little Giant mountain, or a slightly shorter climb of Little Giant and steep descent down to Cunningham. Taking the cue from my theme of doing hard things, I opted for the climb which turned out to be a hard thing indeed. A few miles of steep 4×4 road switchbacked past old mining infrastructure and eventually reached a small lake in an impressive cirque. It looked improbable from below that a hiking trail pierced that wall anywhere, but sure enough a steep, narrow path eventually reached the summit along with a minor hail storm.

Where the climb had been a grind (3400’ in four miles), what followed was an absolutely savage descent (2500’ in two miles) with loose footing and endless switchbacks across no-fall traverses. At great length, I crossed the Cunningham Creek into the camping area completely spent. Any thought of trying for another three miles and 2000’ of climbing were gone from my mind. I limped another mile and a half up the road, found a flattish spot near the wilderness boundary, and collapsed for the day.

Mining tramway on the ascent. Gold Lake and the Little Giant Basin Looking back at Little Giant Basin Little Giant Pass and points south-east Fireweed amidst the brutal descent Camp 1 at Cunningham Gulch featured solitude, mosquitos, and a family of beavers.

Ooof! That was really, really hard! https://www.strava.com/activities/19421413837

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Day 2

With the preliminaries taken care of in a spectacular and savage fashion, I was looking forward to getting onto the well-trodden CT and getting down to the business of clocking miles toward my eventual triumphant return to Durango on Day 6. I packed quickly and hit the trail before the sun had even cleared the eastern slopes, climbing the spectacular Highland Mary trail into the Weminuche Wilderness for my second visit in as many months.

It was verdant and lush and fraught with waterfalls around every corner. After what seemed like an effortless climb, I broke out above treeline and found the glorious Highland Mary Lakes (there are at least four, all excellent) cupped in shallow depressions in a huge, treeless plateau. The view was opening up to east and south as only the San Juans can. The sun was shining and I was feeling good.

So many options!

At the junction with the CT any trail ambiguity was gone. The CT arrowed broadly ahead and I strode along with 90 miles of sure trail in my sights. The day was sunny and hot, even here well above 12,000’. After a couple miles on the Divide, I stopped for lunch and saw just how busy the CT really is; a single hiker passed me headed south, then a group of two, then six more followed by a solo woman. Never on the AT did I see anything this crowded! But never on the AT did I see anything with this level of scenery either.

Seriously!? Is this place for real?

As much fun as tundra trundling is, I was still footsore from yesterday and realized how far I had to go before rest. The weather turned sour as I reached the top of Elk Park (and marveled again at the canonical CT view to the west) and the first hail storm hit just as finished the switchbacks and was getting into the narrow, treacherous part near the miner’s shack. Then it became hot and hazy and I realized that yesterday’s 4500′ of elevation gain was matched by today’s 4500′ of descent. I was really tired of the relentless down, but aware that I had miles to go.

Impressive avalanche debris Zebulon Pika This place…!

The plan for day two had been to go from Highland Mary Lakes, down Elk Park, cross the train tracks and Animas River, then finish with a climb to Molas Lake and a variety of camping options. I’d started a few miles and a major climb behind already, and the prospect of finishing a 4600’ descent with another 2000’ of climbing at the end of the day did not excite. Another storm rolled in around five as I reached the bottom of the valley and unlike it’s earlier brethren, it showed no signs of being a short sharp affair. I snagged the first available campsite after crossing the train tracks in the bit of flat real estate between the long descent of Elk Park and the long ascent of Molas Pass. I was tired, wet, and more than ready to be done. Good enough. https://www.strava.com/activities/19421418702

Camp 2 was as close to civilization as this section of trail gets

The rain slackened off after 30 minutes in camp and I set about the well-practiced chores of life in camp: get the tent up, water filtered, dinner prepared, bedding laid out. A moose and baby wandered by acting annoyed that I was in their zone, but I was too tired to get up and move from this potentially hazardous situation. I pair of fishermen wandered by having little luck in the red-stained river adjacent to the tent. I resolved to get to bed early and start before dawn to tackle the Molas Pass climb before it got hot and, more importantly, get in those miles!

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Night 2

It rained again in the night and that was something new. When it hasn’t really rained all year, especially during previous hikes, it’s hard to believe it ever will. I had a raincoat or course, but I never expected to actually need it. Now it was raining a lot. A weather report I’d heard on Monday said that the monsoon flow had started (finally!) and that we should expect storms off and on for the next few weeks. Especially Thursday.

As I lay there counting the seconds between the flashes and crashes of the thunderstorm, I had little else to do but have a crisis of conviction. I went through the trip plan in my head: after one and a half hard days, I’d only managed 27 miles, so I had another 80 miles to go and four days worth of food to do it with. There was a 20 mile “dry” section without any reliable water source which I couldn’t help but plan as a single day, and it started about 40 miles away (thus, Friday). The terrain was supposed to get a bit easier from here on, at least in terms of huge climbs and descents, but I was still looking at four consecutive 20+ mile days, much of it above tree line, in the rain (especially Thursday), and the last day (Saturday) would be a 25 mile death march descent with over 6000′ of descent and a bunch of pavement walking. All of that was doable as long as nothing went wrong; my margins were cut pretty thin in terms of gear (I had only one waterproof garbage bag) and food (I could possibly cobble together an extra day of food if I needed to, but it wouldn’t be terribly appealing).

I wasn’t licked yet; four big days would be a lot and I could do it if I had to, but boy I wasn’t looking forward to it! I thought back to my first few trips of the year when I was just so psyched to put my plans into action and touch base with my modes of youth. But after seven previous nights on the trail, the shininess had worn off. I could do it, but I was out here for fun.

In a perfect world, I’d do another day or two on the trail before calling it quits, but unfortunately that was just not an option. The train tracks I was camped next to represented the last opportunity to get back to civilization before late Saturday. Even here, cutting my trip short would require most of a day of hassle via train to Silverton and then another to Durango. I’d have a long wait for a northbound train or a longer wait for the southbound, and either way, I wouldn’t get back to my car until Wednesday evening at the earliest.

Another sleepless hour or two got me past pragmatism and across a threshold of self-honesty I’d been working up to all night. Two days and two nights alone in the mountains–plus the half dozen other nights and days alone on the trail earlier this season–was enough. The thought of four more footsore days lumping through the mountains and three more nights of lonely dinners hunched over a microscopic flame with nothing to do besides sleep or hike just didn’t fill me with joy. In my heart of hearts, I just didn’t want what I’d gotten.

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Day 3:

My ruinous ruminations in the dark and stormy night began to feel feeble and defeatist by the light of a clear and soggy dawn. Birds chirped, the river chortled, and the moose and ducks grazing in the nearby pond gave me a judgemental side-eye as if to say “Danforth you weak and timid poser! Why do you always quit when it gets hard?” I reviewed my gloomy thoughts of the night before and found that nothing really had changed even in the cheerful light of dawn. I walked over to look at the climb up toward Molas Pass and it didn’t look appealing. I still just didn’t want it enough to commit to the next 80 miles and uncertain weather.

The first northbound train of the day doesn’t arrive until 11:30 and, even with all the leisurely packing up I could think of, I’d trudged the mile to the Elk Park flag stop by 7:30. More people arrived as the hours ticked by: CT thru-hikers heading for their last town stop, other backpackers at the ends of their successful weekends or weeks, father/daughter and mother/daughter parties, just-engaged couples, teenagers on pre-college “see America” road trips, hyper-fit ultralightists who’d been logging 30 mile days. And me, whatever I was.

The weather really was beautiful down here next to the train tracks and the Animas river. Everyone was so positive about their time on the trail. Those that were continuing after town were talking up the next stretch of trail. Everyone was talking about epic views, wildlife galore, pristine lakes, rampant wildflowers, and all the reasons we all came out here for this sort of thing. My midnight resolutions were starting to feel a little cowardly and defeatist. Scratch that, a LOT cowardly and defeatist! I’d made my decision in the darkest of hours, but what was holding me from choosing differently? I was nearly at the point of saying “Nuts! I’m going to start hiking now and get in as many miles today as I can!” when it started clouding over and the first raindrops started falling. Shortly before the train arrived, the first thunder rolled through the valley. By the time we got to Silverton, it was pouring.

Bus back to Durango over Molas Pass (where I’d originally been planning to spend my second night) and then a short limp back to my car in the Municipal Lot three days earlier than planned. It was late afternoon already, but I drove quickly out of town in search of dinner, shower, bed, and some physical and mental distance from the scene of my latest defeat. The rains started up in earnest about an hour later and I was pleased to see that the weather in the San Juans the rest of the week featured more than a few significant rain storms.

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Aftermath

It can be a bit anticlimactic when you get what you want—or what you thought you wanted—and discover that maybe it isn’t what you wanted after all. After all that planning, obsession, and driving, my big adventure turned into a fizzle. The immediate cause was inclement weather, but I had plenty of bad weather and other hardships back in the day. I was a profoundly different person back then: late-20s, single (mostly), poor (mostly), and single-minded (mostly). I used the alone time to “rethread my head” and the trail as a way to prove something and have a tangible progress toward a goal. I pushed through, I persevered, I dealt with it, and I rested in the rosey afterglow of what was profoundly type-II fun.

Nowadays, I’m motivated by different things. Perhaps my head needs less rethreading, but I’m also defined a lot more by the roots I’ve put down and the branches I’ve stretched out to the world than the sapling of possibilities and the unknown. I’m older (certainly), wiser (hopefully), and less willing to put up with extended suffering just to prove a point (mostly).

I realize that two big days in the most spectacular mountains in Colorado, as well as a day on either side of quality adventure time is not nothing. Many would consider that the adventure of a lifetime, or at least the year. However, I can’t help feeling a little residual shame and more than a little lingering regret for what I didn’t do. A decade ago, I tackled my first and only hundred mile ultra and, through the grace of preparation, perseverance, and a good set of pacers, managed to make it to the end. My training partner and friend Brian dropped out at mile 84. Exactly why he dropped seemed to change every time we talked about it and I notice that my rationale for quitting my big hike has morphed quite a bit from the darkness of Wednesday morning until now nearly a month later.

The trail will still be there next month or next year or ten years hence. If I can manage the enthusiasm and desire for it, I can tackle it then. I can’t wait to see what my worldview and motivations will become in a few more decades.