Colorado, you absolute dream (You’re also trying to kill me)

I’ve been waiting for Colorado for years.

 After the desert I’m suddenly in the mountains, surrounded by actual living green things, and the trail is beautiful and the air is crisp and I cannot breathe.

Not metaphorically. Literally I. Cannot. Breathe. 

The altitude hit me like a wall and then the wall sat on my chest for a week. I wasn’t sleeping. My sleeping bag is rated to seven degrees and it was getting down below zero. My feet were numb inside my multi-layered socks — and my legs were doing that pins-and-needles thing where you’re not sure if they’re still attached.

And then — and this is the part that really got me — I carried three kilograms of water up a mountain because someone on the internet said there was no water on the trail.

Reader, there was water on the trail.

There was water everywhere on the trail. There was a little lake. With an island. I stood there with my three kilos of completely unnecessary water and stared at that island like it had personally wronged me. I’m convinced my obsession with bodies of water is some kind of desert-induced trauma response at this point.

The Gear Situation (A Comedy in Several Acts)

Here’s the thing about hiking Colorado with desert equipment : it’s a choice. Not a good choice, but a choice.

My stove broke. My water bladder was leaking. My tights — my very thin, very optimistic tights — were not doing what tights are supposed to do, which is keep you warm. I was sleeping with my sleeping bag fully zipped and my rain jacket over the top like my childhood hero MacGyver would. I had all of my layers on. All of them. And my toes were still numb.

“My summer equipment is not sufficient.” — me, slowly realising I am a disaster.

Bill Bryson wrote in A Walk in the Woods that hiking is “a way of learning about the world” — Six years. Nearing 20,000 kilometres. What I was learning about the world was: wool socks exist and I should own some.

Eventually I made it to town. Found an outdoor store. Bought a beanie, an emergency blanket to throw over my air mat, and a new valve to fix the leaking bladder. Small things. Cheap things. But after six years of coordinating volunteers to bring resupplies across 12 countries, walking into a shop and buying something myself felt enormous. Easy win. Big deal. Don’t underestimate the power of a beanie.

Then it hailed. Of course it hailed. I looked around for a cabin or literally anything that isn’t exposed to the sky, and what I found instead? A random toilet perched in the middle of nowhere like divine intervention. 

So I went in, sat on my god given throne, and ate my freeze dried crème brûlée.. Obviously.

Best dessert of my life. 

#adventuregoals

Trail Magic, Real Magic, and 800 Metres That Certified Me

Wombat was off with a trainer while I did this section — timed to avoid the worst of the heat and get some proper upskilling in, because after years of being harassed by loose dogs on the trail, he deserved a break from chaotic humans as much as I needed a break from worrying about him. I missed him more than I expected. Mostly for warmth. Partly for company. Entirely because this section felt like the kind of thing you want a witness for.

The cairns up here are massive. Like, someone’s-been-very-committed-to-this massive. I kept thinking about what this trail would look like under full snow and promptly decided to stop thinking about it before I threw a tantrum on a mountain.

People started appearing again — day hikers, overnighters, mums and daughters hiking south. After months of desert solitude, it was almost overwhelming. All this life. And some of them had beer. Two of them specifically — a couple — found me again on a random roadside a few days later, cooler open, cold ones out, like some kind of alcohol-based trail magic. Twice. These people found me twice with beer. Why do I need a gear supplier when I’ve already got a beer supplier. I’m choosing to count that as progress.

And then, I climbed a very steep trail at the end of the week — looked at my map —Checked the kilometres. And the incline profile of what I’d covered.

I’d just climbed 800 metres over four kilometres quickly!!!. Lungs no longer on strike, gear held together by force, toes still not fully reporting for duty — and I’d done it.

800 metres doesn’t sound like much. But trust me. It was pretty badass.

Colorado, I’ve been waiting for you for years. You’re cold, you’re dramatic, you hail on people eating crème brûlée — and I am completely obsessed with you.

If you want to follow along properly — broken stoves, three kilos of unnecessary water, and crème brûlée eaten on a roadside toilet in a hailstorm —  join Entangled. It’s my inner circle and it’s where the real story lives. Or if you just want to shout me a warm-up-coffee or a self-pity-hot-chocolate to keep me moving: same link.

Lucy + Wombat 👩‍🌾🐶