Everything is fine. The tent has ice on the inside. We’re fine.

After three months, I got Wombat back.

He’d been off on a sabbatical with his trainer and I’d been on trail without him, which is its own kind of weird. 

The reunion wasn’t exactly the viral feed you might have been hoping for. Why? Wombat had developed a strong appreciation for sleep-ins. Which, same, honestly. But he’s not getting those anymore. Welcome back to the CDT, mate.

To add salt to his morning routine, wilderness areas in Colorado require dogs on lead. Which is frustrating for me and absolutely humiliating for Wombat, who is, and I cannot stress this enough, autonomous. 

Colorado: a masterclass in things going wrong in order

Let me give you the full picture of what Colorado looks like, because “hard” doesn’t quite cover it.

Before entering bear country we must condense food to ensure it fits into a bear-canister. So Wombat and I started splitting meals. He approves. I also approve. It’s efficient and slightly chaotic, which is coincidentally, my whole personality.

What else? The list: I’m slower at altitude. My gear is old and keeps breaking. Hiking through bear country makes me paranoid. I’m cold because I haven’t been able to connect to my winter gear, and I’m doing all of this while trying to figure out a routine that doesn’t make me want to lie face-down in the snow and freeze my tears before they start falling. (Progress, not perfection). 

I should also mention here that the scenery is spectacular and I love hiking in the cold (when I’m properly outfitted). And while stuff is going wrong, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

So that said… My god forsaken stove broke which put me in a mood every time I was due to eat. Wombat too, who expressed his feelings about this arrangement by refusing to exit the tent every morning until I physically negotiated with him (with a cold-and-not-so-effective-food-lure). Day 3 and he’s already a better union rep than I am. 

Speaking of union reps, it’s at about this point in my storytelling that the dog lovers among us feel compelled to question Wombat’s suitability to the snow. I get it – but rest assured. 1. He’d be offended 2. This dog is better at advocating for himself than I am. 3. I don’t want to spread rumours but lets just say his coat isn’t 100% ACD. He insists on being at approx -20c before he’s happy to wear a puffy all day. Yes… this over accessorised dog, has a puffy….

I eventually burned off the residue blocking the gas line to my stove, which felt like a genuine miracle. I celebrated with hot water because like an idiot I gave away my hot chocolate when the stove broke. 

Can you hear in my tone of writing that food is  the source of my mood stability?

The one big change I’ve made to my routine is a result of no longer eating in my tent. Instead I just boil water and once the sun is out, I stop for coffee and a snack. Keeps me moving. Keeps the bears from being interested in where I sleep. 

As far as I know, it’s working. 

The highlight I missed

Grays Peak is the highest point on the entire CDT. It stands at 4352m (14278ft) which I crossed without realising because I was so focused on not dying. 

A knife-edge ridgeline. Wind. A feeling of being very small, exposed and insignificant. There was a shelter at the “true summit”, which I was so grateful for I considered sleeping in it, until I remembered I was on food rations. So instead, I sat half-wondered if my travel insurance was current. Reader, I still don’t know.

And then, because the trail has a twisted sense of humour, it started to snow. While downclimbing over scree. Scree on a mountain is the equivalent to quicksand in a jungle. Add snow, and it becomes quicksand in a desert.

Out of nowhere, I ran into Radio Bob, the very first person I hiked with on the CDT despite being half way through. Buzzing from having someone to hangout at camp with, I mentioned the sky looked brighter than usual. It felt like I was forcing conversation but Bob suddenly became excited about northern lights. I hid my look of disbelief but he pulled out his phone (which only intensified my cynicism) and… 

Turns out he was right.

I experienced a profound sense of betrayal. Not because he was right (although, you know) but because we were taking photos of something that wasn’t truly visible. It made me wonder: 

Have the northern lights been a lie? 

I’m choosing to reserve judgement until I’m further north. But I’m not not-suspicious. I feel the same way about photographers selling prints at a premium for moments they captured from their cars. (Don’t be mad)

Meanwhile, the condensation inside my tent started freezing overnight. Which is a sentence I genuinely did not expect to be writing about myself.

The slow collapse of all my gear, and other uplifting updates

Things that are currently falling apart, a non-exhaustive list:

• My gloves. Holes in every single one. Not a dramatic single blowout — just a slow, demoralising surrender across the entire collection.
• My stove (briefly, now resurrected, see above)
• My waterbladder and water filter have frozen dead
• My shoes and leggings are holey, though not inappropriately 

In Steamboat Springs I picked up my resupply parcel and grabbed a pair of cheap rain pants, which turned out to be the best $40 decision I’ve made on this trip. The trail had turned into a winter wonderland and my tights aren’t waterproof.

I ran into some snowmobilers who gave me snacks and very kindly didn’t report me for cowboy camping in a “Privy” (toilet), which I deeply appreciated. (It’s technically not allowed or recommended given they can become a snowtrap. It is also the only way I’m staying warm enough to keep moving. We are all doing our best.)

Mornings have gotten so brutal, I’m starting an hour later. One morning in particular my feet were burning in pain from the cold the second I stood up from rolling my tent up, cutting off their blood flow for a moment too long. Never have it involuntarily let out a panicked cry quite like that one.

Then I met some hunters who told me to put my shoe inserts inside my sleeping bag overnight so they don’t freeze. Life-changing. Genuinely. That single tip has made more difference to my mornings than anything else. 

Finally I completed the snowiest pass, often tumbling over rocks in the deep power (kinda fun), and at one crucial point, I took a wide step over a very wide set of boulders… and my $40 rainpaints split. Fitting. 

The one I’m ignoring but probably shouldn’t 

My visa situation, which I’ve been trying not to dwell on too much – but we’ve all heard the horror stories. So, how did this happen?

• I had a five-year travel visa
• Organised it in Ecuador
• Was very pleased with myself about it, then
• COVID happened.

Now the expiry is encroaching a little too close for comfort and we’re in “things are getting a little desperate” territory. I’ll figure it out. I always do. But it’s sitting at the back of every day, this low hum of sort this out sort this out sort this out.

Wyoming. Finally.

I made it across the state border into Wyoming.

And I am choosing to focus on that, and not on the small detail that hunting season started the following morning.

Timing, as always, is my strong suit. How? you might ask… I have blaze tape.  #adventurelife 

If you want to follow along properly — frozen gloves, boot inserts in sleeping bags and all the visa stress still unresolved — join Entangled. It’s my inner circle and it’s where a genuine community 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 👩‍🌾🐶