Monday, October 14th – Ghost Ranch, NM

I woke before the sun rose above the horizon. For the first time in a while, I slept deeply and warm – so warm that I even cracked my quilt open. It was a luxury I had forgotten about.

I took pictures of the sandstone cliffs as a wave of gold slowly gained over their native burnt orange color. Korn and I enjoyed the wonders of an all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast at the ranch, and soon after, I stepped back onto the trail.

The path led me along a gravel road nearing the Rio Chama, a major tributary river of the Rio Grande. A bridge carried me across the large body of water, and then the trail led me through the canyon as the light softened. By dusk, I was still walking, eager to make some miles and get closer to the next town – Cuba, NM. I ate dinner in the dark, near a rusty tire through that served as a water source. The moon rose full and clean above me, casting a pale wash of light over the dirt road and the surrounding woods. It was the kind of silence that made you sit up straighter. I felt it then – something. A presence. Like eyes behind the trees, watching from the shadowed timberline.

I kept walking, steady-footed and outwardly calm, but inside every alarm bell was clanging. Night hiking stirs a different kind of awareness – vision narrowed, sounds sharpened, the world shifting into shapes you can’t quite name.

Out here, darkness belongs to the predators.

After another hour of hiking, I camped just a few miles from the highway, on a patch of level ground. I felt proud – I’d pushed through and hiked more than I had planned to.

I. The Question

Wednesday, October 16th – Cuba, NM

I walked past scattered houses and barking dogs and reached the town of Cuba, NM. First stop: McDonald’s. Peg Leg and Syrup were there, as well as other familiar faces tucked in the corner of the place. I stuffed myself with food, then wandered to the dispensary. Word was, if you bought something, you could camp for free in their field out back. I picked up a pack of CBD gummies, hoping they might ease my foot ache a bit.

The field was tucked behind a marijuana grow, half-wild and fenced in. Not exactly your typical campsite. I looked around, laughed to myself. Sketchy, sure – but it had charm. One more odd place to call home, at least for the night.

After finishing my laundry, I found myself drifting back to McDonald’s like a sheep to its pen. McDonald’s was a haven out here – hot food, free Wi-Fi, long hours, and a warm place to sit that didn’t stink. It drew in all kinds – thru-hikers, yes, but bikepackers too. I ended up chatting with a British cyclist riding the Great Divide all the way from Banff. He looked worn in the same way I felt. I told him about the sketchy little field behind the dispensary. Told him he could crash there too. Two felt safer.

The next day, I woke to raindrops tapping my tent. When they let up, I packed and went for breakfast. The forecast wasn’t good – a storm was blowing in. And I thought the desert was sunny and dry! I gave it some thought, weighed my options, and stuck with my plan. I’d leave the next morning, no matter the weather. If my timing was right, I’d hit the summit of Mt. Taylor just after the storm cleared.

I spent the day ticking off the town chores – resupply, mailed out a box to Pie Town, then settled back into the strange comfort of McDonald’s.

At the grocery store, I was lining up my items – ramen, tortillas, Nutella – when the young cashier glanced at me and asked, flat as a board, “So, why are you walking anyway?”

I’d heard that question a hundred times before. Usually, I had an answer ready. But the way he said it – like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t expect anything true to come out of my mouth – hit different. For a moment, I just stood there. Then I gave him the safe, generic version. The one we all fall back on when we don’t want to explain too much: “I just wanted to travel and explore the country. You know, go on an adventure.”

Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t right. It didn’t sound like me.

I walked out into the parking lot with a grocery bag in one hand and something heavier in the other. Four months. Over two thousand miles. And I still couldn’t say, with any certainty, why.

Friday, October 18th – 24 hours later

I climbed up one small mesa and watched the wind whip the sand into swirling dust devils. The wind had fought me the whole day. I wore sunglasses just to keep grit out of my eyes. The sky had darkened during the afternoon, and rain threatened. I found camp wedged between three low-standing trees – the only protected spot for a few miles around. My tent flapped in the wind, and rain started tapping the tent. I couldn’t settle. I thought about the border, wondered what weather I’d meet there. I prayed for sunshine and blue sky.

I told myself what I always do: Everything is temporary.

The next morning, rain woke me. I waited it out and then stepped out of my tent and into a world transformed. Fog tangled around the cliffs and mesas like smoke. The light was dim, almost dreamlike. A heavy layer of dark clouds laid above the horizon. I started walking with difficulty – the ground had turned to slippery paste. It wasn’t used to so much water. Each step was a gamble. Clay clung to my shoes like bricks, weighing them down. I moved slowly. The rain fell on and off – never enough to quit, but just enough to wear me thin.

The whole day, I didn’t see a single soul. I walked alone, with my thoughts, into this barren, muddy, relentless country.

In the afternoon, a break in the clouds let the sun through. But not for long. After crossing a shallow river that had swollen with the latest rainfall, I saw the climb ahead – dark clouds massing over it like a warning. Lightning cracked the sky open across the ridge. I waited for half an hour behind a cluster of trees near an empty water cache, watching the thunderstorm closely. When it passed, I moved fast. Who knew when the next one would hit – there was never just one.

The trail climbed fast and steep. I was soaked in sweat and breathing hard when the sky lit up again, white and sudden. I didn’t wait for another warning. Quickly, I found a flat spot sheltered under a few trees and pitched my tent as fast as I could. Soon after I had entered my tent, hail pounded like marbles on the ground. Thunder followed, deep and brutal, like drums at a metal concert – raw, deafening, and close. I could feel it in my bones, in my chest. It was right above me. 

Flashes of light burst through the fabric of my shelter, one after another. It felt like watching fireworks from inside my room on Bastille Day. I used to hate fireworks as a kid. But tonight, I wasn’t scared. I was in awe in front of this display of raw power. Lightning kept tearing through the sky, each bolt shredding the darkness like a blade through paper. I laid still.

Then, through the storm, I heard voices – the first I’d heard in over a day. Peg Leg and Syrup. They’d camped farther down the mountain, I heard them say as they passed. Sounded like they were moving on.

II. Tsoodzil, the Turquoise Mountain

In the morning, I finished the climb and stepped onto the flat top of the mesa. Visibility was low – a heavy mist clung to everything, swallowing the horizon. Charred trees leaned along the path, their limbs twisted and lifeless. Crows cut through the fog, cackling as they vanished between the few standing trunks. I felt as if I were walking into the set of a Tim Burton film.

Later, the wind blew the mist away, and for the first time in the past two days, I saw blue sky and felt the warmth of the sun. The trail was easy, but dull. The water carry was long, but the cool air helped. By the end of the day, I made camp beneath tall pines as the sun melted into the horizon. Finally, I was dry and warm. That night, I didn’t put my rain fly on and fell asleep while watching the stars appearing one by one in the darkening sky. 

Monday, October 21st – Mt Taylor Alternate

I woke up cold. A layer of frost clung to my gear. The storm had dragged in a cold front behind it – temperatures were dropping, and it was clear now: fall had settled in for good. I passed a hunter’s camp and took the Mt. Taylor alternate – a dirt road that went up most of the way. In Navajo, Mt Taylor was known as Tsoodzil (Turquoise Mountain) and was one of the four sacred mountains that marked the Navajo homeland.

The sky was clear, the air crisp. I was surprised to walk through patches of snow near the summit. Finally, by 3 pm, I reached the top. I waited for sunset, shivering in the wind. But the panorama was worth it.

I hiked down in the dark and set up on the side of another dirt road. Tired, but satisfied.

The next day, I walked into Grants and checked into Motel 8 just after noon for a long-needed shower and rest. Peg Leg stopped by my open door, and we caught up. I told her I’d heard her and Syrup walk past my tent during the stormy night. She shared her side.

That night, they’d camped at the bottom of the mesa, just a few hundred yards below me. Both in their tents, sheltering from the hail, when suddenly she heard a rushing roar. The ground shook, but it wasn’t thunder. Before she could react, a wall of water hit the tent – a flash flood. They scrambled out, grabbing what they could.

Soaked and with half their gear lost, they decided they couldn’t stay out there. They pushed on, heading straight to Grants – about 60 miles nonstop. It sounded like hell.

Hearing this, I empathized with them and felt grateful for myself. Lucky even. I realized I’d only avoided the same experience by pushing further uphill. That realization sat heavy. Close calls often did.

“Why would you want to hike 500 miles alone?”
“You need to be careful; anything could happen.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t hike this trail.”

These are all things I’ve heard as more friends and family learned of my plans to hike the Colorado Trail, taking the Collegiate West route. Thankfully, I’ve never been one to let fears stand in my way of what I wanted to accomplish. 

I didn’t know about the Colorado Trail until I moved to Colorado in 2013. It was a trail I quickly learned about, but it didn’t seem like anything I’d ever be able to do. I had hiked and camped a lot growing up, but my dad was the type to bring everything except the kitchen sink. If I ever wanted to do the CT, I’d need to learn how camp very differently. Even if it was only a pipe dream at the time, I knew it would be life changing if I could accomplish it. Over the years, I began hiking, camping and backpacking all across Colorado, getting more and more comfortable with my abilities, and loving every minute of it. Still, hiking 500 miles seemed impossible.

It started with a kidney donation.

Fast forward to 2020/2021. One of my friends needed a kidney transplant and I decided to see if I was a match. To my surprise, I was, and surgery was scheduled for February 2021! I spent a lot of time in 2020 backpacking (I mean, who didn’t need a mental health boost that year). I didn’t know the time spent on the trail would also help me prepare for and recover from surgery. Once we had our surgery, I was already looking forward to the next time I could get back out there. I started hiking again only a month post-op. 

After learning about how many people struggle with kidney disease, I decided I would find a hike and turn it into a fundraiser for the American Kidney Fund. I landed on hiking as much of the Collegiates as I could manage, with the goal being at least 100 miles. Just 6 months out from our surgery, I started my hike. I fell a bit short of my goal with only 60 miles of the Collegiates completed, but I raised around $2000 for the AKF. After that, I knew I would eventually come back to attempt the full trail. 

Time is ticking.

In my “real life,” I work full-time as a nurse in Arkansas, so I wasn’t sure if I’d even be able to hike the CT. Who can afford to quit their job or take a month of PTO just to hike?! Well, turns out working as a nurse is helpful there, and I was able to take a month of PTO to do just that. Now, I’m only a few days out from starting my adventure on the Colorado Trail. In preparing for the trail, let’s just say “mistakes were made” may as well have been my nickname.

This past year has been full of ups and downs to get to this point, and I’m not sure any amount of training would have me feeling ready. But I’m here, and the time is ticking down until I step on that trail. Yes, I will be hiking alone. Trust me, I’d love to share this experience with a select one or two humans, but schedules don’t always align. I know I’ll meet some new friends on the trail, though! I’m as ready as I can be and I am so excited to share my journey with you all!

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What was supposed to be two days from Whitehall to Ennis ended up being 4 hitches and one long climb. Pretty quickly while leaving town, we stuck our thumbs out to get a short ride along the 8 or so miles of road between town and the trail. Quickly, a red mini van pulled up offering us a ride that we couldn’t resist. However, as soon as the doors were closed and as we were trying to iterate our desired destination, sweet Laurie turned the car around and began driving East instead of South. As we explained to her where we wanted to go, she mistakenly thought we were trying to get to a popular local trailhead. As we attempted to steer conversation back to our drop off point, she evaded until we reached the post office. Finally, I showed her on a map where we needed to go and ultimately, we ended up cutting off a whole day of hiking. Laurie was very sweet though and spoke so highly of her kids and grand kids. It was hard to be upset with her.

Unfortunately, despite losing a day of hiking, we were still 10 road miles to the nearest trailhead. After a few miles, a young guy in a white pickup truck up offered us a ride closer to the actual trails. Being a former thru hiker himself, he knew how much we appreciated cutting out the roads. We hopped in the bed of his truck and sat along the gun walls since a four wheeler occupied the main bed space. We bumped down a gravel road until we intersected with a trailhead. We thanked him and he sped off.

However, once again, we realized that we’d been taken to a trailhead where we’d be leaving a trail for another gravel road walk. Feeling a little defeated, we headed off down the dirt road determined to just start walking. After another few miles, a couple who were out prospecting in the area offered us our third ride of the morning. Begrudgingly, I hopped into the bed wary that we’d get any hiking done today. But my spirits were boosted when we nearly passed by Stitch. She was a French Canadian hiker who’d flipped north due to the snow in Colorado. She was very nice, knowledgeable, and best of all, a woman. I was craving female company so I yelled out “Stitch!” As we passed and the couple slowed the truck to a halt so she could jump in. I smiled as we bumped down the road to where we were finally able to join a trail.

I didn’t even care that we had a steep climb ahead of us. I was thrilled to be back in the comfort and safety of the woods. We be following a steep uphill climb to over 9000 feet of elevation. But I was ready to dig my feet in and climb. And boy was it beautiful. There was a waterfall, an abandoned cabin near the summit, an out of place storage container at the summit, and the joys of climbing up to the pass were indescribable. The valley below looked so far away and we had just hiked up from there.

We hiked the remainder of the afternoon downhill towards a beautiful lake where Plan B and I took a plunge. The water was chilly but it felt good in the mid day sun and even better to lay on a warm rock and dry off afterwards. I felt a bit cleaner at least and even brushed through my tangled mess of hair feeling 1000x more human than before the swim.

We were still quite a ways from Ennis and figured we’d either walk or hitch into town the following day. But Stitch knew of a trail angel in Ennis who drove the dirt roads out to us to snatch us up for the evening. And this is where I Introduce Queen Margaret of Ennis and her right hand dog, Tonka. Margaret was such a cool human being. She had just returned from a long canoeing trip through the Yukon and detailed her day to day of the paddle. For contexts sake, Margaret is not a young lady. She is not old either but when you picture a woman paddling the Yukon, you may be biased to picture a 20-30something year old lady. Nope, she was a greying badass.

As she shuttled us around town to get food and then to her house where we were staying, she recounted numerous other adventures she’d been on. We laughed about the irony of losing her gps device during a trip. Then were left in awe of how she was able to utilize the connections she’d made on that trip to get the device bounced around from hand to hand and shipped back all the way from Alaska. With each adventure story she told, she became more and more a matriarchal idol to me (sorry Steve Irwin, you’ve been replaced).

Back at her house, she offered us laundry, put us up in her guest house – which she has been working on a building herself – and we each took turns throwing a ball or frisbee with Tonka while winding down for the evening. In the guest house, there were 4 rooms. Two rooms with beds, a kitchen area, and in between both bedroom was a bathroom with an open shower in the middle of the room. Unfortunately her hot water heater was not working and so I took a brief cold shower while enjoying the freedoms of moving throughout the whole space by placing one part of my body under the water at a time.

Just as the sun was setting, Stitch and I sat on Margaret’s back porch chatting more about her adventures, our adventures, and the finer details of life. Without getting into politics, we were able to talk about things such as healthcare, since she was a nurse and me now a PT. I appreciated the perspectives she shared and was almost shocked by her modern ideas. I also appreciated Stitch’s perspective being from Canada. It was an open and honest conversation and changed my perspective on having these types of conversations. They didn’t need to be polarizing or argumentative. They could totally be a sharing of ideas and understandings.

Finally, with the sky dark and the hour late, we retired to our suite. I threw the ball over the deck for Tonka one last time and smiled as he bounded down the stairs and into the darkness after it.

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