August 3, 2021October 2, 2023 Colorado Trail- July 2021 Riding the Colorado trail solo was an unforgettable experience for me. During those two weeks I went through a rollercoaster of emotions, broke through my perceived physical limitations, and was able to gain a sense of temporary detachment from the many comforts of daily modern life. It took me 13 days, during which I rode/pushed/pulled/lifted my bike across about 650 miles (including the ride through Denver, and various off-route resupplies), and 80,000+ ft of elevation gain. During that time, there were so many moments of self doubt and even absolute terror (riding up to a ridge on a stormy night, pushing a loaded bike up a dangerously steep path of loose gravel). Yet, for each one of those sketchy situations, I also experienced moments of total elation, joy, introspection, and surging self-confidence. One of the interesting aspects of to spending time alone in the wilderness, and particularly, traveling long distances through remote landscapes, is that you are forced into the mental position of self-reflective observer of your won thought patterns. As the miles tick by, and the days, you start to notice how your mind reacts and responds to varying situations. The greatest strength that someone is able t gain from such a trip is the ability to maintain a levelheaded, even-keeled mental state, despite whatever adversity or obstacle you might encounter along the trail. At this point, the obvious metaphorically implications for regular life are endless. Nothing is ever easy. Life is a struggle. Expect nothing less. The sooner you can accept that, the more peace you will find within the individual moments of your life. The moments that brought me the most anguish and pain during this trip were not the most physically challenging ones, but rather, those times in which I somehow fooled myself into thinking that things might get easier. Whenever I fell into that mode of thinking, the Colorado Trail would always seem to promptly deliver a lesson of bitter irony, usually in the form of a drastic increase of elevation just over the next ridge. Not much choice in those moments, other than to grit your teeth and keep pushing. Some of the sketchier moments of this trip were often followed by a wild mixture of gratitude, elation, and self-confidence. One moment that comes to mind- getting stuck between Kokomo and Searle pass (above 11,500 feet) as a storm quickly approached. I had been thinking since Day 1 about the possibility of getting caught on a pass as one of the notorious “monsoon season” storms suddenly struck. Well… here it was (did my own ruminating thoughts, let loose into the ether, somehow bring such a weather pattern into existence at this specific point in space and time? Or was I just unlucky? Or- admittedly the most likely scenario- was I just inexperienced at reading Colorado alpine weather patterns?). Whatever the case was, none of that mattered, as I was pushing up toward the 12,000 ft pass, with a giant storm cloud looming above, quickly darkening the rocky, treeless terrain around me. A group of hikers with two dogs ahead of me started quickly setting up their tent, right off the side of the road. “We don’t want to get caught up there in this storm! Maybe you could make it over in time on a bike!” they yelled.” Suddenly I’m faced with a decision to make- push on? Hunker down immediately? Set up my tent like them? My compromise was to stop on a particularly exposed switchback, sit down, and eat some beef jerky. At the time, this seemed like the most sensible thing to do. This was the first of many situations where I would have to choose between continual two voices in my head: One saying- “keep going dude! You got this! You’ll be fine!”, and the other- “you should definitely stop, this is sketchy as hell, and this is how you become the subject of Krakauer’s next investigative biopic on wayward-outdoor-enthusiast-meets-tragic-end”. While temporarily distracted from my trailside neurosis through the pure culinary joy of teriyaki jack-links, a GIANT lightning bolt that seemed to span the entire length of the sky suddenly struck in the distance. This was immediately followed by (not exaggerating here) the LOUDEST thunder I’ve ever heard in my life. In that split second, my plan changed. I scampered back down the rocky trail to (only slightly) lower ground, put on more rain gear, and… just sat there. The rain and thunder picked up, and I sat perched next to the trail, feeling alone, cold, and relatively hopeless. There’s nothing like experiencing a lighting storm at a high elevation to remind you of your own fragile mortality, and puny insignificance in the face of Nature’s indifferent fury. Eventually the storm raged itself out as quickly as it had arrived, and so too did my fear and mini-existential-crisis. Nothing else to do but pick my bike back up, and continue on over the pass. While pushing up the trail, back to the switchback where I retreated from, I hopefully observed a patch of clear skies on the other side of the mountain! After cresting Kokomo Pass, grabbing a picture of the mind melting beauty that was a rainbow forming over the valley below, I proceeded to BOMB down the other side of the mountain. I felt a surge of adrenaline, born out of a sense that I has just survived something. I had continued to exist in the face of something that could easily, instantly end my very temporary and very brief place in this universe. And there was an amazing single track on the other side! This flowed downhill through the thin cool air into a beautiful valley, for a distance of about 10 miles! Only a few minutes before, I had been cowering in misery and dread, and here I was now, gleefully riding towards camp with a goofy smile from ear to ear. For me, that one moment sums up riding the Colorado trail alone for the first time. It would punish and reward over and over again. After a few days you just sort of smile through it all, recognizing the humor of your own tragic frailty in face of an unforgiving and unpredictable wilderness. Just a dude on his bike, struggling to get up and over another mountain. One pedal at a time. In a sense, it reminds me of almost every other aspect of my life. Thanks for all of the beauty Colorado, I cannot wait to return. Blog Colorado Trail 2021 bikepacking