A Family NOBO Adventure on the John Muir Trail, Part Three

June 28, 2026June 29, 2026 / k magill / 1 Comment

In September 2025, my son, my husband and I set out to backpack one of the classic routes through the High Sierra, the John Muir Trail. Whereas The Superior Hiking Trail was my longstanding dream and the Colorado Trail was Sorrel’s, the JMT is a trail Repeak had been dreaming of for as long as I’ve known him. We spent many nights in the Sierra when we lived in Nevada, including a complete Tahoe Rim Trail loop when Sorrel was just 18 months old, but the logistics of the permit process and mailing resupply buckets had always deterred us from pursuing the JMT. With two thirds of our “mini triple crown” complete (the Long Trail as a microcosm of the AT and the Colorado Trail for the CDT), the JMT — the crown jewel of the PCT — felt like the logical next step. This is Part Three. Start here.

PART THREE: MUIR TRAIL RANCH TO YOSEMITE

Sept 13, Florence Lake Trail to Bear Creek Trail Junction (15 miles)

Because we camped on a river, our day began with yet another long, steady climb up yet another pass. After almost two weeks, the trail’s logic was beginning to feel a bit predictable. We made it to the top of Selden Pass without ever being overtaken by the wildfire smoke at our heels and I was grateful for the clear air. The seemingly endless parade of lakes on either side of the pass made for many tempting stopping points, and we took many breaks to rest our hot, achy feet.

As we lost elevation, the trail lost some of its interest. I can’t say the stretch of the JMT along Bear Creek is the most jaw-dropping hiking, and the air below treeline was muggy and stagnant. But at least the terrain was undemanding and we seemed to have left the worst of the smoke behind us. Moreover, the trail corridor was almost uncannily quiet. As we pressed on through the afternoon, we hardly saw a soul. It seemed the rumor of folks bailing and opting for less smoky trails may have been true after all. Bear Creek, with its heavy (by Sierra standards) vegetation, didn’t afford many camping opportunities. We even passed one group setting up hammocks for the night — a somewhat rare sight out west, but a smart choice for this stretch of trail. We eventually came across a huge clearing that appeared to be a base camp for a forest service crew, complete with a full camp kitchen under a tarp awning. We claimed a spot for ourselves nearby and waited for the trail crew to show up, but we never did see any sign of them and we enjoyed yet another quiet evening to ourselves.

Sept 14, Bear Creek to Chief Lake (17.5 miles)

The morning starts off cool and shady, thanks to the creek running alongside the trail and the lower elevations, which meant more vegetation overhead. We made our way over the uneventful Bear Ridge, and then started up Silver Pass, our big climb of the day. On the way up, we stopped for a break at the flowing cascades of Silver Creek, a perfect place to play. Everyone kicked off their shoes and rolled up their pants, and it was bliss to cool our feet in the flowing water.

Somehow, despite (or perhaps because of) our lengthy breaks, the miles seemed to fly by. We still had plenty of sunlight left when we dropped over the pass to arrive at Chief Lake. Once again, we had the whole place to ourselves. Compared to the crowded campsites on the southern half, this northern stretch was turning out to be pure bliss for my solitude-seeking self. After setting up our tents well away from the water, we went down to the shore of the little lake to eat dinner and watch the sun go down. As dusk fell, we began to notice ripples on the surface — little fish nosing for insects. Before we knew it, the whole surface of the lake was alive with tiny leaping trout, coming up to the surface to enjoy their own dinner.

Sept 15, Chief Lake to Deer Creek (14 miles)

Seventeen miles the day before apparently took it out of Sorrel, because he woke up in the morning feeling slow and cranky. Luckily, there were plenty of lakes to take long breaks at. I did my best to practice patience and let Sorrel set the pace for the day. All things considered, we were making incredible time and the trip was going remarkably smoothly. We’d left our fire concerns well behind us, and the weather, albeit a bit hotter than we would have liked, was cooperating with us day in day out.

Although we’d left the most spectacular of the high passes behind us, I found myself enjoying this geologically distinct section of the JMT a great deal. Following a volcanic ridge, there’s a great deal of dramatic igneous rock along the trail, a delight for rock nerds. We decided to call it a day at Deer Creek, where we found myriad perfect tent sites tucked away behind enormous granite boulders. The whole area possessed the feel of a fantasy landscape, and once again we were, as best we could tell, the only ones around.

Sept 16, Deer Creek to Trinity Lakes (12.5 miles)

We were coming up fast on our next resupply, with Reds Meadow only five or so miles, plus a short spur trail, from our campsite at Deer Creek. Although we still had plenty of food left, the promise of fresh snacks was pretty exciting. The lodge itself was already closed for the season, so unfortunately we wouldn’t be able to take showers or order meals as we’d hoped, but at least there were still some staff members onsite to hand us our bucket. We spread out at the picnic tables, taking advantage of the flat surface and nearby trashcan to get ourselves organized. Reds is frequented by some of the boldest chipmunks I’ve encountered anywhere, and keeping them away from our snacks was a full-time job. Moreover, the entire area was teeming with yellowjackets despite the traps hanging from the trees.

After our break, we headed back to the trail with heavy packs, not relishing the hot afternoon climb ahead of us. Nonetheless, the scenery around Devils Postpile was more compelling than I expected it to be. After yesterday’s volcanic ridge, plus the dramatic red cones earlier in the day, the little geologist inside me was pretty happy! We ended the day at Trinity Lakes, some of the least compelling water sources on the JMT, especially late in the season. The shoreline was marshy and stagnant, and the water had a murky taste, disappointing after weeks of crisp alpine water.

Sept 17, Trinity Lakes to Donohue Pass (16.5 miles)

Sorrel’s biggest goal for this trip was to hike a 22-mile day. Last year on the Colorado Trail, he topped out at 21.6 miles, and he likes to beat his record each year. I’ve shown him on the map that the best terrain for a record day is the descent to Tuolomne Meadows, which we were rapidly approaching. I explained to him that for the best shot at completing his 22-miler, we’d want to get up and over Donohue Pass by the end of the day *and* get a pre-dawn start the next day. Ever determined, he agreed to give it a shot.

The lakes north and uphill from Trinity were prettier and clearer by far, and I felt a twinge of regret at not pushing just a little harder the day before, but I tried to let it go in order to fully enjoy our midmorning break at the lovely Garnet Lake, where we enjoy a lengthy chat with two German backpackers and watch a little garter swimming across the lake’s surface. The Sierra remains the only place where I’ve seen garter snakes swim — once at Walker Lake on the Tahoe Rim Trail, and now here!

We passed a few SOBOs on our way up Donohue Pass, all of whom seem seemed utterly astonished to see a kid out hiking a high pass at dusk. To be fair, Donohue felt moderate compared to Forester and the other passes we’d negotiated further south. Moreover, the weather couldn’t have been better. With the sun dropping low in the sky and a stiff breeze, the temperature was perfect for climbing. The trail approaching Donohue was one of the more difficult stretches to follow, but Sorrel navigated it intuitively, and I appreciated his willingness to lead the way. The view of the sunset from the top of the pass was spectacular, absolutely worth the long afternoon, and a perfect “Welcome to Yosemite” moment. We dropped down the other side of the pass and snagged the first flat, sandy spot we could find. There was another hiker nearby, already tucked away in their tent and falling asleep to metal music blasting from a tinny portable speaker. They did, thank goodness, turn it off before we’d even finished our headlamp-lit dinner, so we had no trouble drifting off to sleep ourselves.

Sept 18, Donohue Pass to Sunrise High Sierra Camp (22.5 miles)

Sorrel woke up feeling motivated and in surprisingly good spirits, so off we went in the dim predawn light, spooking several deer in the mist as we continued our descent from Donohue Pass to Tuolomne Meadows. The trail along the Lyell Fork was dreamy and pleasant, and we were able to rack up miles without ever feeling like we were hurrying. As the trail started to level out, we stopped for a pleasant snack break along the river and struck up a conversation with a pair of SOBO PCT hikers named Sunshine and Space Cowboy. Talking with them, I felt for the first time like SOBO might be the way to go on the PCT; I’m sure they were feeling some anxiety about getting out of the High Sierra before winter conditions hit, but in the moment they struck me as relaxed and happy, with a beautifully uncrowded trail ahead of them — a feeling I remember well from hiking SOBO on the AT.

We arrived at Tuolomne Meadows right at lunchtime; the snack bar was bustling and the picnic tables were packed with thru-hikers and section hikers, elbow to elbow, enjoying burgers and chili. We treated ourselves to a full meal — surprisingly delicious and pretty reasonably priced for a national park commissary — and Sorrel and Repeak chatted their hearts out with all the other hikers. I had my eye on the clouds overhead, and knew from other hikers’ weather forecasts that we had some pretty significant rain on the way. “The edge of a monsoon!” people were whispering. As east coast hikers, we were unperturbed by the possibility of rain, but I knew that if Sorrel wanted to crush his 22, we’d have to get going soon. Fueled by hot food, we set out for our next climb. The JMT diverges from the PCT here, but the trail was still quite busy with day hikers and overnighters. We even encountered a couple of families with young children heading up to spend a night at Cathedral Lakes — the first kid backpackers we’d seen in nearly three weeks on the trail!

Just as we reached Cathedral Pass, we were treated to a visit from a pine marten who darted right in front of us across the path. I was happy to take this as a good omen, and turned to Sorrel, grinning: “We got this!” Not long after the marten encounter, the rain we’d been hearing about all day finally arrived. We closed out the day in a steady drizzle, making our way to a somewhat mysterious place called Sunrise High Sierra Camp. In addition to standard primitive tent sites, Sunrise has a lodge with a fireplace, and platforms for canvas tents. In previous years, Sunrise has offered paid hut-style accommodations to hikers, but this year, due to federal budget cuts, Yosemite couldn’t offer full-service lodging here. The lodge was sorely in need of maintenance, a project which a couple of park staff appeared to be just wrapping up. When we arrived, we found the park employees huddled cheerfully around a blazing fire pit, sipping mugs of something hot as they wrapped up their work. They explained to us that with a federal shutdown looming, this was most likely their last work assignment of the season. After warming our own hands, we headed towards the backpackers’ camping area, the steady drizzle intensifying to a full-on rain storm. We pitched our tents as quickly as possible, ate a cold dinner (hey, we had a hot lunch!) and ducked inside for the night.

Sept 19, Sunrise Camp to Yosemite Valley (13 miles)

We awoke to the same steady rain we fell asleep to and packed our damp gear inside damper gear. I’m pretty sure any inclement weather is tolerable when you know you’ll be in a dry bed under a roof by nightfall! We trudged out into the misty morning, shoes still clammy from the day before. Repeak had a procured himself a permit for Half Dome at the Tuolomne ranger’s office (Sorrel was not at all interested, so I told him we could skip it), but I was a little skeptical that Half Dome would be possible in such wet weather. Nevertheless, mountain weather is unpredictable, and maybe by the afternoon it would be sunny and dry again. We agreed that Repeak would go ahead at his own pace after lunch to make his Half Dome attempt, while Sorrel and I would proceed at kid pace and meet him, at the latest, at the Nevada Falls overlook.

Slogging through the pouring rain, I began to have a sinking feeling about the whole Half Dome business, and every time we stopped I sent an InReach text to Repeak in an attempt to check in with him. When Sorrel and I passed the ranger’s notice board for Half Dome, it was ominously decorated with a skull and crossbones and fervent warnings against attempting the summit in wet weather. I shook my head and sent one last desperate text to Repeak, urging him to abort the mission. Then Sorrel and I headed for Nevada Falls to wait and worry.

By the time we arrived at the waterfall the rain had, thank goodness, tapered off. Eventually, we received a brief message from Repeak informing us he’d turned back and was on his way to meet us. Not long afterwards, we noticed a geared-up rescue crew heading up the trail we’d just come from. I was deeply relieve Repeak had taken the time to send us that text! When he arrived, he explained to us that he’d made it part way up the ladders, completely socked in by clouds, but had to turn around because a couple descending the ladder above was stuck and panicking. “That must be where the rescue crew was headed!” I realized. Repeak insisted that he would have been fine to continue and was not too concerned by the slick wet rock, but admitted that turning around was the smart thing to do. I was secretly grateful to the panicked couple above him on the ladder.

We devoted the rest of the afternoon to a long, switchbacking descent (sound familiar?), and to readjusting our brains to crowds of tourists and the constant hum of traffic down below. Ending the JMT in Yosemite is a bit jarring because of just how developed this stretch of trail is. The last thing a hiker wants, after 250 miles in the wilderness, is to descend countless hard stone steps and a dilapidated asphalt path. This last stretch feels like a special form of torture cooked up just for unsuspecting JMT NOBOs, and we were beyond relieved to arrive at the shuttle stop at the base of the trail. There is no fanfare whatsoever at this end of the JMT, nothing like Mount Whitney to act as a capstone. Just friendly tourists full of questions about your trip and eager to snap a family photo for you, and an air-conditioned shuttle bus that deposits you, miraculously, at a wildly expensive canvas tent cabin where you’ll peel off your clammy gear and start laying plans for a shower, a hot meal, and a long, long ride home.

A Family NOBO Adventure on the John Muir Trail, Part Two

June 28, 2026June 29, 2026 / k magill / 1 Comment

PART TWO: INDEPENDENCE, CA TO MUIR TRAIL RANCH

Sept 7, Independence, CA to Charlotte Lake (8 miles)

We fell asleep to the sound of traffic zipping by on 395, and I’m pretty sure we all dreamt sweet dreams of breakfast burritos, because in the morning we made a beeline for the taco truck on the corner. The food was exquisite and the portions generous, everything we’d desperately needed last night — but perfectly welcome anytime!

Afterwards, we hurried over to Mount Williamson Lodge to collect our heavily stuffed food bucket (the cost to ship these buckets from New England to California is higher than the cost of the food inside; it is truly galling and it’s the number one reason why I won’t do the JMT again unless I’m already on the west coast beforehand. I am absolutely taking notes on what to do and what not to do on the PCT a couple of years from now!), and schlepped it back to the other motel to dump onto the bed like a giant Christmas stocking. There is a bit of a Christmas morning feeling to opening five gallon buckets full of food you picked out for yourself weeks beforehand: What flavor of electrolytes will we have this week? What deformed candy bars will we be stuffing into our faces? No licorice? Only six packs of nori snacks?! What was I thinking??

Once we were completely packed, we reluctantly hit the road, not quite sure what would be the best approach to finding a ride back up the long road to the trailhead. We knew we’d have to walk a fair way until we’d left every ambiguous intersection behind us. A few blocks after turning off of 395 and onto Onion Valley Road, a little old woman came out of her house bearing a cookie tin. She proceeded to load us up with homemade peanut butter cookies and regale us with stories of her own youthful travels, from a childhood in Minnesota to her life as an army bride in Taiwan. Whenever she took a breath, we politely mentioned that we were hoping to find a ride up to the mountains, but no dice.

Stack of cookies in hand, we settled in to wait at Independence Creek Campground. The temperature was easily pushing 90, and the roadside forest service campground offered nothing in the way of shade or breeze. The road was largely deserted. With my one bar of service, I desperately texted every shuttle service whose number I’d saved, but, again, no dice. Independence is a bit of a no-man’s-land. To the north, we could see a haze of smoke over the mountains. We knew there were fires burning to the west of the trail, and according to some of the SOBOs we’d met, the smoke was getting heavy on certain sections of the trail north of us. We’d heard of hikers bailing at Reds Meadow, and that there were folks with JMT permits changing their plans entirely and hiking other trails instead. The cloud of smoke was a bit ominous, but it was a problem for our future selves to deal with. For now, we just need to get back to the trail!

Finally, after over an hour, a sleek looking adventure van cruised to a stop on the shoulder. A sleek looking middle-aged Californian, with a floofy Australian shepherd in tow, swung open the passenger door and bid us hop on in. On the way up to the trailhead, he explained to us that the van wasn’t actually his; he was merely taking it for a long test drive to help him make decisions on which features to include in his custom-designed adventure van. As we drove, he explained the various top-dollar projects he’d worked on over the years, helping to design ski resorts and engineer urban whitewater parks, yet another visionary leaning hard into his California archetype! We dug our fingers into his chill pup’s fur and let the tales wash over us.

As fine a ride as it was, it was a massive relief to set foot on the trail once again. We still had miles to go before we could sleep and the sun had already passed its zenith. Once again, we’d be tackling Kearsarge Pass during the hottest part of the day — this time going uphill. Even though we made good time, dusk was falling by the time we returned to the trail junction where we’d left the PCT/JMT, and we weren’t entirely sure where we’d be camping. There were guaranteed tent sites not too far away, down the one-mile side trail to Charlotte Lake. None of us relished the thought of another detour, nor did we relish walking long into the night in search of stealth sites. We were also carrying more food than we could fit into our bear canisters, which meant we really needed an established campsite with a bear box.

So, when we saw the Charlotte Lake side trail, we took it. And what a stroke of luck that we did! Walking ahead of the boys, I took a moment to glance back at them. Suddenly, from just behind the ridge at their backs, a full golden coin of a moon rose into view, enormous and sun-bright. The moonlight that poured over us was one of the most incredible visual experiences I’ve ever had. I snapped a few photos that don’t remotely do justice to the breathtaking moonrise, and then we stumbled our exhausted way down to the lake, passing numerous groups of campers before snagging a vacant spot to pitch our tents. Once again, we ended our day eating ramen in the dark, this time by moonlight instead of by headlamp.

Sept 8, Charlotte Lake to Woods Creek (10 miles)

We’d already fallen back into our late night/slow start pattern. Sorrel woke up grumbling about a loose tooth, and coming over Muir Pass we end up stuck behind a slow moving pack train negotiating the narrow switchbacks. If there’s one kind of hiking that’s not fun, it’s being forced to go half speed while dodging piles of fresh manure.

At Rae Lakes, in a hurry to stay ahead of the horses, we took a wrong turn and were forced to sheepishly retrace our steps. Demoralized, we took a long break at the lake, which of course gave the pack train the chance to catch up with us. Sorrel was still tired from night hiking and bothered by his tooth, and requested that we stop early. I agreed we didn’t need to put in too many more miles, and suggested Woods Creek as our destination. The whole area was incredibly busy, and I didn’t think there was much point chasing solitude. The creek campsites along the JMT are always the busiest — reliable water sources and easier low elevation sleeping conditions — but at least we’d have all the water we needed, and we would again be able to toss our overflowing bear canisters into a bear box. I hoped that by the end of the day, we would consume enough snacks that everything would fit properly, but there was no guarantee.

We meandered past numerous pristine lakes before following a fork of the creek for much of the afternoon. At our next break, we met a hiker headed north looking absolutely miserable. He explained that he was out for a few days with a friend whose pace was much faster than his. She was carrying the map and their permit, but was unwilling to slow down and wait for him. “At this point, I hope a ranger stops me and asks me for my permit and kicks me out,” he grumbled. We commiserated as best we could and told him he didn’t have far to go. As we went on our way, Repeak and I looked at each other; we both like to set a fast pace and go as far as possible each day, but we try our best to temper those impulses when we’re out with Sorrel. This guy was a good reminder that a forced march is never fun.

We arrived at Woods Creek with ample daylight, but it was already bustling with campers. After exploring the area thoroughly we settled on a large private tent site tucked way back in the woods, a bit away from the water (less condensation in the tent), and spent the rest of the afternoon playing cards and eating our surplus snacks. Sorrel even managed to lose his wiggly tooth by getting it stuck in a Three Musketeers bar.

Sept 9, Woods Creek to Upper Basin (15 miles)

Repeak, who is a kinder and gentler soul than I am, successfully coaxed Sorrel out of bed with a novel imaginary game and a promise to play cards once everyone was dressed and eating breakfast. Thanks to his patience, we have one of our smoothest starts yet.

Starting down low at the creek means we starting off with a long climb. We devoted the entire first half of the day to the brutally steady ascent of Pinchot Pass, winding past lake after lake with imposing peaks looming over us on either side. Then we dropped down to the South Fork of the Kings River, whose tumbling cascades we paralleled closely as we began our ascent of Mather Pass. With our food finally fitting easily in the bear cans, we were no longer tied to campsites with bear boxes, so we opted for a higher elevation site, choosing a spot high in the Upper Basin. As far as we could tell. there was only one other pair of hikers camped in the area, and it was nice to experience some solitude for once.

Sept 10, Upper Basin to Middle Fork Kings (17 miles)

We woke up to a glaze of ice inside the tents. Ten days into September, it was starting to get chilly overnight at higher elevations. The days, however, remained blazingly hot. We took a breather at the top of Mather Pass, where we met a group of students who all attended the University of Vermont. They were heading south and all in good spirits. They explained to us that they were working on a documentary project about the trail and were interviewing as many hikers as possible. We agreed to answer their questions (favorite part of the trail? song that gets stuck in your head the most?) and gave them our contact info so they could send us the video when it was done.

Heading north from Mather, we drop down into LeConte Canyon via a stretch of trail known as “the Golden Staircase”; SOBOs seem to dread this section, but descending the big yellow-hued steps really wasn’t too bad. We’ve heard from some SOBOs that LeConte Canyon is where the smoke would start to get bad, blowing over the ridge and getting trapped by the canyon walls, but for now the sky overhead seemed clear enough and any scent of smoke was pretty faint. We end the day with some easy miles down in the canyon, on shady trail that parallels the Middle Fork, and lay claim to a nice tent site near the river. For once, there’s not a soul in sight. It’s peaceful, but also a bit ominous: is the wildfire smoke going to chase us off the trail too?

Sept 11, Middle Fork to Evolution Lake (15 miles)

We began the day with a long climb out of the canyon and up to the top of Muir Pass, a beautifully rugged stretch of trail studded with jewel-like lakes and an impressive stone hut right at the top. Everyone’s feet were beginning to ache from the nonstop ascents and descents. Nearing the midpoint of the trail, we definitely felt ourselves falling into a rhythm, up the pass and down the pass, over and over. The Sierra’s interminable switchbacks can become a bit mind-numbing, especially for east coast hikers accustomed to trails that tend to devolve into straight up hand-over-hand scrambles as they gain elevation.

Dropping down out of Muir Pass, we encountered a large trail crew laden with tools, rerouting a stretch of trail that skirts the shore of Wanda Lake. They explained to us that this was their first project of the season on national land. All summer long, they’d only been able to obtain state level funding and had mostly been working on projects in California state parks. Coming from New England’s rugged, flood-prone, heavily eroded, overgrown trails, it was hard for me to believe that this was how the JMT looked in an under-maintained state!

After days of nonstop sun, the weather finally changed its mind, and as we bid farewell to the trail crew, we felt a light rain starting to fall. The rain turned to hail as we passed Sapphire Lake, where we heard a pack of coyotes howling and even caught a glimpse of one darting along the far shore. With no sign of the precipitation letting up anytime soon, we decided to call it a day near the north end of Evolution Lake. We hunkered down under our umbrellas to eat and turned in early.

Sept 12, Evolution Lake to Florence Lake Trail (13 miles)

Although we hadn’t put as big a dent in our food as I would’ve liked, there was still a resupply bucket waiting for us at Muir Trail Ranch that we had to deal with. Usually, MTR can be accessed via ferry, but due to a combination of factors, the Florence Lake ferry has already shit down for the season. Sorrel didn’t relish the idea of hiking yet another side trail, even though this one wasn’t as long (or as scenic) as Kearsarge Pass. We adults formulated a plan. Instead of all three of us hiking down to pick up the next bucket, Repeak would part ways with us at lunch and hike fast to collect our next batch of food. Sorrel and I would take our time hiking to the junction and would look around for a campsite; our map suggested we’d find some tenting areas along the San Joaquin River just off trail.

Heading down from Evolution Lake in the morning, we met a pair of SOBOs who warned us that the smoke in the valley ahead was pretty bad. They had a surplus of KN95 masks and graciously handed us several — one problem serendipitously solved! The haze and the smoky smell did indeed intensify as we dropped lower, though the on-and-off rain seemed to mitigate the worst of the smoke. At lunch, we prepared to split up for a few hours, staying in communication via the InReach and Repeak’s phone. The valley miles made for easy, albeit somewhat hazy, walking, and Sorrel and I arrived at the Florence Lake Trail junction with plenty of time to spare. The trail was noticeably quieter up here than it had been further south, probably due to a combination of being later in the season and folks being deterred by the smoke. We poked around and eventually found the promised tent sites along the San Joaquin. We set up camp and then headed back to the trail to wait for Repeak, then helped him schlep our massive quantity of new food down to camp.

Part Three!

A Family NOBO Adventure on the John Muir Trail, Part One

June 28, 2026June 29, 2026 / k magill / 2 Comments

PART ONE: COTTONWOOD PASS TO KEARSARGE PASS

Sept 1, Cottonwood Pass to Chicken Spring Lake (4.5 miles)

We began our JMT thru-hike at the Cottonwood Pass trailhead, several miles up a steep, winding road leading from the town of Lone Pine into the mountains. The Cottonwood entry point puts us a few days south of Mount Whitney, which is traditionally considered the JMT’s endpoint. In essence, we’re hiking the JMT “backwards”. Cottonwood Pass backpacking permits are much easier to score than Yosemite permits, but while the permit process is easier, the hiking is harder. We would be kicking off our trip with some of the highest terrain on the trail and little time to acclimate. We’d flown into Reno two days prior, spending one night in the city before taking a long bus ride down the dusty, barren eastern side of the Sierra, and spending our second night in a slightly grimy and outrageously priced motel room in the tiny mountain town of Lone Pine. From 4,000 feet above sea level in town, we suddenly found ourselves at 10,000 feet at the trailhead — with a steady climb ahead of us.

The weather was glorious, with the tiniest puffy white clouds dotting a deep blue sky. I suggested to Repeak that we consider starting with a zero and camping at the trailhead, giving our bodies a chance to adjust to the elevation before we started chewing through miles. But hikers have a very hard time sitting still when the weather is perfect, and making camp in the middle of the day when everyone else was heading out into the wilderness just felt weird. So we decided we’d hike in just a few miles. The trouble was, even a few miles meant we’d be climbing a couple thousand feet.

We took the miles slow and steady, being sure to hydrate and snack along the way, and we called it a day at Chicken Spring Lake, a picturesque alpine lake nestled in a deep bowl just 4.5 miles from the trailhead. Repeak seemed to be doing all right during the climb, but after dinner, as the sun began to set, the altitude caught up with him and he spent the night puking his guts out. Not an auspicious start to several weeks of high passes, with the highest point in the lower 48 just a couple days away!

Sept 2, Chicken Spring Lake to Rock Creek (9.5 miles)

After a somewhat harrowing night, we decided that we would continue forward to the lowest elevation campsite possible — Rock Creek, at roughly 9,000 feet, seemed to fit the bill. (Hindsight, as always is 20/20, and it’s pretty clear looking back that we should have spent our first night at the trailhead and set out for Rock Creek bright and early the next morning; it likely would have saved us a lot of misery.)

Repeak was feeling much better, but was still clearly dehydrated — and we were all a bit sleep deprived. The weather was cool and overcast, the sky spitting drizzle and hail at us all day. We were never too exposed and towards the end of the day we dropped down a series of switchbacks to Rock Creek. This popular area is dotted with myriad tent sites, many of them tucked away well off the trail. There were plenty of other backpackers around to chat with, but when it was time to turn in for the night, we managed to feel completely isolated, the rushing of the creek drowning out any noise from other campers.

Sept 3, Rock Creek to Guitar Lake (9.5 miles)

As we packed up in the morning, we discussed our Mount Whitney plans. Mount Whitney is the official southern terminus of the JMT, but to get to it, we would have to essentially treat it as a detour, hiking up to the summit from Crabtree Camp, then retracing our steps back down and rejoining the PCT route. Starting at Rock Creek, we were only seven miles from Crabtree. If Repeak (and the rest of us) feel well enough in the afternoon to press on and camp a little higher, and if the weather looks clear enough to camp above treeline, we will head for the Guitar Lake campsite. While Guitar Lake is roughly as high as Chicken Spring Lake, staying there will shorten our Whitney approach the next day by more than two miles. Sorrel always struggles with early rising and alpine starts, and I knew our chances of summiting would decrease the later we started climbing, so I wanted to get as close as possible while still mitigating risks. So, we decided we would aim for Guitar Lake but call it at Crabtree Meadow if we were feeling at all uncertain whether we could go on. I also made it clear that we didn’t *have* to summit Whitney. Being able to continue our long trip northward was the most important thing, even if it meant skipping Whitney and staying low.

With all of that weighing on our minds, we set out to climb up and over Guyot Pass. Along this scenic stretch, we experienced our first helping of trail magic. A one-woman pack train, acting as camp cook for a group trip, generously offered us some leftover breakfast burritos she generously offers us. The fresh food did wonders for Repeak, and he seemed to glow with delight the rest of the day, remarking at the scenery and wishing he’d brought his tenkara rod to fish in the creeks along the way. The cutoff to reach Crabtree Meadow is for sure one of the prettiest stretches of trail we’ve encountered so far. After a long break at Crabtree, we felt confident enough in the weather and in everyone’s health to head up to Guitar Lake for the evening. Both Crabtree and Guitar Lake were bustling with people, but I did my best not to be overwhelmed.

Sept 4, Guitar Lake to Mt Whitney to stealth site near PCT/JMT junction (14 miles)

Between the campers staying up ’til midnight and the ones striking out for the summit at 2:00 am, it was difficult to find any opportunity to drift off to sleep. Add to that our excited nerves and we were all a bit fried when our predawn alarm went off. By the time we were out of bed and fully dressed (in ALL of our layers — it was chilly!), it was about 6 am. Not as early as I would have liked, but not bad, and there was enough dim light that we didn’t need headlamps to negotiate the rocky terrain. Most of the summit trail is a series of brutal switchbacks clinging sketchily to the mountainside. The final stretch was a bit of a conga line, with hikers on our trail converging with those coming up from Whitney Portal. The summit was completely socked in, with wispy clouds streaming all around us. Compared to our experience on 14ers in Colorado, which we’d managed to hit on clear, sunny days, Whitney felt otherworldly and foreboding. We took a brief rest in the summit hut, wind rattling the whole structure, accepted another hiker’s offer to snap a few family photos of us at the summit marker, and then booked it back downhill.

Our timing could not have been better. As we approached Guitar Lake, the clouds darkened to nearly black and we caught more than a few glimpses of lightning. With the storm high above us and at our backs, we pressed on, exhausted but literally breathing easier as we descended. We met a young couple doggedly ascending the switchbacks as we were coming down. After they’d passed, Repeak and I raised our eyebrows at each other, wondering how they would fare. Directly overhead, the sun was still shining and the sky was clear, so we took a long break at our campsite before deciding to pack it up and move on to still lower ground.

Once we’d passed Crabtree Meadow, the wind picked up and the weather overtook us with a vengeance. As quickly as we could don jackets and umbrellas, fat rain drops turned into pelting hail and we sheepishly decided to call it a day. Luckily, we were surrounded by flat, open terrain, so we made our way off trail scoped out a pleasant enough spot tucked away in the brush behind a massive fallen tree trunk. We had to battle the wind and the precipitation to get the tents up, and we spent the rest of the daylight hours hunkered down inside, mopping up puddles and hoping the storm would let up enough that we could go outside and cook some dinner.

Sept 5, Crabtree Meadow area to Upper Bubbs Creek (16 miles)

The Whitney climb took a lot out of us, and we all desperately needed to sleep in after our early morning the day before. We had a big climb ahead of us, up and over Forester Pass, topping out at over 13,000 feet. As we crossed the dry, sunny expanse of Bighorn Plateau, it became clear that more ominous, dark clouds were gathering over the pass. It didn’t look good. As we crossed the barren, stony landscape leading to the pass, we kept referring to our map, trying to match the profile to the terrain in front of us and determine whether we would be skirting the edge of the storm or walking straight into it. As we approached the pass, we encountered numerous NOBO backpackers descending, sopping wet and all looking like they’d just been through something truly harrowing. The young couple we’d met yesterday, who’d started up Whitney late in the day when we were coming down, caught up with us as well. We sat with them for a while, looking up at the pass ahead and studying the clouds. The sky overhead was beginning to spit and we all nervously donned our rain gear. The Czech couple (who told us, when we asked, that they had indeed made it to Whitney summit the day before, albeit in extremely dicey conditions) went so far as to pitch their tent.

Repeak and I looked at each other. It was raining lightly, but not very windy. No sign of thunder or lightning. It didn’t seem *that* bad. And the clouds were looking lighter than they had from a distance. “Let’s just go up to the base of the wall and take it from there,” we agreed. We were almost too warm suited up in our full rain gear, but we didn’t want to get caught unprepared. I have a feeling the Czech couple was rolling their eyes at us now, taking our kid over a high pass into a storm!

As we ascended a series of beautifully built serpentine switchbacks, the rain transitioned to hail. We could see the crest of the pass now, and at this point felt we were a bit too far in to turn back. We could tell our feet were going to get soaked by the bed of hail accumulating on the trail, but we’d be better off heading for the campsites on the other side of the ridge rather than retracing our steps all the way back down, especially as the storm was moving in the direction we’d come from. The view that awaited us at the top of the pass was utterly spectacular. Nothing could have prepared us for how stunned we were by the setting sun glancing off the thin glaze of hail covering everything that lay below us. Spurred on by the indescribable landscape that opened out before us, we raced the dusk down to Bubbs Creek, where we at long last settled in for the night, on a tiny shelf perched high above the creek. Sorrel had booked it down to this campsite as fast as I’d ever seen him move; it turns out soaked icy feet are quite the motivator! We settled in with bowls of ramen scarfed down by headlamp, and then collapsed into sleep in record time.

Sept 6, Upper Bubbs Creek to Independence, CA via Kearsarge Pass (13 miles)

We were making good time and still had plenty of food stuffed into our bear canisters, but our first resupply bucket was waiting for us at the Mount Williamson Lodge in Independence. To access it, we would have to hike down a 7.5 mile side trail and then, through some miracle, hitch a ride down long and winding Onion Valley Road, a road trafficked only by hikers and campers headed to and from the trailhead. While it is possible to hire a pack company to deliver your resupply to you on the trail, or have someone drive it up to the bear lockers at the trailhead, I decided I would rather have the flexibility to pick it up on my own timeline. And I also knew that, after a week in the woods, everyone would welcome a break in town.

We made our way down toward Vidette Meadow, where we encountered some of the most confident wildlife of the trip: a mother bear with three cubs, followed shortly after by a proud and unnervingly friendly buck. After the stark, otherworldly beauty of Forester Pass, it was quite a shock to find ourselves back in a lush valley evidently teeming with life. With help from my mom and a series of satellite messages, we were able to book a motel room for the night in Independence (Mount Williamson itself was fully booked, so we ended up at the place across the street), and it was a relief knowing that once we hiked our thirteen miles and procured a ride, we’d have hot showers and soft beds waiting for us.

Of all the detours to take, Kearsarge Pass is a pretty gorgeous one, winding past numerous brilliant turquoise alpine lakes. We encountered a long pack train, probably headed in to deliver resupplies. And once we crested the pass, we encountered numerous day hikers, some even accompanied by dogs. Since dogs are prohibited from the wilderness areas of the JMT, this short frontcountry section was a rare and exciting chance to pet some pups, something we’d been missing a lot over the past week. We even met a couple of families with young kids! For the past week, as far as we know, Sorrel has been the only kid for miles around.

The trailhead at the end of Onion Valley Road is a vast paved affair, and it didn’t take long at all for a pair of hikers on their way down to town to stop and offer us to a ride — a pleasant surprise! They explained to us on the drive down that they’d come up from SoCal planning on backpacking, but the trail had been a bit harder than they’d anticipated, so after one night they turned around and bailed. They were planning to spend the rest of their vacation car camping and day hiking. They dropped us off right on the main drag and we thanked them profusely, then shifted into food-procurement mode. According to Google Maps, there was a quaint little cafe on the main strip, along with two different taco trucks, but alas all of these options were somehow very much closed — the cafe seemingly permanently, the taco trucks until breakfast in the morning. Apparently no one in Independence eats dinner?!

The only options were the gas station and the ice cream shop, and since the ice cream shop closed earlier we headed there first. The joint was absolutely hopping with a mix of hikers, road trippers, and locals (it was the only place open, after all), and run by a kind old hippie, very much leaning into his California archetype, explaining to us where the peaches for the peach ice cream were harvested, and what long strange trips had inspired some of the more esoteric flavors. The vibe was good enough that we all ordered second helpings before moseying down the road to our motel, bats swooping overhead in the sultry dusk. After days in the mountains, the air in the valley felt utterly oppressive. It was too late to pick up our resupply, so we stopped at the gas station to grab snacks and a deck of playing cards (the one thing Sorrel had been longing for for the past week!) to tide us over until the morning, and called it a day.

Part Two!

500 Miles Across Colorado, Part Four

June 27, 2026 / k magill / 1 Comment

Almost exactly two years ago, Sorrel and I set out to thru-hike the Colorado Trail, which had been Sorrel’s dream ever since first hearing about it from other backpackers on Vermont’s Long Trail in 2022. At 486 miles and topping out at over 13,000 feet, this would be our longest and highest trip yet, presenting numerous new challenges. We started our hike in Denver in early July, giving ourselves as wide a window as possible to reach Durango by the end of the summer. This is Part Four. Start here.

LAKE CITY TO DURANGO

Day 26, July 29 (8 miles)

After an evening of eating too much and socializing, we still have a lot of chores left to do. I let Sorrel and Repeak sleep in while I head to the laundromat and grocery store. I pick up pastries from a nearby bakery for breakfast, then head back to the motel.

We’ve all agreed a full 24-hour break is needed, and that rather than pursuing an earlier ride, we’ll hang out in town until the shuttle leaves in the afternoon. On the way into town yesterday, Sorrel spotted a mini golf course that he’s eager to try out. Repeak ropes Wildflower and Burger, a pair of CT hikers, into joining us. We all stash our heavy packs at the hiker center and head up the road on a mini golf mission. Even under the best conditions, Sorrel struggles with win/lose games, and mini golf has triggered many a meltdown over the years. Today is no exception. I tacitly give Repeak the go-ahead to play a normal round with the other adults, while I coach Sorrel through a round of “tiny white frustration ball”. In the end, despite the frustration, he is elated and chattering away.

On the way back to the hiker center, we have just enough time to order another milkshake for the road, and then we’re all on our way back to the trailhead. The trail south of Spring Creek Pass climbs steadily until we’re back up on the mesa. Sheep dot the terrain all around us, and we even catch a glimpse of a shepherd on horseback in the distance, accompanied by a tiny black and white speck of a border collie, diligently working the flock. A short while later, we find ourselves completely surrounded by yet another flock on the move, hundreds of woolly bodies seeking lower ground for the evening. With the sun getting lower, we too need to find a suitable place to spend the evening. Luckily, the terrain is wide open, albeit waterless. Loaded with plenty of town water, we settle in for a dry camp high up on the mesa, enjoying a panoramic view of the dusk and a wide open sky slowly filling with stars.

Day 27, July 30 (15 miles)

The day consists of steady, shadeless walking on a network of narrow jeep trails, and the highlight is arriving at the CT high point, just below the summit of Mount Coney. Considering we’ve already hit two 14ers, this 13,000 foot waypoint feels like a bit of an anticlimax, but it also reminds us just how close to the finish line we are. The stiff breeze makes it a pleasant enough place to take a break, and we stop to chat with the numerous other hikers basking in the accomplishment. Several are SOBOs we recognize, but there’s also a sizable contingent of NOBOs, the first proper NOBO bubble we’ve encountered.

The afternoon consists of more long, hot climbs and descents, with the sun beating down on us relentlessly. We wind past more 13ers, small lakes and creeks, finally descending to lonely-but-lovely Cataract Lake for the evening. Remarkably, we are the only people there. We claim a perfect tentsite with a view of the glassy water. My peaceful evening is disrupted by miserable stomach pains, and I spend the rest of the daylight hours dealing with a rare (for me) gastro event. I am less bothered by the physical discomfort than I am by the indignity of not being able to enjoy my hard-earned downtime. I just wanted to watch the sunset in peace!

The evening stillness is briefly disrupted by rapid footsteps heading north; one ambitious hiker must be putting in a long day and by the sound of it is traveling light and fast. Their headlamp grazes the tent walls and then fades away, leaving the night feeling even darker and stiller than before.

Day 28, July 31 (15 miles)

I awake feeling refreshed, without a hint of abdominal discomfort, so I roll out of the tent to collect our bear bags (glazed with frost for the first time!) and tentatively put a little food in my body. So far, so good. I make an extra effort to hydrate in small doses to replace the fluids I lost the night before, and to stay ahead of the relentless sun’s effects.

When we arrive at Stony Pass Road, an area popular with off-roaders and overlanders, we stumble across a guy who seems to be all set up for a tailgate party. It turns out the party is for us! He’s a former CT hiker who’s out doing trail magic, with his ten-year-old kid and two dogs for company. He offers us a dizzying array of salty snacks, and cracks a huge cooler to reveal beers and seltzers. Repeal eagerly cracks a beer while I, still leery of my own stomach, opt for fizzy water. Sorrel, not a fan of bubbles, helps himself to extra chips and chats somewhat shyly with the other boy while eagerly coaxing the boisterous dogs. Our trail angel, a local, also gives us up-to-date water intel for the coming stretch, which is much appreciated. All in all, we couldn’t ask for a more perfect midday break.

The day’s scenery is astonishingly gorgeous. Up here, there are still swaths of jewel-toned wildflowers blooming, along with pristine patches of snow dotting the mountainsides around us. As our trail angel warned us, many of the creekbeds are dry, and many of the smaller lakes are nothing more than shallow puddles. We choose to camp near a group of small lakes on a high plateau, knowing this will be our last night camping on the Continental Divide Trail. First thing in the morning, we should pass the junction where the CDT and the CT diverge.

Day 29, August 1 (14 miles)

We spend the early morning high on the Divide, and Sorrel makes a point of packing a snowball as we cross what we suspect may well be the last snowfield we see on this trail, just so he can say he’s made a snowball in August as well as in July! After the junction where we bid farewell to the CDT, the CT begins a dramatic descent through a narrow canyon, following Elk Creek. The trail switchbacks steeply, and the canyon walls are dotted with intriguing old mineshafts. As we approach the old mining town of Silverton, we can feel its history emerging along the trail.

Eventually the trail levels and widens, as we follow the creek and wind through the dense vegetation (at last!) that has sprung up around it. The tree cover, after several days above treeline, feels like an immense reprieve. Through breaks in the trees, we catch glimpses of the stark spikes of Vestal and Arrow Peaks, and as we continue south we meet more than a few alpine climbers loaded with gear, negotiating the long approach to bag one or both of those iconic summits. As primarily East Coast hikers, we’ve grown accustomed to backpacking trips that closely follow ridges and hit the highest points on the map. Out west, long-distance backpacking eschews summits almost entirely. While I do enjoy chewing through miles on the CT’s meandering, moderate grades, I can’t say that I don’t miss the dopamine rush of arriving at the tippy-top of something once in a while!

Before too long, we get an even stronger taste of civilization — the narrow gauge railroad that leads into Silverton! We are tempted to try to figure out how to board it, but in trying to research it, we’ve gotten nothing but conflicting information: you can only pay in cash, you can’t pay in cash, you have to book tickets in advance, you can only get the “thru-hiker rate” if you buy walk-up tickets, but there may not be space. Without a decent cell signal, we couldn’t even access the time table to know when the next train would arrive, and we didn’t relish the thought of sitting and waiting for an unknown amount of time for a train we weren’t even sure would have space for us. That said, we certainly felt a twinge of regret when we saw the train chugging toward the stop not long after we decided to keep hiking. Sorrel loves few things in the world more than trains, and passing up the chance to ride one is tough!

After a few more rugged ups and downs, we find ourself a stone’s throw from the shore of Molas Lake. The lake features a commercial campground on the shore not too far from the trail, but we aren’t keen on the idea of paying money to sleep in our tent surrounded by the drone of generators. Instead, we pitch our tents at a comfortable stealth site uphill from the lake, and then head down to the undeveloped section of the shore to cook our dinner. This section also seems to feature some undeveloped car-camping sites with a shared privy and some dumpsters. We take full advantage of these facilities, and one of the car campers nearby offers us yet another helping of trail magic. He’s grilled way more fajitas than his family can finish, and offers us several, toasty warm and wrapped in foil, to round out our own dinner. Up to this point, Sorrel has always been skeptical of chicken, but he scarfs down this tangy, smoky chicken without a second thought. New food unlocked!

Day 30, August 2 (9.5 miles)

Despite the noise from the nearby highway and campground, we all sleep pretty well. It’s a quick climb up to the trailhead, where we spend a surprisingly long time thumbing for the short ride into town. The parking area is not ideally situated for folks headed into town to pull over, so eventually we head a bit further up the road, where we finally get lucky and all pile into the back of a tiny sedan driven by a generous local woman.

Silverton is a tiny town laid out in a perfect grid and absolutely jam-packed with tourist attractions, comparable in density to the Las Vegas strip, albeit quainter and dustier. Our first order of business is breakfast, and we treat ourselves to surprisingly good drinks and paninis at the Coffee Bear, a multi-level cafe with some lovely rooftop and balcony seating. Afterwards, we head down to the grocery store to complete our resupply, but along the way a little blacksmith’s shop catches Sorrel’s eye. If there’s one thing he loves almost as much as trains, it’s swords and axes, and this guy has both on display. I leave them to watch the forge demo, while I procure some (astonishingly overpriced!) foodstuffs. I strike out on a few things at the grocery store, but the gas station across the street has everything I’m missing — and is more reasonably priced to boot.

The boys meet me at the picnic tables outside the grocery store to help eat some of the surplus food and impulse buys. While we snack, Sorrel proposes that we head back to the blacksmith shop, explaining that for a pretty reasonable price the smith offers hands-on workshops. This kid knows his parents can’t resist a “hands-on” learning experience! Minutes later, he’s eagerly donning a sturdy leather apron, and then beating a glowing metal rod into the shape of an itty-bitty sword, under the careful guidance of the blacksmith. This may well be the peak experience of the trip! We carefully tuck the tiny iron sword into the ditty bag for safe keeping, thanking the blacksmith profusely.

Finding a ride out of town proves much easier than getting in, and in no time, we are back at Molas Pass, making our way through yet another campground on the other side of the road. The sky is beginning to cloud over a bit, and it seems that rain is threatening, but we are full of town food and moving slow. We take time to gaze at the unusual gaps in the woodlands on the surrounding hillsides (the last evidence of a huge 1879 wildfire), and to investigate the unusual conglomerate boulders that stud the terrain. We catch only a light sprinkle, but the worst of the afternoon storms give us a wide berth. We catch glimpses of not one but two speckled fawns, and Sorrel is certain that he spots a bighorn disappearing into the brush. “I just saw something with huge thick horns!” he calls out to us excitedly. We rush back to the bend in the trail where he’s stopped, but whatever he spotted has disappeared into the densely wooded slope. He is absolutely certain that the creature had horns that curved backwards over its head, and I tell him it’s entirely possible he’s spotted the first bighorn sheep of the trip.

Day 31, August 3 (17 miles)

Once again, we spend another day largely above treeline, battling fierce sun. Thankfully there are still some flowing streams in between the high and dry ridges, including an impressive creek whose bed is lined entirely with stark white (limestone?) rocks, giving the water an unearthly hue. We stop here for lunch, relishing the patch of shade and the sound of tumbling water.

Despite the fact that we are mere days from the southern terminus, this stretch of trail feels remarkably remote and wildlife is plentiful. As we’re winding down for the evening, keeping our eyes peeled for a tentsite, we notice a handsome buck flitting in and out of the trees not far off the trail. We all have the distinct impression that he is keeping an eye on us, and I drift to sleep feeling grateful to have such a gracious host.

Day 32, August 4 (18 miles)

In the morning we are greeted by yet another buck (or more likely, the same one as last night) peering at us through the trees, and I silently bid our host farewell. We do our best to tackle high, barren Blackhawk Pass before the sun is too high in the sky, but the gravelly climb still feels brutal. As we descend, we can see clouds building ominously along the horizon.

There really is no shelter to be found as we slab the side of yet another long, open ridge. All we can do is cross our fingers that the worst of the afternoon storms will bypass us. Our luck holds, and though we catch some intermittent rain, we remain on the fringes of the storm system. Sorrel is delighted to note that when rainwater puddles on the iron-rich red soil, it forms pools the exact color and opacity of Thai iced tea, and before long we all find ourselves longing for the creamy orange drink.

I desperately want to find yet another lovely, high-and-dry campsite for our penultimate night on the trail, but the weather has other plans. The steady rain refuses to let up, and the sky feels uncannily dark. When we arrive at the busy Deer Creek campsite, no one can take another step. Clearly, other hikers are feeling the same way, because virtually every flat spot is already occupied by a soggy, bedraggled tent. The whole area is damp, muddy, and there is an astonishing amount of trash lying around. Even in pristine weather, I think this campsite would be in my bottom tier, but in this weather it’s truly miserable. But with no guarantee of decent tent sites if we keep climbing, there’s no way I can make the boys — or myself — push any further. Grumpily, I settle in on the lumpy ground and try not to let other people’s tossing and turning keep me awake.

Day 33, August 5 (16 miles)

I pack our clammy gear as quickly as possibly, eager to get back onto a dry (and, I hope, sunny) ridgeline. Having not had a shower since sometime in July — in Lake City — and having schlepped through a solid day of rain, I am jonesing hard for some kind of water stop. The ridgeline lakes — which skew more puddle this year — have been no help at all, and none of the scant trickling streams we’ve encountered have been the sort you can immerse yourself in.

When I see that our itinerary passes a spur trail to an apparently quite large waterfall, I put my foot down and insist that we go on a short side quest, as long as the weather holds. For once, the weather is on my side and by the afternoon it’s hot and sunny. I scrupulously stop to check every single spur trail, making sure we haven’t missed the one that leads to The Waterfall. My diligence pays off, we do not miss the Gaines Gulch plunge, and Sorrel and I scramble up the rocks eagerly until we are right under its frigid plume. It feels spectacular. Repeak, predictably, does not partake. It’s only once I dunk myself and sun myself dry that I can shake off the foul mood that set in at last night’s campsite. Now that I’ve had my little swim — which are somewhat rare occasions on this trail — I feel ready to wrap this up on my terms. I will leave Colorado in love with Colorado.

We press on for a couple more miles, winding back and forth across Junction Creek, before we call it a day. For once, there is plenty of water, just enough sun, and we have more than enough food to fuel us to Durango, our final destination. The clouds still manage to open up on us, like they seem to do every afternoon, but we find a lovely bench to camp on and the clouds begin to lift as the sunsets. One more day, and I’m confident it will be beautiful.

Day 34, August 6 (13 miles)

While I’m up with the sun and eager to go, I decide it’s best to let Sorrel sleep in. We have, by my reckoning, only 13 miles to go to reach the terminus. There is no reason, now, to hurry. Much of our day will be spent negotiating a very long descent, and while it may be murder on our knees, I can’t imagine it will be slow going. We are all eager for beds, fresh food, and real hot showers.

As the day wears on, the clouds do their predictable thing, building, building, and then breaking. I had thought we might manage to outrun them, but by noon it is drizzling steadily. We play leapfrog with Eric, an older hiker we’ve met before. He smiles every time he sees Sorrel, even if Sorrel is not in his finest form, being tired and wet and hungry.

As the trail levels out, we know we must be getting close. The last few miles are busy with dayhikers, runners, and dogwalkers, out despite the questionable weather. We roll into the parking lot by midafternoon, feeling utterly celebratory. Eric is not far behind and graciously snaps group photos for us. Then, with the rain upping its intensity, we set about trying to find a ride. The tricky thing about the Junction Creek trailhead is that it’s at the end of a dead-end road. There are no passerby, so you are entirely at the mercy of other hikers who are leaving (unless you have the wherewithal to book a shuttle in advance). It’s too far out to have decent phone signal, so even if there were Uber drivers around, hailing one would be a bit of a trick. The four of us spent a solid hour in the rain, waiting for a trail angel to come along. Eventually, one did, a young woman back from a dayhike with her dog. She loaded the pup into the trunk of her SUV, we gratefully stuffed out packs in after him, and then proceeded to drip profusely all over her upholstery. Luckily, most folks who frequent Colorado trailheads are entirely unperturbed by having wet, muddy — and probably very stinky — hikers in their cars. She deposited us outside our cheap motel and we thanked her even more profusely than we’d dripped — and we bid Eric a final farewell too.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of showers, dry clothes, and hot meals. Durango certainly rolls out the red carpet for CT finishers; by the end of the day we’d eaten free chocolate truffles, claimed our patches, eaten a discounted dinner, and procured a souvenir frisbee. Folks were cheerful, inquisitive, and utterly welcoming. Although I’m generally a big advocate for hiking trails in the “wrong” direction, the CT is one I think is better hiked in its canonical form, because Durango is truly the perfect place to close out this journey.

Getting out of Durango, though, can be a bit tricky, but that is a story for another day.

500 Miles Across Colorado, Part Three

June 27, 2026June 27, 2026 / k magill / 1 Comment

TWIN LAKES TO LAKE CITY

Day 15, July 18 (approx 18 miles?)

Despite my trepidation, the fire detour was little trouble, and after more hot, dusty road miles than we would have liked, we were soon back on the footpath in the Collegiate Wilderness. Almost as soon as we got off the road, the wind rushed around us and the clouds opened up. “Seems a little early in the day for this,” I muttered. The storm petered out as quickly as it began, and the rest of the afternoon was perfectly clear, cool, and pleasant.

As we ascended, Sorrel began to notice more and more trees covered in some sort of blight. For whatever reason, these dark fungal growths made him incredibly nervous, and he was insistent that we not camp too near any trees afflicted by it. I insisted that the fungus couldn’t possibly harm us, but I also agreed that we would keep going until we found a tree-free spot to camp.

Our decision to keep pushing was a good one. We reached a beautiful grassy ridge just below the summit of Mount Harvard. There was a small (and fungus-free) grove of trees to pitch our tent in, a sunny log bench to eat dinner on, and utterly lovely views in every direction. We’d hardly seen a soul all afternoon, and we had the ridge all to ourselves that night. Over the years, the Collegiate West route (the official route of the CDT) has become more and more popular among CT hikers. Collegiate West is widely considered to be the more scenic and the more challenging option of the two. Sorrel and I had agreed upon East because a) we plan to come back and hike the CDT in its entirety at some point, and will see West then, and b) we were really looking forward to spending a day at Princeton Hot Springs!

Day 16, July 19 (19 miles)

The morning, spent winding along the shoulders of the Collegiates, was lovely and fairly uneventful. We crossed numerous creeks and an incredibly scenic lake. The trail hosted more dayhikers than backpackers, and we chugged along making pretty good time.

In the afternoon, we started to hear those rumbles of thunder that were starting to feel routine. I took a quick break to check the map and guidebook to see what the terrain ahead looked like. “It looks like the saddle over Mount Yale is pretty wooded,” I told Sorrel. “Even if it hits when we’re up high, we won’t be out in the open.” We both agreed to press on, even as the first drops of rain spattered our arms. In no time at all, the rain intensified into hail, and I scrambled to open the umbrella, handing it to Sorrel while I dug out the rain gear. These hailstones were large enough to hurt, and they accumulated like snow along the trail corridor, bouncing off trees, rolling, and coming to rest in the narrow trough made by generations of feet.

The hailstones turned to slush as we walked, and more kept falling as we switchbacked up Mount Yale. The meltwater turned the trail into a narrow channel of rushing, frigid water, which soaked through our shoes rapidly; this was the first time on the trail that we’d felt genuinely chilled, so it seemed better to keep moving than to hunker down.

Only as we began to descend the even steeper switchbacks leading down to the Avalanche Trailhead did the storm taper off. We squelched along, our shoes utterly soaked for the first time in more than two weeks on the trail. I had my heart set on finding another ridgeline campsite where we could spread out our stuff to dry in the sun, but the terrain was not on my side; we passed the rest of the day traversing a low, wooded stretch, often with the hum of the nearby highway in our ears. Moreover, the area around Rainbow Lake is privately owned by a campground, and as lovely as the lake looked, we didn’t want to trespass. Instead, we settled for a muddy site near Cottonwood Creek. The area was already pretty full of other hikers hunkered down for the night, damp gear draped everywhere. It was comforting to know we weren’t the only ones who’d gotten soaked. We scooped water from the creek, which was absolutely rushing, and effectively drowned out any traffic noise from the busy roads nearby.

Day 17, July 20 (13.5 miles)

Shoes and socks still damp, we meandered along the creek for a bit before climbing upward. At the Mount Princeton saddle, the CT descends along roads for several miles, one of the less scenic stretches of the trail. After a lengthy series of dirt road switchbacks where we had to carefully hug the shoulder and keep an ear out for oncoming cars and bikes, we found ourselves in a massive paved parking lot — not a trailhead, but the guest parking for some sort of ranch. Once on the paved road, we found ourselves on the route of an ultramarathon and passed a smattering of runners. Before long, a water park appeared around a bend. “That must be it!” I said to Sorrel. It was hot down in the foothills, and we couldn’t wait to get in the water (and maybe eat some overpriced resort snacks).

Somewhat dazedly, we wandered through the maze of sidewalks at the hot springs resort. We managed to find the onsite convenience store first. Although pricy, the shop is known to be hiker friendly. We loaded up on snacks, and found a seat outside where I could charge the phone. We met a number of other backpackers doing the same, some hiking the CT and some doing the Collegiate Loop. After chatting with a few, we managed to figure out where the front desk was located, and purchased an all-day pass. It had been a long time since I’d carried a real swimsuit on a backpacking trip, but between the hot tub in Frisco and the hot springs, it was feeling pretty worth it!

The hot springs features a natural geothermal area, where you can play in the chilly creek and feel faint currents of hot water swirling around your feet. But it also features numerous heated pools — some for lounging, some for laps — and a pretty epic waterslide. Sorrel defied all of my expectations by falling in love with those hot plastic spiral tubes! I thought for sure he’d find the line too long, the ladder too tall, and the slide itself too claustrophobic. On the contrary, he spent the bulk of the day zipping down the slides over and over, landing with a splash in the pool. Afterward, we helped another family untangle a floating volley ball net and played a few rounds with them. We stayed right until closing time, and then managed to snag ice cream cones just as the ice cream window was closing.

The lovely thing about July is that if you hop back on trail at 5:00pm, you still have hours before dusk. Much refreshed and practically glowing with joy, we continued our hot, dusty roadwalk, encountering ever more ultrarunners, not all of them running as the made their way to the race’s finish line. Eventually we veered off the road and called it a day at Bootleg, an old, unstaffed Forest Service campground. This place is truly a hidden gem, with nice level tent pads offering stunning views of the Mount Princeton chalk cliffs. There were several other groups of hikers there for the night, including Maddie, a college student hiking the CT with her mom. It was fun to meet another mom-kid hiking team!

Day 18, July 21 (17.5 miles)

While the rain held off at the water park, it seems the sky saved it all up for today. We walk through intermittent showers, and hit some of the first cattle ranges on the trail. The smell of rehydrated cow pies is about the worst thing imaginable, and we have to watch our feet to avoid stepping in them. But the real excitement is that we’ll be meeting up with Sorrel’s papa, Repeak, at the end of the day! He has enough vacation days to join us for the second (and more spectacular) half of the CT. He arrived in Denver the day before, and is making his way south to Salida on the bus as we walk. He’s eager to start hiking, so instead of meeting him in town, we’ve picked a spot on the map that isn’t too far from the road and seems like a promising campsite. We have warned him that we are getting low on food, so we will need to return to Salida the following day. We also have a new pair of trail runners waiting for Sorrel in a maildrop at a campground on Rte 50, not far from the trailhead.

We wind through the southern end of the Sawatch Range, past tempting side trails leading to more 14ers (if we didn’t have a date to keep, we might have embarked on another side quest!). Toward evening, the trail descended to a level area, and we started scanning the woods alongside us for the “spring fed lake” we’d seen marked on the map. I had my fingers crossed it wouldn’t be surrounded by impenetrable undergrowth. To the country, the wide shallow lake was set in an area of open pine woodlands. We set up our campsite and waited not very patiently for Repeak to arrive.

It was a couple hours later, right at dusk, that we heard a whistle and caught a glimpse of Soren’s papa ambling up through the trees. Thanks to the magic of location sharing, he knew right where to find us. He shared some snacks with us and told us all about how long the bus ride was and how difficult it had been to find a ride up to the trailhead. I hoped we wouldn’t encounter the same trouble tomorrow.

Day 19, July 22 (10 miles)

After breaking camp, we moseyed down the trail to the highway, wondering how much harder it would be to get a ride as a party of three. Miraculously, after only a few minutes at the trailhead, we saw a colorful bus headed east toward Salida. The Butterfly Hostel! I couldn’t believe we’d managed to arrive at the road just as the hostel shuttle was going by. The little bus pulled over and we hopped in, greeted by a handful of hikers, the driver, and his friendly dog Ernie.

The shuttle driver deposited all of us at the supermarket, reminding us to be back in the same parking lot at 3:00pm if we wanted a ride back to the trail, or up to the hostel. We decided to kick things off with breakfast burritos from a shop right across the street. Sorrel refused to order a burrito (even though they were delicious!) so I went and hunted down a bagel and steamed milk from the bakery next door (plus some dessert for us grownups). Salida was already impressing me with its food options!

Our resupply today needed to be a big one. The next stretch, from Monarch Pass to Spring Creek Pass, would be nearly 100 miles of hiking with no resupply. Over breakfast, we wrote up a shopping list, returned to the supermarket across the street, and half an hour later emerged with an entire cart full of food. Think of it this way: carrying enough food for three people for 100 miles is the same as carrying enough food for yourself to last 300 miles (that’s an entire Long Trail and then some!).

We still had lots of time to kill before the shuttle headed back up to Monarch Pass. Repeak wanted to ask around for a ride to get back on the trail earlier, but Sorrel wanted to wait so he could see Ernie the dog again, and I wanted more time to wander aimlessly around town, look at art, and eat food. Everyone agreed more food was a good idea, so we decided to wait for the van. Salida has a great downtown area with tons of quirky public art and delicious coffee shops.

We were the only hikers in the parking lot when the shuttle arrived, but he graciously decided to give the others (hostel guests) some extra time. He took us on a quick tour of town, and showed us the river park, popular with river surfers, whom we sat and watched for a while, recalling a similar spot we’d stumbled upon in Munich, Germany a few years ago. On the way back to the supermarket I experienced a sudden bolt of realization: “We forgot toilet paper!” I dashed back into the supermarket, dismayed to see that they didn’t stock anything smaller than a 12-pack. I grabbed a pack and “donated” the other eleven rolls to the hostel.

On the way back to the trail the shuttle kindly agreed to stop at Monarch Spur RV Park so we could retrieve the maildrop containing Sorrel’s shoes (and bid farewell to his completely trashed and treadless ones!). Since Repeak was still adjusting to the elevation and we were laden with an absurd amount of food, we kept the afternoon’s hike as short as possible, stopping at the first spot we could find with enough room for two tents. Since the first portion of this section is a grueling uphill roadwalk, it took us a few miles!

Day 20, July 23 (17 miles)

We took it very slow all day, giving Repeak a chance to adjust to the altitude: hydrate, rest, try to eat. I am not a patient person by nature, and it was hard for me, after nearly three weeks of hiking, getting Sorrel to a place where he was really hitting his stride, to hit the brakes like this.

To make matters worse, the section over Marshall Pass was teeming with mountain bikes and day hikers. One thing to know about Repeak is that he loves to stop and chat with other folks on the trail. It is adorable, and also not at all compatible with my introverted hiking style. On one hand, I love having a hiking partner who does all the talking. On the other hand, I hate feeling like the rude person who keeps right on going while the rest of my family stops to chat. I know it’s going to take me a while to adjust to this inevitably more social approach, but that doesn’t stop me from being grumpy about it.

In the end, slow and steady pays off. Throughout this hundred-mile section, our camping options are almost entirely governed by the availability of water, so we fill up at Tank Seven Creek and then keep going until we’re up on a nearby ridge. I’ve already explained to Repeak my strong preference for dry-camping, and while I can tell he’s done climbing for the day, he powers through and we end up camped at a lovely overlook with a stunning sunset view.

Day 21, July 24 (15 miles)

In addition to a massive amount of food, we often find ourselves carrying massive amounts of water. This section of the CT features long walks between creeks, some of which aren’t reliable, so we always err on the side of carrying a bit more than we need. Today, we cross a vast, treeless stretch known as Sargent’s Mesa, home to a war memorial known as Soldierstone. The wide open views would be lovely if it weren’t for the sun baking us to a crisp. We keep our umbrellas up, and take a shade break when we reach a grove of trees on the far side, taking care not to sit in the ubiquitous cow pies.

In addition to cattle, we spot a number of elk and deer today, including a buck. We also spend some time chatting with a friendly retired couple, a former math professor and an English teacher, who backpack together. They tell us their very favorite place to hike is Scotland, where they’ve logged over a thousand miles on foot. I nudge Repeak once we’re on our way: “That could be us in a few decades!”

We grab our last water of the day at Razor Creek, which we’re grateful to find running, and then press on to find a campsite. It takes us longer than we’d like, as the first few we scout are already claimed, or scattered with manure. But we walk a little further and luck into a lovely wide-open spot in a pine grove, just as dusk is falling.

Day 22, July 25 (19 miles)

This might take the prize for my least favorite day on the CT. Water is sparse and once again sets the itinerary for us. Many of today’s miles follow logging roads, switchbacking steeply through ugly timber scars. We continue to play cow pie leapfrog.

We also play leapfrog with another SOBO CT hiker, a friendly woman named Treehugger. We swap trail stories, compare gear, and fret together over the questionable water sources. When we hit the 300-mile mark, she kindly offers to take a family photo for us. My atrophied social interaction muscles are getting a workout, and I wind up a whole new kind of exhausted!

We cross Highway 114 on a remote stretch some 40 miles from the town of Gunnison. There are more cows around than cars, and the only people we see are other thru-hikers. We reluctantly scoop water from Lujan Creek, which is festooned with a truly unnerving amount of manure. Never have I had to put so much faith in my Sawyer Squeeze! I’d give anything for a tumbling mountain stream.

The afternoon is hot, the water is already stale and warm when it hits our bottles, and arguably tastes even worse once we mix electrolytes into it. This side of the highway features even more logging roads, even uglier than the ones we descended in the morning. Eventually, the roads offer some sweeping views and blazing wildflowers, and I do my best to enjoy the scenery. We call it a day at Los Creek, much cleaner than Lujan, and climb up the hillside to the nearby campsites just as a storm rolls in. We are cozy and dry in our tents before the rain hits.

Day 23, July 26 (21.6 miles)

Today, we enter the La Garita Wilderness and the trail begins to feel beautifully wild and remote again. We follow Cochetopa Creek, a popular fly fishing area. It’s great watching the fishers out in their waders, casting their long lines, but even better is the moose and calf that we encounter a bit further downstream. The two of them seem remarkably unconcerned by passing hikers, grazing peaceful in the middle of the creek. We watch them quietly, trying to maintain a respectful distance. We move on when rain starts to fall.

We’ve been planning on this being a long day — Sorrel’s longest ever — but the kid starts to lose steam in the afternoon. It’s damp and grey, with intermittent thunder and rain that won’t let up. I’ve explained to Sorrel that if we don’t make it over San Luis Pass tomorrow, we’ll have to ration our food quite carefully until we get to Lake City. And to make it over San Luis Pass before the afternoon thunderstorms in tomorrow’s forecast, we should really try to hike as far as possible today. He reluctantly agrees, especially when I remind him that if we keep going today will be the longest day he’s ever hiked.

Sorrel and I both reach our breaking point at the Eddiesville Trailhead, which turns out to be a popular car camping area. It is bustling with other hikers as well as RVers, and I feel immediately overwhelmed by all the people. Sorrel begs to stay and camp here, mostly because he’s tired and perhaps partly because he wants to hang out with Treehugger and the other hikers. But looking around at the crowded, damp campsites, I can’t bring myself to pitch the tent here. Sorrel refuses to budge, and I throw a little fit. “I don’t want to camp right next to the road. I’m going to cross the road, and hike into the woods, and stop when I find a good quiet spot. I’ll see you later.” It might not show, but I’m incredibly grateful to have Repeak here so I can walk away for a bit without having to drag Sorrel with me.

I breathe easier once I’m on my own; before long, Repeak manages to coax Sorrel back onto the trail and the two of them catch up with me at the next water source. Not much further along, we find a decent clearing with enough space for all of us. We have two tents, and if we really needed to split up for a night, we could, but it’s simpler to stick together. We end the day at approximately 21.6 miles, just enough to set Sorrel’s new record; he’s not as thrilled about it as I thought he would be.

Day 24, July 27 (16 miles)

Although we experience a few pockets of morning sun, the weather today continues to be uncooperative, and midway through the afternoon we end up in the most intense rain and hailstorm since the one that caught us on the flanks of Mount Yale. We find a grove of fir trees and wedge our two umbrellas in the branches, creating a decent makeshift shelter. We crouch in our tiny cave and eat snacks, debating whether or not the rain has let up sufficiently to carry on.

Eventually we make a break for it, and begin a steep switchbacking ascent. We’re on the lookout for a campsite, noted briefly in the data book, somewhere before reaching the upcoming mesa. As there are still plenty of thunderclouds looming, we’d like to stay below treeline tonight. The terrain, all steeply sloped and chiseled with streambeds, doesn’t lend itself to campsites, and eventually we abandon our hope of finding the mystery campsite and press forward, hoping we can cross the open stretch of trail before the clouds unleash more weather on us.

Crossing the scrubby mesa, it’s clear to us that we won’t have enough time to get back down into the trees before dusk. Repeal and I glance at the clouds, which have thinned and are starting to take on a pinkish sunset tinge. “We might want to think about camping up here,” I suggest. “We have plenty of water, and it seems like the storms have passed.” Sorrel is more than ready to stop, and excited to camp under the wide open sky; Repeak agrees. As we’re pitching the tents, a herd of elk crests the horizon to the south. We drop everything to scope them out. There are even more beyond the ridge, grazing calmly on the mesa. They startle at our movement and bound off into the distance.

As the sun sets, the wind carries the yipping of coyotes to our ears and somewhere not too far off a dog barks in response, the sounds echoing off the mountainsides. We watch as stars materialize in the gathering dark, the afternoon’s clouds nothing but a memory. After a hard couple of days, Sorrel falls asleep exhausted but utterly elated.

Day 25, July 28 (8 miles)

The fact that there are only eight miles between us and our next resupply puts a spring in everybody’s step. Moreover, the day’s terrain is breathtaking, crossing the vast expanse of Snow Mesa. The mesa is windswept, dotted with shallow, rippling lakes, and offers views of the San Juan Mountains in the distance. It is a relief to put the last few days behind us, and I think we all feel the higher summits to the south beckoning us.

As we hike, I manage to book us a room for the night in Lake City. We all need a shower and a quiet place to recharge. While there is an RV campground in Lake City that is known to be hiker-friendly, I can tell a roof over heads and some privacy will do everyone some good. We allow ourselves to daydream a bit about all the fresh foods we’ll indulge in once we get to town.

We arrive at the trailhead well in advance of the afternoon shuttle, a daily courtesy offered by local volunteers, many of whom are affiliated with the local (and extremely pro-hiker) church. Local volunteers also coordinate a weekly dinner for thru-hikers, and we learn from other hikers that we’ve managed to time our arrival to coincide with the epic potluck. While we wait for the shuttle, a small CDT trail maintenance crew catches sight of us, and offers us their leftover snacks and drinks: an unfinished bag of potato chips, and a whole variety of seltzers. We all kick back in the shade of the info kiosk, basking in the generosity and the fact that we are, for once, under no pressure to walk anywhere.

Eventually the shuttle rolls up and we all squeeze in, and in no time at all, we’re deposited on the quaint streets of Lake City. Sorrel, Repeak and I check into our room, clean up, and head to the Mexican place across the street for a late lunch, which turns out to be more mediocre than online reviews led us to believe. We make our way over to the church’s hiker center, and meet Jason, the energetic young clergyman behind Lake City’s wealth of hiker services. His ability to build community between thru-hikers and locals is unparalleled. I’ve never been to a trail town with such a high concentration of folks eager to talk to hikers and help them out. By the end of the potluck supper, we had phone numbers from multiple folks who said they’d be happy to give us a ride back to the trail if we missed the shuttle the next day.

Afterwards, we checked out the Lake City Soda Fountain, an old fashioned ice cream shop with some of the best milkshakes I’ve ever tasted.

Read Part Four!

500 Miles Across Colorado, Part Two

June 27, 2026June 27, 2026 / k magill / 1 Comment

FRISCO TO TWIN LAKES

Day 9, July 12 (9 miles)

After an early-morning run to the supermarket and a video chat with Papa, we were ready to hit the road. It was hard to say goodbye to hot tubs and happy hours, but we had long stretches of alpine meadow ahead of us. Our tentative goal for the day, weather allowing, was to camp at Searle Pass. Sorrel was chomping at the bit for an alpine camping experience now that we had more than a week of high-for-us elevations and Colorado thunderstorms under our belts.

We were slightly delayed in our mission when we returned to Copper Mountain and learned that Fridays at the resort feature free chairlift and gondola rides. Sorrel was very eager to ride in a gondola (we are not alpine skiers, so getting hoisted up mountains by machinery is still a novelty), so I navigated the clunky ticket kiosk and printed us a couple of free passes. The lift station was right on the trail, and the views were wildly different than what we see while walking. There is something delightful about skimming the tops of the trees.

The trail through this section, following an unfortunate detour along hot, dusty ski area service roads, was not nearly as delightful as the sky ride. It was a relief to eventually get back onto a proper footpath, winding up into the mountains once again. Throughout the afternoon, we passed numerous appealing campsites, but with a promising forecast, we were holding out for Searle Pass. We skirted a cozy-looking backcountry cabin, known as Janet’s Hut, which appeared to be packed with a rowdy crew for the weekend.

Before too long, we found ourselves in the wide open bowl of Searle Pass. Dozens of marmots, the first we’d seen on this trip, were scattered about the tundra, sunning themselves on rocks and scrambling into crevices at our approach. Sorrel was absolutely delighted. We meandered along until we found a satisfactory plateau, then settled in for the night. We were joined later by a solo hiker we’d passed the day before, slackpacking the Tenmile Range as we were headed down into town. He shared some really delicious chocolate he’d picked up in Breckenridge and asked if we’d ever camped this high before. It was his first night above treeline too. The skies cooperated and we enjoyed a spectacular sundown and sunrise, the light seeping over the ridge encircling us and casting the mountainsides in stunning pastels.

Day 10, July 13 (13.5 miles)

Although I’d been slightly worried about cold nighttime temperatures at 12,000 feet, the weather proved mild and we had no trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Despite being only one day out from Frisco, I was already starting to think about our next resupply. It had dawned on me that we were rapidly approaching the side trails to Mt Massive and Mt Elbert, two popular 14ers that are easily hiked from the CT. Sorrel was eager to bag both summits, which would effectively add nearly 20 miles to the current section of trail. If we tackled both side quests, we’d be at least one day short on food.

I checked in with Sorrel to make sure he was serious about the detours, and then suggested to him that we make a trip into Leadville the following day to bolster our food supplies, casually mentioning the fact that Leadville is the highest town in Colorado, home to a famous ultramarathon *and* a cool-looking mineral museum. He eagerly agreed to another town stop, always ready for fresh food and air-conditioned educational activities.

After continuing along the high alpine ridge for a bit, we spent much of the day descending, the temperatures rising as we lost elevation and the sun climbed higher overhead. We passed tumbling waterfalls and riotous wildflowers, then took a break to investigate the remains of Camp Hale, a mysterious and somewhat ominous looking series of military bunkers. Nearby in the woods, we found little stashes of shell casings, further evidence of the former military activity in the area.

Meandering along dusty roads at 9,000-some feet, the day felt brutally hot. We called it a day when we reached an unnaturally straight, flat stretch of trail that follows an old railroad grade, telling us we were only a few miles from Tennessee Pass, where we’d head into town the next day. We found an expansive camping area just over an embankment. The only downside to the site was the astonishing amount of rusty scrap metal hiding among the pine needles, but I guess that’s par for the course when camping next to train tracks.

Day 11, July 14 (9.5 miles)

Eager to pack up and hit town, I did a very stupid thing: I snagged the outer fabric of our down quilt in the tent zipper, tearing a gash several inches long and releasing a puff of tiny down feathers. After a couple of muttered expletives, I rallied and dug out some duct tape for a temporary fix. In a way, I couldn’t have chosen a better time to do it, as Leadville appeared to have gear shops galore where I’d almost certainly be able to find a decent patch kit.

After a few “butter miles” — family term for an easy stretch of trail — we found ourselves at the Tennessee Pass trailhead. Since it was early in the morning, on a weekday no less, the parking lot was almost devoid of traffic. Eventually a couple of cyclists returned from their ride on the rail trail and offered us a lift into town. They dropped us off right in the middle of town, where we procured some donuts to fortify ourselves. Sorrel was eager to see the mineral museum, I was eager to do a better repair job on the quilt, and we were both eager to load up with enough food to get back on the trail. I debated stopping in at Melanzana (CT and CDT thru-hikers can shop without a reservation) to score some fleeces, but Sorrel was not enthused about shopping, and it’s not like we *need* more clothes (but when we come back through on the CDT, I will insist!).

The museum was fascinating — and air conditioned! — and we managed to find a gear shop with a good selection of no-sew patches. Afterward, we headed to the supermarket, and then called Papa to wish him a happy birthday. I didn’t want to sacrifice our whole day to town, so after a quick lunch, we headed back up the road, watching afternoon thunderclouds building ominously. By the time we reached the trailhead, it was sprinkling, and before long the sprinkles had turned into steady rain and a stiff breeze. The trail was strewn with fresh horse manure, as if someone was riding right ahead of us, and the rain rendered each pile especially fragrant.

I was determined to make up for the time we’d spent in town, and also eager to find another gorgeous campsite, so I pitched the idea to Sorrel that we hike all the way up to Porcupine Lake. I knew he would like the idea of camping next to an alpine lake, even though it would mean a steep climb late in the day, and most likely in the rain. We managed to drag ourselves all the way up to Porcupine, and while the rain did taper off, the clouds never really lifted, making for a damp, blustery evening. Moreover, the mosquitoes at the lake were absolutely vicious. We had hardly seen a mosquito so far on the trip; compared to the northeast, the bugs had been virtually nonexistent. We tried our best to enjoy the scenery, but retreated to our tent pretty quickly after a hurried dinner.

Day 12, July 15 (16 miles)

The day dawned damp and grey, and it was hard to convince ourselves to crawl out of the tent, mosquitoes perched all over the mesh, lying in wait for us to emerge. We were some sixteen miles from the intersection with the Mount Massive trailhead, where I hoped we’d find a decent spot to camp, in order to get an early start on our first 14er the next day. The trail felt quieter than usual, perhaps due to the weather, perhaps due to the fact that we were entering a Wilderness Area, which meant no bikes on this stretch.

The terrain was pleasant, passing several more alpine lakes in the morning and crossing numerous streams. We made sure to grab a lot of water at Willow Creek, the last source before the junction with the Mount Massive Trail. I hoped we wouldn’t have to push too far up the side trail to find a campsite, as both Sorrel and I were eager to get to bed early. I’d impressed upon him time and again the importance of alpine starts, the practice of beginning a summit push before dawn, in order to be off the summit well before the afternoon thunderstorms arrive. Having now experienced a couple of these afternoon storms firsthand, Sorrel was more amenable to the notion than he had been at the start of the trip.

Luckily, we had no trouble finding some serviceable camping near the trail junction and were soon ready to call it a day. I rearranged the gear in our packs a bit, as I planned to forgo breaking camp in the morning. Instead of carrying all of our gear up and down Massive, we would carry a simple dayhiking kit, leaving our shelter set up, saving us time in the morning as well as energy. We were both buzzing with excitement for our “slackpack” the next day, but managed to turn in at a reasonable hour.

Day 13, July 16 (7.5 miles + 7 miles side trip)

The Mount Massive Trail is about 3.5 miles each way, so even if the elevation gain slowed us down, I was confident we’d be off the summit well before noon. As we started up, we encountered a steady trickle of dayhikers headed for the top as well. The weather was clear and the winding trail offered incredible views of the surrounding wilderness. We were quite pleased by the rocky scramble at the summit, a nice break from nearly two weeks of graded, uneventful dirt path — and a reminder of our mountains back home.

We huddled into our puffies for a quick snack break at the windy summit, which we shared with about a dozen other people, before taking our place in the stream of hikers heading back down. Although the CT is not a lonely trail by any means, the traffic on the summit still felt like a departure. Moreover, the population of marmots and pikas is delightful; Sorrel loved listening to the pikas’ chirps echo between the rocks. We had our fingers crossed we’d spot a bighorn too, as this is reportedly a common place to see them, but not today.

We didn’t realize quite how slowly we’d been moving on the way up until we started back down. “This feels so easy!” Sorrel declared. “I feel great!” I told him that I suspected that was his body rejoicing at having its oxygen more fully replenished with each breath. The descent took about half as long as the ascent. As we packed up our shelter, tiny hailstones began to patter the ground around us. We were torn between hurrying on our way and diving back into the tent, but if we wanted a shot at Mount Elbert tomorrow, we’d have to cover at least some of the distance between the two peaks. By the time we were fully packed and back on the trail, the hail was coming down in torrents. Lightly-equipped dayhikers sprinted past us down the trail, booking it for their cars. I smiled at Sorrel, deployed the umbrella, and we kept plodding.

Next we had a decision to make: North Elbert Trail, or South Elbert? The North Elbert trailhead was only a few miles away and we were there in no time. This is the more direct route to the summit of Colorado’s highest peak; it is steeper, less scenic, more heavily trafficked. There would also be a temptation to “blue blaze” this section, taking North Elbert up and South Elbert down, thus skipping a small section of the CT. Sorrel is very opposed to blue blazing! Since we had plenty of daylight, we decided to forgo North Elbert and press on for a campsite closer to the southern approach, which is widely regarded as a more scenic and pleasant hike, albeit a bit longer.

We called it a day at Harrington Creek, where we found a small but level perch for our tent a tenth of a mile or so past the stream crossing. I wouldn’t have minded going all the way to South Elbert junction, but from the intel I’d managed to gather, it wasn’t clear whether there were any decent tenting options there. I knew that if we hiked the next mile and a half to the junction, Sorrel wouldn’t have the juice left to begin the ascent (I’d read that there were some tentsites right at the treeline), so I decided to play it safe and call it a day.

Day 14, July 17 (7.5 miles + 9 mile side trip)

Sorrel was up remarkably bright and early, ready to tackle the Colorado state high point. We had a couple miles of relatively easy walking before we hit the Mount Elbert trail junction. We’d decided to employ a slackpacking approach similar to yesterday’s: I would stash my pack well off the trail, using landmarks to remember its location, and then I would carry Sorrel’s pack, containing a basic “ten essentials” set-up for the dayhike to the summit. Sorrel carefully memorized the location of our pack — and our bear-proofed food, in a separate location — using an unmistakable fallen log and a distinctive stand of trees as clues. Then we were off, winding up a series of switchbacks towards the summit.

The South Elbert Trail lives up to its reputation as a scenic trail. The views once we hit the treeline were spectacular. The trail was also considerably busier than Mount Massive the day before. There were hikers of all stripes, several teen camp groups, and even a few mountain bikers. As we approached the summit, we were swept up in a steady stream of people, and the rocky outcroppings at the top were jammed with folks enjoying their lunches. We grabbed a bite to eat and a few quick photos, and took off again.

As we neared the junction, I reminded Sorrel to keep an eye out for his landmarks, and we retrieved the rest of our gear without any trouble. Our next stop was the town of Twin Lakes, only a couple miles south of the South Elbert junction. It was hard to believe we were already on our way back into town. It was also hard to trade that crisp, breezy summit air for the hot, still air lower down. Much of the land along the trail heading into town is privately owned, and studded with emphatic signs reminding hikers that camping is prohibited. These sorts of signs always provoke Sorrel’s ire; the big official-looking letters make it difficult to feel immersed in the natural surroundings and detract from the experience (also, he just doesn’t like being told what he can and can’t do!).

Twin Lakes was even smaller than I expected and, because we hit town on a Wednesday, most of the food trucks were closed. We restocked on food at the general store, which is home to an incredibly gentle golden retriever who followed Sorrel around the aisles with a longing gaze. Over an ice cream from the freezer case, I convinced Sorrel that we should definitely order a meal from the one available food truck, a pizza place, even though Sorrel refuses to eat pizza 99% of the time. I promised him they would have some sort of dough-y non-pizza app that would suffice. We put in an order for a basket of garlic knots and a large salad, and chatted with a rowdy table full of northbound CDT hikers while we waited. They had nothing but high fives and endless encouragement for Sorrel, and advised him to eat as much as he could while he was in town. I’m always glad for him to hear it from someone besides me!

After following the hikers’ advice and stuffing our faces, we continued along the lakeshore toward Winmar Cabins, where we’d booked a cabin for the night. From the trail, we could see the extensive black burn scar of the very recently contained Interlaken Fire, which had closed a section of the trail on the far side of the lake. According to the most recent intel, the trail was still officially closed for several miles, and we’d need to walk a convoluted backroad detour to rejoin the trail at Clear Creek. The main reason I wanted to stay in town was to fully charge my phone and get online so I could get a good look at the map of the roadwalk. I really didn’t have a clue where we were going! Laundry and showers were just a side benefit.

The Winmar Cabins are the kind of dim, scruffy lodgings that only backpackers appreciate. Finicky doors and windows, thin walls that do little to block the sound of highway traffic, ancient carpet, sagging mattresses — but a whole bathroom to ourselves, and a full kitchen thoughtfully equipped with oil, salt, and pepper! Out behind the cabins is a large common building that appears to have served as a hostel of sorts (perhaps Covid put an end to the communal option), featuring an extensive array of washers and dryers and plenty of laundry soap. In the fading light, Sorrel and I set about our typical town chores: giving our cups a good scrub, combing through our gear for stray bits of trash, and washing as many clothes as we can afford not to wear, snacking on leftover garlic knots all the while.

Read Part Three!

500 Miles Across Colorado, Part One

June 27, 2026June 27, 2026 / k magill / 3 Comments

DENVER TO FRISCO

Day One, July 4 (13.5 miles)

Sorrel and I began our CT journey as early in the day as a tween can possibly get moving, hoping to avoid the worst of the scorching heat for which Waterton Canyon is known. We were only somewhat successful. Despite an 8am start, the sun was relentless and we took many, many shade breaks at the canyon’s numerous picnic facilities. Waterton Canyon is a busy suburban rec path, bustling with runners and cyclists in addition to hikers. Since it was a holiday, the trail was especially thronged. It felt like every family in the metro area was zipping past us on their bikes. We kept our eyes out for the bighorn sheep reputed to live in the canyon, but only caught glimpses of a few mule deer.

We were relieved when the crowds started to thin out after Strontia Dam (mile 6), where the wide, level rec path becomes a proper trail. Our cohort dwindled to a few other backpackers and bikepackers. Once we were out of the canyon and up in the foothills, we enjoyed a bit of breeze and more shade. We passed numerous small, informal tent sites, which bolstered my confidence that we’d have no problem pitching our tent when we were ready to call it a day. In contrast to the AT and other east coast trails — which are dotted with established campsites and lean-tos — the CT allows wild camping for most of its length but has no formal, designated campsites. This meant that, as first-timers on the trail, we only had a vague sense of where we’d end up each night.

Our tentative plan was to head down to the South Platte River for the night, a popular Day One stopping point. In the late afternoon, we found ourselves on a lovely plateau overlooking said river and could hear (and see) a ton of activity taking place at the river. With easy road access, on a holiday, it came as no surprise that a lot of folks were chilling at the river. I looked at Sorrel. “Pretty busy down there. Should we just… stay here?” The plateau had no water source, but we’d topped up at the last creek, trying to be prepared for the possibility of a dry camp. Sorrel looked around, agreeing it was a pretty great spot. According to the map, we’d already knocked out over 13 miles of trail, and the sun hadn’t even started to go down. We could easily cruise along another three miles, but the idea of sharing the river sites with who-knows-how-many people, and sacrificing the spectacular view from the plateau, just didn’t make sense to me. So we pitched our tent and hoped we’d be able to catch some Independence Day fireworks (we heard some, but didn’t see any!). Later in the evening, we could hear the sirens of emergency vehicles down on the road, and fell asleep glad we’d opted for our private, high-and-dry site instead of joining the party along the South Platte.

Day Two, July 5 (16 miles)

I’d made a deal with Sorrel that today, of all days, would need to be an early start. After crossing the South Platte, we’d be tackling the Burn, an infamously shadeless 10-mile stretch of trail that is still recovering from a 1996 wildfire. We wouldn’t see another water source until we reached the fire station on County Road 126, which generously allows hikers to fill up at an outdoor spigot. I wanted to make it through these miles as early in the day as possible.

Our first stop was the river, which was rushing along at an astonishing torrential rate, swollen with snowmelt and recent rains. I told Sorrel to wait far back from the banks while I carefully filled our dirty bottles, trying not to envision the water bladders being ripped out of my hands by the current. The level areas along the bank were indeed crowded with tents, most of them sopping wet with dew from camping right next to the river. Again, I patted myself on the back for opting to camp high and dry instead.

Equipped with as much water as we could carry, we deployed our parasol and headed up into the barren hillsides. We made good time thanks to the rolling, mellow terrain, and hydrated more conscientiously than we ever have before. The landscape through the Burn is startling and otherworldly, studded with charred trunks and affording some of the most expansive views thus far. Once in sight of the road, we came upon a shady grove of trees and enjoyed a long break there, chatting with a woman hiking the trail with her three dogs, charmingly named Denali, Lhotse, and Makalu.

After filling up at the fire station, we found ourselves on a significantly shadier stretch of trail, a nice reprieve after the blazing hot morning. The terrain featured bulbous granite boulders scattered along the trail, lending the surroundings a sort of Seussian quality. Moving through nice level terrain, there seemed to be an almost infinite number of camping options. Towards evening, we settled on an especially climbable granite formation, and tucked the tent down behind it, well off the trail — the perfect combo of privacy, natural playground, and killer views!

Day Three, July 6 (16 miles)

After two days of heat and sun exposure, Section Three came as an immense relief. We meandered along creeks and through aspen groves, glorying in the shade. We were also climbing gradually higher. While metro Denver endured heat warnings, we were perfectly comfortable, our first low-sweat day of the trip. I found myself texting concerned family members back to reassure them that we were not hiking in the hundred-degree heat hitting much of the Front Range.

We shared this section of trail with a seemingly endless parade of mountain bikers out riding the Buffalo Creek trail system. As New England hikers, we’re not accustomed to traveling on trails that are even remotely bikeable, and staying alert to bike traffic took some significant adjustment. The bikes disappeared once we hit Lost Creek Wilderness; as a USFS designated wilderness area, it is closed to all vehicles. We welcomed this quieter stretch, winding its way through aspen and pine groves.

As we neared Craig Creek, our potential campsite, we spotted a number of tents already pitched along its banks. I sighed, not really in the mood to be part of a village, and scanning the trail up ahead. “How about we go scout just a bit further? I know you’re getting tired, but we don’t have to stop here. Maybe we just grab some water and dry camp again. Then the tent won’t get all dewy!” Sorrel agreed — somewhat reluctantly. The trail switchbacked steadily up a hill and he wasn’t eager to keep climbing. I had hardly rounded the next bend when I came upon a vast, open pine grove just begging for someone to pitch a tent in it. I called for Sorrel and we quickly claimed a spot set back off the trail in the expanse of soft, dry pine duff, thrilled we hadn’t settled for a campsite right next to the river. I went back to scoop water for the night while Sorrel kept himself busy playing imaginary games among the trees. Just before dark, another pair of hikers arrived and set up camp on the opposite end of the pine grove — our first neighbors of the trip. For a busy trail, it is not hard to maintain a sense of solitude on the CT.

Day Four, July 7 (17 miles)

The miles ahead continued to wind through Lost Creek Wilderness, blissfully bike-free and affording us our first glimpses of the higher peaks ahead of us. We cut through a long, narrow valley with views of Georgia Pass and the Continental Divide, wind swaying the grasses and rustling the aspen leaves. Every time the trail crossed a creek (and there were many), we would spot a cozy little campsite or two nearby, which encouraged us to press ahead without much concern for where our day would end.

We also encountered stark evidence of Colorado’s pine bark beetle epidemic. Colorado’s trees have been decimated by the infestation, leaving massive stands of dead trees and making widowmakers a significant risk. As the afternoon wore on, we caught a faint rumble of thunder. I looked at the clouds gathering on the horizon, wondering if we were in for our first Rocky Mountain thunderstorm. Since this stretch of trail wasn’t particularly exposed, we agreed to mosey along.

Before too long, we felt the first drops of rain pattering down through the branches. “It might not last,” I reminded Sorrel. “I still see plenty of clear sky.” Well, the rain didn’t last — it turned into hail! I scrambled to dig out our rain shells and deploy the umbrella to keep us from getting pelted. We booked it for the next creek and pitched camp hastily, diving in as the hail intensified. We managed a hurried dinner during a break in the weather, then hunkered down for the night.

Day Five, July 8 (15.5 miles)

I woke feeling eager to hit the trail, as our food options were dwindling and looking less and less enticing. In four days, we had covered over sixty miles, and in just a few miles we would hit our first resupply in Jefferson, a tiny highway outpost boasting one convenience store and a snack bar. The open, rolling hillsides of Kenosha Pass were stunning. I felt a pang of regret at deciding to pitch down in the woods instead of pressing on a bit further and dry camping on these grassy slopes, but waiting out the rain under a fly had definitely been the right choice for morale.

We had no trouble getting a ride down the short stretch of highway between the trailhead and town; before we knew it, we were enjoying a second breakfast of iced tea, chocolate milk, potato chips, and housemade fudge. The store featured a couple of booths tucked into one corner, and several other hikers were camped out there, waiting on hot food and charging devices. We squeezed in and did the same. I sent Sorrel on a mission to pick out a postcard to send home to his dad, whose birthday was less than a week away. As we were scribbling a quick birthday message, the pair of hikers we’d camped with near Craig Creek arrived. It turned out they were from Quebec — neighbors on the trail and neighbors at home!

Limited to gas station fare, we had to get pretty creative with our menu, settling for tiny bags of pretzel mix instead of Goldfish or Cheez-its, no-name peanut butter instead of Nutella, and a truly unhinged number of candy bars. It was almost midday and the sun outside the dark little store was intensifying. We went on a mission to find a stamp for our postcard, but the post office marked on Google Maps turned out to be long since shuttered. Back to the store we went, to ask if there was any chance they sold postage. The cashier generously offered me a single stamp, gratis.

Before heading back to the trail, I insisted we go grab a bite at the snack bar across the road — a meal we wouldn’t have to carry on our backs! Soren deemed his burger fine, but the accompanying fries were limp, soggy, and half raw, as if someone had tried to cook them in cold oil. A disappointment to say the least! We headed back to the trail plenty full but somehow dissatisfied.

Climbing up the other side of Kenosha Pass, we caught our first glimpse of moose on the CT — a mother and calf loping towards a lake down below us. They were so tiny in the distance, it was hard to be sure they weren’t just deer, but they certainly weren’t moving like deer. We took a shade break at the next creek, and debated whether or not we should stop for the day, packs heavy with food. It seemed too early to stop, and I wanted to find another high-and-dry camp if I could. Alas, none of the hills we crested offered decent tenting. Instead, with daylight waning, we found ourselves down at Jefferson Creek — along with an enormous bubble of CT hikers. We picked our way through the tent city, picking our way downstream until we found a somewhat secluded spot to pitch. Our neighbor for the night was a former CT thru-hiker out for the weekend with her incredibly sweet Australian shepherd. She told us that her pup had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and she was getting him out for one last hurrah. The dog was in high spirits and as friendly as could be, and we felt honored to spend some time with him, though it left us both missing our senior Aussie back at home.

Day Six, July 9 (13.5 miles)

Our neighbor with the Aussie assured us that all the good stuff was still ahead of us, and the trail would only get better going south, starting with today’s big climb — Georgia Pass. We made our ascent under stunningly blue skies, drinking in the wide expanse of green grass, alpine wildflowers, and, most exciting of all, snow! “Let’s have a snowball fight in July!” Sorrel declared. We cut off the trail and made our way to the biggest snowfield we could find. The relentless sun made the snow perfectly packy, an ideal break from the heat.

More excitement was in store for us as we dropped down out of the pass. At about midday, we began to hear a huge racket up ahead. It sounded like a whole pack of barking dogs. Before too long, a fence came into view off to the side of the trail. Inside of it were dozens of kennels, each home to a bouncy, barking husky. “Oh, this must be the dogsledding place!” I exclaimed. I’d read about it, but without any clear idea of where we’d encounter it. As you may have noticed, there are few things Sorrel and I love more than dogs. We followed a short spur trail down to the fence, and hung out while the kennel staff distributed the dogs’ lunch. Perfect timing!

We pressed on a little further than we should have that afternoon, watching clouds build along the horizon. We passed a lovely stretch of shady campsites along the Swan River, many of them already claimed by CT and CDT hikers. It was tempting to snag a spot, but I was hoping to avoid camping next to a river for the second night in a row, my tent still damp with dew from Jefferson Creek. Sorrel and I agreed to begin the next climb up from the river and stop when we found a promising ledge.

No sooner had we crossed the road and started our ascent than we began to hear approaching thunder. We made it about half a mile before deciding to err on the side of caution and call it quits, squeezing the tent into a cramped clearing next to a tiny creek (so much for high and dry). We ate a hurried dinner, the thunder turning from distant rumbles to cannon blasts overhead. The acoustics of the canyon amplified the sound in a way we’ve never experienced before or since. We hunkered down in the tent, wide-eyed at the intensity of the storm system. It moved through quickly, a pattern our east coast brains still hadn’t adjusted to, but by then it was too dark to pack up and keep moving, so we made do with our cramped, slanted tentsite, awarding it a prize for worst sleep of the trip thus far.

Day 7, July 10 (17 miles)

There are two easy ways for hikers to reach the towns of Breckenridge and Frisco. One is to take the free Summit Stage bus that stops at the trailhead on Route 9. The other is to keep hiking until you reach the Copper Mountain Ski Resort, and take the bus from there. Sorrel and I had decided that if the weather was miserable, or we had some urgent physical need to address, we would head into town when we hit Route 9. Otherwise, we’d wait a day and resupply after crossing the Tenmile Range and arriving at Copper Mountain. We were barely three days out from Jefferson, and nearing the hundred-mile mark. We still had plenty of snacks to get us through one more night, so when we hit Route 9, we decided to keep rolling.

The landscape around Breckenridge was the most built-up we had encountered since leaving Denver. Dropping down out of the hills, the trail takes you through the outskirts of town, which features a lot of heavily manicured developments full of ski condos, and even follows sidewalks and rec paths for a little bit before veering off into scrubby lowlands. Every time we hit a road crossing like this, we find ourselves longing to be back up high, simply because the gulches and valleys feel like ovens. There is little shade on the stretch of trail near Breckenridge; crossing it in the middle of the day, I was beginning to regret my decision not to take a break in town.

Like clockwork, we began to hear the low rumble of thunder sometime in the middle of the afternoon. We set our sights on the edge of the woods ahead of us and marched along at a steady clip. There were plenty of other runners and bikers out on the trails, even as the wind started to pick up, and we took our cues from them. With a couple of afternoon thunderstorms under our belt, we were beginning to feel a bit more relaxed about Colorado’s weather patterns. We made the cover of the canopy before any rain started to fall, but the stiff breeze reminded us to keep an eye out for dead trees and widowmakers as we scouted out a tent site. The area around Miner’s Creek offered plentiful options for tenting. While I would have liked to climb a bit higher to get a breath of cooler (albeit thinner) air, it seemed smarter to take advantage of the flat, open terrain and set up in a guaranteed nice spot — rather than have a repeat of the night before!

Day 8, July 11 (8.5 miles)

We woke rested and refreshed, thanks to our decision to stop a bit early. We still had a short day ahead of us, but it would also take us to our highest point on the trail so far. In a few miles, we would crest the Tenmile Range, where the CT reaches an elevation of over 12,000 feet — a first for both of us!

We were at the point where none of our food options looked particularly inspiring, especially with the promise of town food less than ten miles away. I forced myself to eat a few bites of some cookies that were more crumb than cookie at this point, but my heart really wasn’t in it. Sorrel tackled the steady climb with vigor. We followed trickling streams of snowmelt up long switchbacks, and before we knew it we were standing on a wide open expanse of alpine tundra, taking in a jaw-dropping view.

Despite the beauty, I could feel myself starting to flag. I knew I hadn’t eaten enough during the morning’s climb, and could feel myself getting lightheaded. I chugged a bunch of sugary electrolyte mix, and told Sorrel that I needed a snack break as soon as we found a shady outcropping to serve as a wind break. We continued winding along between peaks that are numbered rather than named, until we found a nice spot to sit. I forced down a Nutella tortilla — not my favorite — and gazed at the busy roads and ski towns down below. Sorrel was in excellent spirits, well fed and well hydrated, and eager to see what Frisco and Breckenridge held in store for us. I could not have been more pleased with how well he was handling the altitude along with the general demands of the trail.

The descent to Copper Mountain was heavy on traffic noise and bustling with day hikers. We moved at a good clip, eager to put the ugly ski infrastructure behind us. After crossing a massive parking lot, passing by a menagerie of construction equipment, and skirting the edge of the resort village for what felt like an eternity, we finally found ourselves in the middle of Copper Mountain proper. Suddenly it became clear where all the day hikers had come from! Copper Mountain is nearly as busy in the off season andI imagine it is during ski season, with myriad shops, restaurants, and attractions. We wound through the faux-euro cobbled streets, consulting every kiosk to make sure we were still on the right track for the shuttle bus. We made a couple of essential snack detours (Sugar Lips Mini Donuts! So good!) and eventually found our way to the bus stop.

I’d booked a reasonably priced room at the Frisco Lodge that morning, and was eager to see if their promises of a hot tub and free happy hour held true. Well, dear reader, they did. We dumped our stuff in our room, rinsed off in a shower for the first time since leaving Denver, and headed over to the hotel’s common area, where other guests (some of them hikers) were already picking at cheese plates and crudites, and quaffing free wine. The server graciously offered Sorrel and lemonade and I treated myself to a glass (or two) of red. With the laundromat right across the street, and block after block of restaurants purveying every possible cuisine, I was having a hard time imagining a more perfect town for a hiker to spend the night in.

After tumbling many days’ worth of dust out of our clothes and filling up on Italian food for dinner (Sorrel tried both mozzarella sticks and Italian cream soda for the first time — thumbs down to the former, thumbs up to the latter), we wandered back to the hotel to see what the deal was with the hot tub. The deal was, it was steaming away and completely vacant. We had it all to ourselves! Leaning back and gazing up at the twilit sky, we reflected on our first hundred miles of trail. It was hard to believe we were nearly a quarter of the way through already.

Read Part Two!

Superior Hiking Trail, Part Six: Duluth to Southern Terminus

June 19, 2024 / k magill / 1 Comment

From August 24 to September 18, 2023, 9-year-old Sorrel and I hiked the entirety of Minnesota’s 300-mile Superior Hiking Trail (SHT), from the northern terminus overlooking the Pigeon River at the Canadian Border to the southern terminus where the trail continues eastward into Wisconsin as the epic North Country National Scenic Trail. I’ve been dreaming of hiking the SHT ever since I first heard of it in 2008. This post is part five of six. Go here to start from the beginning.

September 15: Bagley Nature Area to Downtown Duluth

I decide that today will be a nearo/caloric replenishment day, and treat myself to the luxury of not carrying a full pack, leaving our shelter pitched at Bagley for the day. Our first stop is breakfast at a swanky cafe down the street, followed by a visit to the grocery store to pick up some snacks. I try to refrain from overbuying, since we’ll have numerous opportunities for hot meals over the next day or two, so there’s no reason to carry extra.

I have no set itinerary for the day; we will meander along the trail, following it downhill to the lakeshore and taking in the sights. When we reach a good stopping point, we’ll catch the city bus back up to UMN and call it a day. Tomorrow we can take the bus back downtown and pick up where we left off. The city’s waterfront is incredibly scenic, with the rose garden ablaze with blooms and the sun glinting off the waves. It is still warm enough for a few brave souls to be swimming. The Duluth Lakewalk, a paved rec path, is bustling with pedestrians, bikes, and roller-bladers (there is a strikingly large contingent of inline skaters in Minnesota!). Over the course of the day we stop for not one, but two, ice creams, and deem Love’s Creamery the clear winner.

Sorrel is very eager to see the aerial lift bridge in operation, so we stop in at the visitor’s center and check the schedule. We’re in luck; the bridge will be going up in the late afternoon. We continue to work our way along the SHT route until it’s time to double back to watch the bridge in action. We park ourselves along the canal and can’t believe our luck. The boat growing through is the Edwin H. Gott, one of the largest freighters on Lake Superior! The guy standing next to us is a devoted bridge watcher and regales us with facts and stats while we watch. Sorrel is thrilled to have found a kindred spirit and listens with rapt attention, peppering our companion with questions.

Afterward, we have to make a decision about dinner, and Sorrel has been begging for sushi, so we find a Japanese place that offers take out. Sorrel devours his at the bus stop. By the time we get back to our tent, dusk is falling and we hurry to get ready for bed. I gobble up my takeout udon in the fading light while Sorrel relaxes in the tent. He struggles to fall asleep, complaining of an upset stomach. I suddenly regret agreeing to order sushi hundreds of miles from any ocean. Then I think back to the sick hiker we met the other day and really hope Sorrel isn’t coming down with something nasty. Wracked with anxiety, I don’t sleep much that night, but Sorrel wakes up chipper and ready to go the next morning. I breathe a sigh of relief, and assume his late-night symptoms were just indigestion from eating so much rich food all at once.

(Later, via social media, I learn that the NOBO we met at Big Bend was not suffering from giardia or norovirus at all, but in the early stages of a more severe medical emergency. She used her PLB to request an evacuation shortly after we parted ways and made it back to civilization for medical treatment. Knowing this, I can’t help but wonder if there is something more I could have done. Should we have accompanied her to the road in the morning, to make sure she was alright? We couldn’t have changed the outcome, but perhaps our presence would have made the situation less frightening than being alone? My heart goes out to her, as I know the disappointment and frustration of having to abort a long-anticipated trip.)

September 16: Downtown Duluth to Indian Point Campground

We hop on the bus and head back downtown. The trail winds through a more industrial sector of the city, taking us up and down low ridges with tons of views and little shade. The route is a mixture of paved bike paths, city sidewalks, and off-road trails through wooded city parks. We encounter one encampment of unhoused folks, where we briefly lose the trail, but they’re able to point us in the right direction.

There are no designated SHT campsites in Duluth, but the trail passes fairly close to two established commercial campgrounds, Spirit Mountain and Indian Point. When I checked online, it appeared that Spirit Mountain was fully booked for the date we hoped to be there, and Indian Point had sites available but only offered two-night reservations on the weekends. I decided to give them a call and see if they’d make an exception for backpackers. The receptionist was happy to accommodate us, so Indian Point it was! I later learned from northbound hikers that Spirit Mountain has a section of walk-in tent sites that are only available on a first-come first-served basis and are rarely full. Had I known this, I would have stayed there for sure because it’s slightly more convenient to the trail.

Once again, we decide to take advantage of the city bus but we’re far enough out that the schedule is pretty limited, so we take a break at Spirit Mountain’s bar and grill, where we order a couple of cold drinks (lemonade for Sorrel, a locally-made cider for me) to rehydrate while we kill time. The bartender on duty is an avid cyclist and all-around outdoors-person and has lots of questions for us about our thru-hike. We chat until it’s time to head down to the road and catch the bus, which turns out to be running late, but it still saves us some time versus walking the miles to Indian Point. The campground is situated right at the mouth of the St. Louis River, and is actually quite a scenic spot. By the time we arrive, the sun is setting but we wander around and enjoy ourselves in the waning light. A pair of NOBO thru-hikers arrive around the same time we do and tell us they’re heading down the road for dinner. We decide to do the same, and enjoy a burger and a small pizza at a sleepy little local restaurant. Afterwards, the bartender’s family, who are evidently waiting for the bartender to finish her shift, shows Sorrel how to play darts, which seems like the perfect way to finish off the day.

September 17: Indian Point Campground to Jay Cooke State Park

To make it to Jay Cooke State Park, our final campsite on this journey, we have to log pretty significant miles today, roughly 18 miles over rolling terrain. I managed to snag one of the state park’s handful of remote backpacker’s sites, High Landing. I’ve heard that this is a coveted site with a spectacular view, and the fact that it was available tonight felt like a good omen. It will mean a little extra hiking at the end of the day, but I am confident we can make it with plenty of time to spare. The weather is clear and calm and I’m eager to be heading back into the woods after a couple of splurge-y town days.

As we near the outskirts of the city, I continue to be impressed by Duluth’s extensive trail network. We climb a short, steep trail to the open, rocky summit of Ely’s Peak, which offers sweeping views of the St. Louis River. We criss-cross the William Munger Trail, a multi-use rec trail that is primarily a bike path during the summer months. For a while the trail follows the riverbank of the St. Louis River, where we watch blue herons and myriad other waterfowl swoop across the languid water.

When we arrive at Jay Cooke, we check in and treat ourselves to popsicles from the camp store. Temperatures are still firmly in summer mode and we desperately need the frozen treats. I decide to be lazy and refill all my water from the fountain in the visitor’s center rather than filter water along the trail. The view from the swinging bridge over the St. Louis takes my breath away. Nothing prepared me for how scenic this southernmost stretch of the SHT could be. After crossing the bridge, we video chat with Sorrel’s papa, who’s eagerly awaiting our return. One of the perks of urban hiking is that there are plenty of opportunities to charge devices!

The High Landing campsite is wonderfully tucked away and ridiculously spacious (some might complain about the long spur trail, but I enjoy the solitude it affords). There is a grand view of the river, a picnic table, a well-maintained privy, and lots of space for tents. We celebrate our last night on the trail by toasting marshmallows. I’m too lazy to make a full campfire so we do it very carefully over the flame of the canister stove. It works! Before long, we turn in and drift off to the sound of the river rushing and tumbling below us.

September 18: High Landing Campsite to Southern Terminus

I awake in pre-dawn grey to the sounds of a large animal crashing and snuffling in the underbrush not too far from the tent. I lie very still, holding my breath and listening as carefully as possible as it trundles past, seemingly mere inches away from us. It moves off and I hear more rustling and crashing, as if it’s pulling down branches off of trees. A bit later, the sound of its clumsy footsteps nears the tent again, and this time it sounds as if it’s dragging something, perhaps a branch? Usually I’d be worried about our food bag, but it’s locked safely away in the campsite’s bear box. My best guesses as to our early morning visitor are porcupine or black bear. When I get up, I can see that there are definitely tracks right next to the tent, although any actual paw prints have been obscured by whatever piece of brush it was dragging. So the identity of the critter will remain an unsolved mystery.

We are eager to reach the terminus, so we gobble up a light breakfast and break camp as quickly as we ever have. There really isn’t much reason to hurry, because if we finish too early we’ll just be stuck waiting in the trailhead parking lot for our shuttle to arrive. But we’ve got finisher’s fever and we can’t help it, so off we go. The last five or so miles of trail is unremarkable, but the feeling of arriving at our goal is thrilling. Sorrel and I hug, high-five, snap some pictures, and head back to the last road crossing where Matt, our shuttle driver, will pick us up. We arrive back at the parking lot with more than enough time to spare and set ourselves up in a shady spot to eat the last of our snacks and wait. We strike up a conversation with a day-hiker, an avid photographer with an impressive camera set-up, but otherwise the trail is devoid of people. When Matt arrives, he is astonished to see a nine-year-old kid and tells us Sorrel is for sure the youngest end-to-ender he’s ever shuttled. He offers us profuse congratulations. In a matter of minutes, we’re back in Duluth, waiting for the bus that will set us on a course for home. It is remarkable how a journey that has stretched out for nearly a month can be over in a flash. Just like that, we’re no longer thru-hikers, but another pair of weary, dirty travelers waiting for the next connection.

Superior Hiking Trail, Part Five: Two Harbors to Duluth

June 19, 2024June 19, 2024 / k magill / Leave a comment

September 12: Reeves Falls to Big Bend Campsite

It almost seems like the rain will hold off, but before long it is pouring again. Sorrel flat out refuses to put on his rain pants, and I end up nearly in tears, I’m so frustrated with him. It’s only in the upper 40s, and the forecast says it won’t even reach 60° F today, too cold to risk getting soaked from the waist down. I tell him we can’t move another step until he’s fully waterproofed. He finally relents, but he’s miserable about it. For whatever reason, the feeling of wearing rain gear is hands-down the worst part of backpacking for Sorrel.

We are entering a stretch of trail that has little going for it: no views of the lake, or anything else for that matter; no rock formations; no scenic waterways. The highlight of the morning is hunkering under a railroad overpass, ground strewn with a thick layer of perfectly round, caster-like taconite tailings, and listening to a freight train rumble and screech right overhead. Our main motivation on this day is the knowledge that we’re less than one hundred miles from the southern terminus — and less than fifty from Martin Road, where we will begin our home-stretch urban hike through Duluth. There is nothing to do but walk, so walk we do.

The sun finally emerges in the afternoon, and we wind our way through lonely woods. We haven’t seen anyone since we parted ways with the other hikers who stayed at Reeves Falls, and I half expect to see the other SOBO pitched at Big Bend Campsite when we arrive there. But instead we share the site with a NOBO who tells us the other woman came through not long before, heading for the next campsite and eager to finish up at Martin Road the next day. Our neighbor has a super cool hammock setup and we chat gear and swap trail stories. She’s excited about her thru-hike but tells me she’s been struggling with stomach problems. This sends a twinge of anxiety through me; the last thing we need is to pick up a contagious illness so close to the finish line! A few times throughout the night I hear retching and vomiting, and my heart goes out to this other hiker. Getting sick on the trail is miserable.

September 13: Big Bend to Heron Pond Campsite

Before we part ways, the NOBO hiker and I discuss road crossings. She’s planning to call for a shuttle and take some time off in Two Harbors to recover. I’m fairly certain she’ll have decent phone service in the open woodlands to the north of Big Bend, and I assure her that the closest trailhead is a manageable three-mile hike. She’s not in a bad position if she needs to bail out. I’m still nervous as we head out, for our health as well as for hers.

As we head south, the SHT criss-crosses the long distance snowmobile trail known as the North Shore Trail. Early in the day these grassy clearing are glazed with frost, and I’m startled to realize it dipped below freezing last night. The thin film of ice makes the wooden snowmobile bridges incredibly slippery and we have to negotiate our way up and down the ramps with great care.

We make good time to Fox Farm Pond, a spacious campsite with a nice view of the pond. After a quick break, we continue south, taking a lunch break in a lean-to on the snowmobile trail, grateful for the shade. Later we grab water at Sucker River and keep moving. I suggest to Sorrel that we aim for Lone Tree Campsite, a 17-mile day that will leave us with roughly 17 miles to the Bagley camping area in Duluth tomorrow night. But Sorrel has fixated on the idea of hiking a 20-mile day, and his best chance to do that is when we head into Duluth tomorrow. He argues that if we hike 14 miles to Heron Pond Campsite today, he’ll have to hike 20 tomorrow. We arrive at Heron Pond ridiculously early, but I acquiesce to Sorrel’s plan and we spend the afternoon hanging out and enjoying the excellent birdwatching the campsite offers, perched on a height of land looking over a vast wetland. The days are growing noticeably shorter, and we have no trouble turning in at a reasonable hour.

September 14: Heron Pond to Bagley Nature Area

We are up at dawn and moving soon after, and spend the whole morning getting our shoes thoroughly soaked on the North Shore State Trail, which the SHT follows for several miles. The grassy snowmobile trail feels interminable, and we cross road after road after road. The landscape becomes increasingly developed, culminating in the busy roar of traffic at Martin Road, a surprisingly busy thoroughfare. Taking a break in the big parking lot, which offers toilets and some shade, I feel so, so glad that this is not our terminus, that we still have several days of scenic hiking ahead of us, that we will see the lake again and have a chance to bid it farewell, and that we will end our trip in the woods instead of on the shoulder of a highway.

The Duluth section of the trip is instantly more engaging than the past few days of hiking have been. We traverse a rocky ridge, then descend to Vermillion Road, which we follow for about a mile before entering Hartley Nature Center, an urban trail complex open not only to hikers but to skiers in the winter and bikers in the summer. The trails are hopping with families out enjoying the beautiful afternoon. It’s easy to lose the official SHT route in the web of trails, but we do our best to follow the official blazes, and I walk with the data book in hand and a map open on my phone to ensure we don’t lose our way. A few road crossings later, we find ourselves on the UMN Duluth campus, meaning we should see signs for the Bagley Nature Area tent sites any time. The university maintains a grassy camping area for public use, complete with a water pump, picnic tables, and a port-a-potty. They charge a steep fee, but it is still the cheapest and most convenient place for a hiker to stay in Duluth.

We make camp for the evening, thrilled to still have some daylight left, and begin brainstorming where we might go to grab a hot dinner. Those plans are dashed when a torrential downpour rolls in just minutes after we get the tent up. Dismayed, we hunker down and settle for a dinner of leftover snack foods. The rain continues unabated until well after dark, and we resign ourselves to an evening of reading in the confines of the tent.

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Superior Hiking Trail, Part Four: Silver Bay to Two Harbors

June 19, 2024June 19, 2024 / k magill / 1 Comment

September 8: West Beaver River to Southwest Split Rock River Campsite

We begin encountering Superior Ultramarathon runners almost immediately when we set out in the morning. Their course heads north, starting in Two Harbors and ending in Finland, so hiking SOBO today feels like trying to swim upstream against a steady current. We cheerfully step to the side for larger groups, and many of the runners apologize to us for crowding the trail. By the time we reach a rocky vista with a bench, about halfway between Fault Line Creek and Beaver Pond Campsite, the runners have slowed to a trickle, and one of them informs us that he’s pretty sure he’s the rearguard.

*A rocky island in the middle of Split Rock River*

We traverse a pleasant series of open ridgewalks on our way to Split Rock River, where we stop at the first of four campsites to explore a rocky island outcropping in the middle of the river. After playing on the island for a bit, we decide to continue on and explore the other campsites. The second one is up a spur trail away from the river, so we continue to the river’s west bank to check out the other two. Split Rock River’s bridge has been washed away repeatedly, making it one of the few river fords on the trail. The water today is manageably low and we have no trouble crossing. The third campsite strikes me as a bit muddy, so, feeling like Goldilocks, we move on the the final site, fingers crossed it isn’t full of people. Despite the fact that there’s a huge tree blocking the best tentsite, we deem Southwest Split Rock satisfactory and begin setting up for the night.

*Cascades at Southwest Split Rock River Campsite*

September 9: Southwest Split Rock River to Crow Valley Campsite

In the morning, we pass the iconic split rock, remarking gleefully on having found the river’s namesake. Turning away from the river, we embark on a newly constructed section of trail laid to bypass the one-mile roadwalk on Blueberry Hill. While avoiding a roadwalk is always welcome, this new trail consists of packed red clay mud which sticks tenaciously to the treads of our shoes, making the bottoms slick instead of grippy. I complain to Sorrel that I suspect I would actually prefer the road over this miserable mud, and the low-lying wooded trail offers not a single view.

Somewhat disappointingly, the trail bypasses the waterfalls on Gooseberry River, spitting hikers out further upstream where the river is sandy and languid. The riverbank and trail on this stretch are heavily eroded, showing evidence of recent flooding. We encounter quite a few campers along this stretch, but the Gooseberry River campsites aren’t compelling enough to convince us to stop early. Instead we decide to take our chances on Crow Valley Campsite. It’s known to be dry this time of year, so we fill up on water from the river before setting out on the final stretch of the day. Hauling water three miles uphill isn’t my favorite thing to do, but it’s better than arriving at a dry campsite with nothing.

When we arrive at Crow Valley, there’s one tent already pitched, but no people to be seen. It’s a little uncanny, but the gear looks new and clean and doesn’t seem abandoned. Maybe there’s an overlook or other landmark further down the trail and the tent’s occupants decided to walk there after setting up camp. There is some standing water in the streambed, so while it’s not a true dry camp, I’m still glad we carried in some flowing water instead of relying on puddles. The couple who pitched the other tent eventually returns, just as a light drizzle starts to fall. Later in the evening, two more groups roll in, both older couples, both thru-hiking NOBO. Swapping info with NOBOs, with almost 200 miles under our belts and just a little over 100 to go, I realize we’re starting to sound like old hands. The finish line is starting to feel real.

September 10: Crow Valley to Two Harbors

It is hard to believe we are coming up on our fourth town stop of the trip, but we are very eager to see what Two Harbors has in store for us. We are comfortably on track to arrive in town that afternoon as we’ve been sticking consistently to our itinerary. At the very start of the trip, I promised train-loving Sorrel that I would do everything I could to arrange a stay at the Northern Rail Traincar Inn, a hotel constructed of old boxcars. In Silver Bay, I booked a room and crossed my fingers we’d arrive on time. The Inn is a short walk from the trail, perhaps a mile down Lake County 301. The road is almost completely devoid of traffic so we end up walking the entire stretch. We’re greeted warmly by the hotel’s owners and settle into our room and wander the halls exploring the train-themed memorabilia. The owners have amassed an impressive collection of railroad-themed art, antiques, and books. They also maintain an extensive family-friendly collection of board games and DVDs, of which we take full advantage.

Another mile or so down the road, where 301 meets Highway 61, is the famed diner, Betty’s Pies. I’ve promised Sorrel we’ll treat ourselves to a substantial dinner. Getting to the grocery store is a bit trickier, but once I’m on the hotel wi-fi, I figure out how to use Arrowhead Transit’s dial-a-ride service to request a round-trip bus ride from Betty’s Pies to Super One Foods and back. The earliest they can do is the next morning, but I’m not in any hurry and I accept the fact that tomorrow may end up being yet another nearo. We head down to the diner, where Sorrel devours yet another burger and learns that he’s a fan of coconut turtle pie.

September 11: Two Harbors to Reeves Falls Campsite

After another round of showers, Sorrel and I head back down the road to Betty’s Pies, the outermost stop on the bus route. The driver and other passengers are convivial and surprised to meet passengers from so far away. We load up on groceries at the Super One — an overwhelming emporium compared to the more northerly grocery options — and head outside to wait for the bus to return. Two Harbors has a distinctly suburban vibe that makes the city of Duluth feel tantalizingly within reach. The sky is starting to look a little ominous and I cross my fingers that the rain holds off, or at least blows over quickly. Getting back on the trail in the rain will be a hard sell.

We make our way back to the Traincar Inn, pack up, check out, and hit the pavement once more. Within minutes, the wind picks up and I feel the first spatter of rain. It intensifies quickly and we hurry to don our rain gear. Soaked before we’re even back on the trail is not a great start! Before long, we hear a car slow down behind us and I glance over my shoulder. “I remember you guys!” a friendly voice calls out. In the driver’s seat is a section hiker we crossed paths with a few days earlier, now on his way home. He tells us to hop in and gives us a lift back to the trailhead. Turns out he thru-hiked the trail in a previous season and gives us some words of encouragement as he pulls away.

Alas, the section of trail we’ve just begun is not a trail at all but a roadwalk detour around a section of private land where the landowner has revoked access. Luckily, the sun reappears before too long and the miles go quickly. At one point, a sympathetic local slows down on his way home and asks if we’d like to skip the road walk. I defer to Sorrel, who declines the offer because he doesn’t want to yellow-blaze. I’m proud of his determination, although my soggy feet would not say no to another ride!

By the time we’re back on the trail proper, it’s raining again and we’re both feeling a little miserable about the fact that we’re not sleeping in a cozy traincar tonight. It’s only a short walk to the Reeves Falls Campsite. I’d thought we might be able to hike another four miles to Stewart River, but Sorrel makes it clear that no such thing will be happening in the pouring rain. There are two other hikers already hunkered down at Reeves Falls, and there’s also a somewhat sketchy dude roaming around the campsite. He has a full backpack, but is wearing jeans and work boots and doesn’t seem at all familiar with the trail. He asks us numerous times for directions to Two Harbors, and I give him the clearest directions I possibly can, assuring him that he’ll reach the road in no time. He thanks me and eventually disappears down the trail. The other two hikers, both young women hiking solo, are shaken by the interaction and decide we should all exchange phone numbers so we can text each other if he returns. The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, and seems interminable thanks to the dark sky and the ongoing rain.

One of the hikers is a woman we met back in Grand Marais; she had been on her way to the northern terminus then, and she tells us she had to get off the trail partway through due to gear malfunctions and rainy weather. She’s planning on finishing up at Martin Road and I can tell she’s eager to be done. The other woman is a seasoned thru-hiker who’s just finished a PCT thru-hike and decided to squeeze in an SHT end-to-end. I get the impression that she’s finding the North Shore a bit underwhelming compared to the Sierra and the Cascades! The weather seems to have put everyone in a miserable mood.

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