Gear was scattered across the table – ziplocks full of food, a stove, some socks drying by the heater. The kind of organized chaos that meant hikers were nearby. The house was small and warm. A TV was tucked in the corner, under a crooked stack of DVDs.
I sat on the couch, stretching my legs as the weight of days spent on the trail slowly lifted. I was smiling. Lennon’s voice danced through the room and filled the space with stories, telling me about their path since Grand Lake, about two weeks ago. Two weeks which felt like a lifetime.
Grazer was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and scrubbing dishes while Tom was somewhere down the hall, trying to make a pile of food disappear into his backpack. They all had been here for two days, recharging their batteries and exploring the town of Salida just a few miles down the road. Lennon told me a dozen hikers had passed through the day before I arrived – laughing, drinking, trading trail stories like veterans in a saloon. But now the place had emptied out, and I welcomed the quietness of it. I was grateful for that.
Later that day, they packed up and hiked out. And then, I was alone.
I didn’t do much that day – I slept on the couch, ate whatever I felt like, and let my body fully exhale. At some point, I found one of those little round wooden coasters on the table. Every hiker who stayed here had drawn or written something on one before sticking it to the wall. It was a kind of proof – I was here too. I spent the whole afternoon on mine, sketching slowly, reminiscing about my years as a drawer while younger.
The next morning, I found myself standing at the trailhead near Monarch Pass.
I. The Decision
Friday, September 27th
I stepped back onto the trail after a full day of rest, with faint hopes that something might have changed, but the pain returned right on cue, like an old habit. I let out a little smile – ironic, bitter, and quiet. This was just how it was going to be from now on.
Mountain bikers flew past me. The trail, usually so solitary, now felt like a backcountry freeway. Not long after I started, I caught up with a couple – a Canadian duo going by the trail names “Shovel” and “Ready.”
“So,” Shovel asked after a brief introduction, “what do you think of France’s political and voting system?”
I blinked. Not exactly the kind of small talk I expected. But I liked that. It felt like a refreshing shift from the usual trail chatter. I leaned into the conversation, gave him a thoughtful answer, and from there we wandered through various topics – one after the other, not knowing where they’d lead. Philosophy, identity, the state of the world. It felt effortless, like we’d been talking for years.
His wife, Ready, more quiet but just as sharp, offered thoughts here and there – small, insightful interjections that revealed a lot about her knowledge without saying too much. It didn’t take long before I found myself enjoying it more than I expected. The miles passed under our feet quickly.
We stopped at a trailhead for lunch. That’s when Damien and Ophélie showed up – two French hikers I’d been loosely in touch with online since the beginning of this trail. We’d only had a quick coffee back in Leadville, but now here they were. Despite having started nearly a month after me, they had already caught up. They were strong hikers, well-known for skiing through the Sierra Nevada on the PCT the year before. It was funny – we’d never really met, but it already felt like we’d shared something.
The five of us walked together the rest of the day, conversation flowing freely. That night, we made camp near a fire. We shared laughter and trail stories – it was one of those rare evenings where, for a while, I forgot about the pain.
Saturday, September 28th
I stopped in the middle of the path, leaned on my trekking poles, and just closed my eyes. I ground my teeth, tried to breathe.
Since this morning, the trail had turned to a mess of loose rock and torn-up dirt. An ATV road. I walked hunched, ankles rolling over roots and stones in every possible direction, my foot sending sharp pulses of pain with each step.
The CDT had a way of consuming you, I thought. It swallowed you whole, chewed slowly for five months, and spit you out in pieces. I cursed the trail. Cursed my foot. Cursed whatever part of me thought this was a good idea.
Nobody asked me to do this. Nobody.
But by the end of the day, I found Shovel and Ready again. Being with them helped. They didn’t make the pain disappear, but they helped carry the weight of it. Pain made you feel alone. But walking with someone else made the silence a little less sharp.
That night, we camped near a road, pitched tents on soft meadow grass. We gathered twigs and sticks and made another fire. The sky above us was wide and clear, the stars shining bright.
The next day, I hiked with Shovel and Ready for most of the day again. My foot was hurting, but today, the anger left me alone. As the light of day started to fade, I knew it was time to say goodbye.
The next day, they’d be staying on the main CDT route. I wouldn’t. I was taking the Creede Cutoff.
The thought of parting stung more than I wanted to admit. So I made it quick. Before leaving them, I turned to Shovel and said, “This isn’t goodbye – it’s see you down the trail.” Then I walked ahead and camped alone that night.
The decision to take the Creede Cutoff wasn’t easy. It was a lower-elevation alternate bypassing 117 miles of the San Juans. Most hikers only took it when snow made the high route dangerous. At this time of the year, the snow was gone. But my pain wasn’t.
The San Juans ahead promised steep ridges, high exposure, tough climbs, and long miles. I was already moving slow, really slow. And winter was coming. The warnings had been stacking up for weeks. An early storm wouldn’t just be inconvenient. It would be dangerous. I couldn’t afford to get stuck in the snow with only one healthy foot.
I knew, deep down, that I could do it. If I weren’t hurting. But I was. And I had to start factoring that into every decision now. Like it or not, my body was voting now.
I remembered a quote someone once shared with me – something like, “We’re always going to have regrets. You just have to choose which ones you can live with.”
That stuck with me. Did I want to live with the regret of skipping a section? Or the regret of maybe not finishing at all?
When I looked at it that way, the answer became clear. I chose to take the cutoff.
At this point, all I wanted to do was to reach New Mexico. I knew that if I got there, I’d make it to the end.
Monday, September 30th
I woke up at 6 a.m. Left camp at 7. I’d finally slept warm, tucked into a bed of dry leaves in a cluster of aspens.
The day started with a long but mellow climb. My foot throbbed, as usual. On the descent, I felt a sharp sting in my toe. I stopped to cut the nail, thinking that would help – but instead I cut into a blister under the nail. Pain flared immediately, sharp and hot. I laughed a little. I was already on one foot, so if they took the other, it was not going to end well!
Still, I kept going. Slowly, carefully, I dropped down into the valley, then climbed again to a grassy saddle where a single wooden post stood. It read: West Willow Creek Trail.
Left led down to the town of Creede. Straight ahead continued along the CDT.
I stood there for a moment. I looked left. I looked ahead. Then I turned left. Choose your regrets.
The trail dropped for four more miles. My foot was screaming louder now. I stopped often – not out of exhaustion, but because the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t focus on the beauty anymore. It was all noise, all static. I thought about what still laid ahead on this hike – roughly a thousand miles. A long way to go. And in this tunnel of pain, I had yet to see the light at the end of it.
Just before I reached a camp spot, I saw something. A mother deer and two young, grazing in the shade at the edge of the road. The sun was disappearing behind the mountains, and the light turned golden and soft. I stood still and watched. My eyes welled up. Not from the pain, but from the quiet reminder that the world was still here, still beautiful. Even when everything else hurt.
II. Creede – It’s Where You Want To Be!
The night was long and cold – the kind of cold that settled into your bones and didn’t leave. I didn’t waste time packing. The call of town strong; that of warm muscles, pressing.
Deers moved through the morning meadows beside the road, hiding away behind bushes as soon as they spotted me. Soon, I came upon an old mine. Time had hit hard on the infrastructure, but its wooden beams and skeletal walls were still standing. A monument to men who once chased gold and silver.
Somehow, in the cool of the morning air, soothed by the river’s song running just beside the road, clarity slipped in quietly. Part of it at least. I began to remember why I was doing this – what had kept me moving this long. But I knew I’d have to walk farther before I could truly understand it. One thing was sure: I was going to reach Mexico.
“You’d have to cut my foot off to stop me,” I used to say. And even then, I’d probably crawl a few more miles just to prove a point. My mother always said I was stubborn. I guess she wasn’t wrong.
In my head, I gave it a name: Operation Finisher. Taking the Creede Cutoff meant fewer miles, and I didn’t love that. But pride doesn’t get you to the end of the trail. I’d set my ego aside for the sake of finishing.
Creede was slowly waking up as I reached the small mining town in the morning. The sun was just beginning to warm as I came across a banner stretched on Main Street: “Creede – It’s Where You Want To Be!”
I chuckled and took it as a sign I’d made the right call.
I ate like a starving man at the coffee shop, then checked into the hiker hostel on the edge of town. A shower, laundry, groceries. Same old, same old.
The next morning came early and clear. I stepped out onto the road and eased back into motion. I had a good pace, and good energy. The trail was beautiful again, even where it was choked by overgrowth. I followed a dirt road into the Rio Grande National Forest, but by midday, the crash came – my energy was gone, and the pain returned sharp as ever. I soaked my feet in a cold stream and sat still for a moment.
The trail then led me down into a burn area, deep in a gorge by a wide, cold river. The last light slipped over the rim. As the evening settled, I heard the bugling of elk – close, very close. I sat still, hidden in my tent, listening. Wondering where they were. I hoped I’d see them.
Thursday, October 3rd
I woke to the same sound of elk calling out somewhere beyond the trees. I packed and followed the overgrown trail that ran along Goose Creek, slowly moving toward a distant pass where I’d reconnect with the CDT. The climb ahead had a reputation: FarOut comments had made it sound like it was a very steep climb straight through a hell of blowdowns, with a trail that disappeared to leave you wandering through the whole mess of fallen trees and overgrowth.
I was ready, though. Calm. Focused.
Still, I hoped the rumors were overblown. And as it turned out – they were.
After crossing the river, the trail held together longer than expected. A faint line wove through the brush and over blowdowns. For maybe half a mile, it vanished, and I had to scramble up a slope, balancing over a mess of fallen trees. But then, just like that, the path reappeared. I grinned.
“I don’t know what they smoked,” I muttered, “but it wasn’t that bad.”
At the ridgeline, I rejoined the CDT. I lingered, took my time, ate lunch under an open sky. A pair of cowboys passed by on mules. Later, I passed a lake, caught up with them again, and waved as I walked on.
The sun was high, the air hot, and the forest around me was dead in patches – beetle.
That evening, I reached a wide, flat meadow a mile and a half before the highway. The mountains lit up orange and gold as the sun dropped behind them. I watched every second of it. I pitched my tent, stretched out, and let the stillness wrap around me like a warm coat – except at this time of the year, it was a cold one.
I fell asleep content.
III. The Last Of Colorado
Friday, October 4th – Pagosa Springs, CO
I headed toward the City Market to get the few things I hadn’t found in Walmart. As I passed a row of parked cars, a woman called out from behind her rolled down window:
“You on the CDT?”
I turned and nodded. “Yeah, I am!”
She lit up. “Need a ride back to the trail?”
I was stunned for a second – still not used to this kind of trail magic, even after thousands of miles. “That would be awesome,” I said, smiling.
Her trail name was Jingle. She gave me her number, told me she could pick me up at 3:30 pm that afternoon.
The rest of the day, I sat at a coffee shop, surrounded by the warmth of town folks. The cashier saw my gear and cracked a smile.
“Looks like you’ve been on a great adventure.”
I laughed softly. “And I still got some to come.”
An elderly woman walked up to me not long after. She was shy at first, asking gently, “Are you on the CDT?” When I told her yes, her face lit up like I’d just told her I’d walked on the moon.
“That’s so great! Congratulations! You’re doing a great job!”
I didn’t know what to say, really. I just smiled, and let her joy become mine.
At 3:30 sharp, Jingle pulled up, just like she said. She talked the whole drive, mostly about her daughter, who was also a hiker. She handed me an orange and three little waffles before dropping me back at the trailhead.
I thanked her with all I had in me.
That evening, I climbed up through ski lifts gone quiet for the season. The hut where I aimed to stay stood just on the crest of the mountain like a sentinel. I reached it just in time to see the sun bleeding across the sky.
Saturday, October 5th
I woke in the hut to warm air and dry gear – a treat at this time of the season. The trail was kind at first, but quickly turned into a mess of blowdowns that made progress frustrating. Each fallen tree was like a puzzle that needed to be solved in order to advance.
As the day went on, the land began to shift – plateaus unfolded, unveiling peaks rising bare under the lowering sun. Those were the San Juan. I stopped in a fold, just before the ridge, pitched camp on a small patch of earth, and cooked dinner as I watched the day fall away around me.
Sunday, October 6th
I didn’t see a soul all day. Just peaks, wind, and silence.
But the land – damn, it was beautiful.
I reached Blue Lake by nightfall, where a strange, rusted chimney stood watch near camp. As I made a small fire and cooked, a deer quietly stepped out of the trees nearby. She just stood there and watched me without fear. For a minute, it felt like I belonged.
Monday, October 7th
The day rolled by easily – fewer climbs, gentler slopes. The final pages of Colorado offered some relief. The sky was clear, the land wide open. Mountains touched the sky before flattening out in the distance into something drier and kinder – the State of New Mexico. I was leaving Colorado behind, and even though I wasn’t quite through with the trail yet, this felt like a big step toward reaching the end goal.
One more night under the stars.
