Wolf Creek Pass - Cumbres Pass on the CDT FKT

Below is what I submitted for an FKT page. Last year, after Rainbow trail FKT, I thought that even 2 days/2 nights effort is getting hard on my body, and that I want to do backpacking in a more benign way. This seemed to be an easy backing out plan, my final foray into the "push with a pack" hoopla, and after getting it down, I would agree that I am done. The backpacking trips with Larry have been much more relaxed:) While I don't mind hiking for 16+ hours, I would love to be able to "chose" the place I camp, do it in a daylight, and cook a meal. Which is why my beginning of solo backpacking adventures were so much more appealing - I still did big days of 30+ miles, but stopped before the sunset and ate hot Ramen (a pinnacle of my dinners, ha!). Anyway, so many thoughts, rambling here will have to end. My son's death had changed so much in my head - and accepting ageing, the fact that I no longer have not only the physical strength/recovery, but more importantly the desire in breaking myself and force things without a real reason, has gotten a little easier. It's still a battle of what I was vs what I am becoming, but at a lesser intensity.

Some photos, with a link to full album below at the end of the report (for some reason they uploaded in backwards order, FYI). Link to FKT page

Stats: start Friday 9/4/26 at 5:33 am (per Coros/Strava); end 9/5/26 at 15:12 (or 3:12 pm) - for total time of 1 day 9 hrs 39 min.

Preambula: a year ago my husband Larry and I backpacked CDT section NoBo out of Wolf creek pass. I came home and thought: there must be an FKT around there. Bookmarked this one for the following year for this particular weekend, fitting it between my 100M race and a commitment to pace a friend. However, life added a twist: my younger son passed away exactly 5 weeks ago, and a week prior to this attempt I put him to rest...I decided to follow through, for some time away in the mountains, doing hard things. There was not an FKT on this route until, literally, a week before I set out - and I briefly considered going through the night as well. However, I also didn't feel like this was the right time for me to push my body, given the circumstances. I went SoBo (as described on the page originally, but alas, I agree, it probably should be a variation in the future). 

Light version: this is the MOST frustrating experience I've ever had on the trails in terms of navigation, including trail maintenance, need to use apps on the phone, constantly disappearance of the trails (here is a trench - here is not, or lots of blow downs, and by the time you get around, you have no clue where the trail gets picked up), etc. The consistent need of having a phone in hands, alternating between CalTopo and CoTrex apps, took a good number of minutes, adding into probably an hour plus of total time. In addition, I am old(ish) and at 57 see pretty much nothing without reading glasses (get them out, take them off). Plus, CoTrex loads the signal dot very fast, but not very accurately, while CalTopo is super on point, but takes up to a minute to upload GPS. Standing in place figuring out if I am still on/close to the trail was infuriating, and I definitely angrily sometimes took a good 15 minutes hiking without one - which resulted in getting off trail for some bits, and then making best how to get back (worst on day 1 mile 30, after bushwhacking and managing to miss a split, I got off not only main trail, but even the wrong one, and for the life of me wasn't sure where to go, so I pointed the "dot" and, quite literally, scaled a rock/tree wall - my husband did the math and it was exactly same mileage, with more vert gain, and an extra 40 min bonus time). Similarly, this big extra happened at mile 16 on day 2. As well as plenty of walking back and forth, around the "block", and detours for different reasons on the trail.

Anyway, the weather was perfect. Clouds for most of day 1, though sunny and hot on day 2, but no rain, chilly mid-30's at night. FYI, between dry winter/summer this year, and it being late in the season, neither the first 27 miles, nor the last 28 miles (sans 3 miles before the end) had reliable running water sources, and I got by on 2 liters each of those stretches (do not recommend, but I had done it before). The middle part runs along the creek, then crosses a few more. Cows (and their patties) are everywhere, just as bow hunters (elk season). As I said, navigation wasn't fun and took any joy out - instead of looking around, I stared down at my phone. The views of the mountains are awesome, but the beetle kill on the trees takes a mood dump. I stopped on the first day at 11 pm on the flat spot before a climb, at "my" 44 miles, and, while I don't sleep in the tent (between insomnia and being old), I call it "horizontal time", which my body appreciates nowadays. I took my sweet time getting ready (despite not sleeping), and got out on the trail around 4:50-ish. Again, with aging, hiking in full darkness is less appealing, but it took just 1.5 hrs for my favorite time - sunrise. Loved the meandering high country. Ran out of water with 3 miles to go (already was nursing it), then slammed my head under the tree and put a gash on it (head, not tree). Seeing my husband at the end of the trail cheering me on is always a highlight of the effort - I am forever grateful for his support, especially in these trial times. I also carried a bit of ashes of my son the whole time.

Link to photoalbum: https://photos.app.goo.gl/YFRti4ryA2eVoAGU9

Tuesday, September 8th, was 40 days since Stephen is gone. In my culture, it's the day his soul is going to heaven 🙏🕊️, so I took some of his ashes (that I carried on the CDT) to spread from the top of the Pikes peak. Sprinkling his stardust in a high place that means so much to me, with views all around, is hopefully the beginning of the closure. Life will never be the same. I hope the healing process will begin. Grateful for Larry's help with this task - it was important for me to get to Tava on foot at least some of the way up, and it's a work day. Offered Goddess Tava some serious blood, appropriately. Granite rock is unforgiving. Praying that God is. 

My baby boy Stephen...

 

August went in a blur. Like living in a haze. How's the sun still rising? The pain is unbearable at times, washing over like an ocean wave, and I can't breathe. Somehow I go on. The last 10 years have been extremely hard on my boy, and subsequently, on me. But I would give anything to bring all, any, just one of those moments, back. 💔 Processing grief is an individual, and more likely than not, a very lonely, path. With Larry at my side through it all, the years, and the last many hours, I took one step at a time. I will take a few thousand more. 

August went in a blur. Like living in a haze. Hearing the most horrific news. Trip to Portland, saying goodbye to my younger son, carrying his ashes back home. Attempting to get through a 100M race in San Juan mountains, because I felt I needed to be strong - and DNFing with the earliest onset and worst body lean of my 6 previous. Mentally parting with 100M distance, just like I parted with Colorado Trail FKT - and in that moment not even feeling sadness. Who cares, really? Arranging my boy's final resting place. Closing the lead on niche #30 (how appropriate, for the 30 years Stephen walked on this side of the grass), with the views of Lady Tava, at our oldest cemetery...

Slowly, the world is beginning to emerge, though everything has a tint of grey, like looking through the shaded glasses. I cling to things that mean stability in my life: running and routine. And Larry, gosh, thank goodness, the only person I feel safe crying in front of, sharing my deepest insecurities, and sorrows. There are moments when the breath catches, the eyes well up, and I want to curl in a ball and not wake up. Yet, the Earth rotates, everyone else has moved on, and it feels like I'm expected to, as well. I'm touched by the words of love and support from my family and friends, close and afar. These are hard times. I'm managing my emotions as they are, in the very moment. Walking in one's shoes is a task that is often too difficult to comprehend, and I wish nobody ever has to. I just ask for no judgement on how I walk in mine. 

Escaping deep and high into the mountains, alone, feels as the only thing that speaks to me, because my soul is empty. 

CT postmortem and 2026 catch up

The photo memory popped up: 10 years since I through-hiked Oregon section of PCT (wish I knew about FKT's back then). Those were some good times, no internal pressure...although somehow I always managed to put said pressure on myself and set the mileage goals. Yesterday would have been my last day on CT. Under 13 days was my goal, so that I could "break" the records on the given direction in every style (unsupported, self-supported, and supported). This will have to be never contested now. 5 summers committed. Time to move on.

A little bit of how this attempt went. I got 46.7 miles the first day, and then dropped off my pack for the camp, didn't even look around - it was the last flat spot in the forest before a steep climb. As soon as I got inside the tent, the wind started howling, and the creaking sound of a dead tree I had set up next to was unnerving. I crawled out to pee, and looked at that leaning, completely dead and void of any branches, tree trunk. Should I move my tent somewhere? Then wind suddenly calmed down, and I was too tired to do anything, it being 11 pm...in 30 min I woke up to a crazy lightening and thunder right above me, and for the next 3 hrs the heavy rain, hail and wind were insane. Yes, the tree was grating and squeaking, and I laid there, thinking what a not-honorable death I might die, with a widow maker on top of my head. I tried to still my heart. By 3 am the rain and wind stopped. I survived my first night, I exhaled. That's a start...

Day 2 began with a cold and wet climb, and then a long meandering among the wet grass and bushes, along the creek, in complete shade. This lasted until 9 am, when I finally turned onto the sunny side, and took my layers off. With sun, came the realization I am sleep deprived, and I hazily dragged my legs, foggy in my head. At some point I stopped to dry the tent, spent 15 min on all the chores, and kept going. On the side of the trail - 5 little bottles of "5 hour energy" drinks. As I am passing by, the thought pops: is it a dream? Can it be real? Am I hallucinating? This year, the "dry year" in CO, natural water sources are scarce to say the least, and the trail angels are dropping jugs of water in a number of places. I can't use that, going for an unsupported record, besides, I hike fast enough that a 12 mile carry can be done with 2 bottles, so I'm ok. But energy drink, especially when I struggle to keep my eyes open? Must be dreaming. That day was pretty boring in terms of the terrain, until I crossed Kenosha pass highway, and faced the climb up to Georgia pass. My goal was to roll over it before camping, since last year I was 2 miles below the high point. Comparison is a killer of joy, but it's an FKT attempt, not a hiking trip. Somewhere before I trip on a rocky downhill and fall on my left side, pinned by my 35 lbs backpack really hard to the ground. I am hurt, and I have no idea how to get up from under this weight that shifted over my head. Takes me 5 minutes to wiggle out, my thumb base is brusied beyond (holding a hiking pole is painful), and there's blood and eventually bruises on my arm and leg. But, I'm ok. I climb on, slowly, keepng a score with my watch beeping on the mile - can I make those 30 min or less? Somehow I do, get over the pass, still as beautiful as I remember, and drop down for a couple of miles. I find a flat spot, making sure I am a bit far away from other hikers - I cough at night, and I get up by 3:30 am. Not a good neighbor. 41 miles on the dot.

Day 3 is good...until it isn't. The air began tasting like smoke. I don't quite see it yet, but my cough intensifies. I have a tendency to react to a combination of things with my lungs, and I know it's not simply an altitude/effort, gotta be more. But, I'm on my schedule, and must go on. I quickly drop to cross Breck/Frisco highway (a much easier crossing than Kenosha was, which nealry killed me with speeding traffic from both sides and no break in sight when I dashed for it). The Gold hill TH has a detour, boring dirt road. I reconnect to the CDT, and it's like a deja vu from last year. I know every step, every upcoming creek. I plan on washing myself at one of those, before the big climb over 12,500 pass to Copper begins. This a popular MTB trail, and I lucked out between riding folks as I strip down and take a quick "bath" and rinse my clothes. Wearing them wet felt amazing. With that, I climb. Last year, nursing bronchitis and fever, this climb is what broke me. Near the top, I quite literally stopped breathing, couldn't draw air in, panicked, suffocated even more...Anyway, I'm ok this time. Slow, but moving up, inhaling some oxygen. And as I top out, thinking - yeah, success! - a gust of wind knocks me off. It's not a gust, turns out, it's a continuous 60 mph cold wind, no pause. I'm on the open rocky ridge for nearly 2 miles, in a t-shirt, and the wind blows into my right ear. Soon I realize if I don't do something, I'm getting an earache for sure - so I stick my finger into my right ear. With that, I can't use my poles for stability, and the wind blows me to the left side, off the "trail" path, almost all the way down. I fight, biding time, exercising patience, trying to keep my breaths steady. Eventially, I turn towards the wind, and drop into the tree line. It dies down as sudden as it came - and I'm back to being hot. But, at the same time, I sense something - lots of smoke in the air became noticable enough even for me, normally quite oblivious to things around. I cross another road, walk past Copper mountain ski resort, and as I begin my final climb, the sky is densely thick with smog, the sun is orange, and it smells bad. I also taste it in my mouth, and my cough gets really bad, with the voice coarse when I try to call Larry. "Is there a fire I am walking in?" No, it's the strong winds bringing smoke from the UT border, he says. I don't know about that...I cough and keep walking. It's later than I planned, but the good spots are taken by hikers, and again, I am not a companion for the night for normal humans, so eventually, as the darkness almost falls, I spot a flattish spot inside the fir tree canopy, big enough for my Marmot tent, and set up. Another 40 miler. The night's cough is horrific, and when I finally pack up and put my backpack on, the excrutiating fit with trying to release mucus comes on hard, and that plague gets stuck in my trachea. I can't push it out or back in, and the airway is closing. I keep calm, so the panic doesn't add to constriction, and eventually hack this shit out. OK, another close call of a sad potential end is over...

The climbs to Searle pass, over the rolling ridge, and to Kokomo pass, went much better than expected. In fact, sans Larry and I's "run" up there, it's my fastest section here in 3 hiking goes. I'm pleased, and despite horrible smoky air, keep my spirits up. The next roller, by the 10th Mountain Division bunkers, and to Tennessee pass, was also fastest, even though I am now coughing like a tuberculosis patient. I show a finger to the Hwy 24 (where I dropped last year), and don't even stop to contemplate. The heat in the air is rising, both with temperature, absence of any wind in the trees, and the smokiness from that Utah border. But, the first 3 miles after the road, I'm flying happy on a nice wide dirt single track. Then, it's a gradual long rocky climb, after 2 pm, and I'm getting slower, breathing heavier. I don't give myself a way out. I talk to my soul - we've got so much time, I can do any variant of this route (CW), I can still switch to the "easier" variant (CE), I just have to keep my forward motion and get another 40. I know exactly where I'll camp, and it's not "that" difficult to get there. I call Larry and tell him (in whatever raspy voice I had by then, and if he could understand anything) that I'm on a struggle bus, but I'm not getting off. I've got options, and I'm not quitting. I climb up the last bit, and about to drop to the Turquoise lake TH, a very familiar path, as 2 through-hikers, who are sitting at the top, stop me. Now, I'm an introvert to begin with, and when I hike "for time", "hello" is all you ever get out of me. But, they insist. Their phones are out, and they show me something. An app? I'm technology illiterate. It's a fire, they say. Right beyond that very TH I'm going to. All area is closed - it's JUST started, as in, just 2 hrs ago! Colorado trail is a boundary of a burning forest. My rpojected night camp is smack in the middle of the CT section of the outlined fire area. The Leadville officials the couple is on the phone with, are suggesting to turn back and hike out to a different trailhead. I refuse to believe. I definitely refuse to turn back - I'm on a mission for an FKT, I can't just go back and "skip a section". And, I'm less than 3 miles from the TH, where I can reassess. I call Larry, but he doesn't know anything (we're now complete addicts to Watch Duty app, but at the time...why?). I tell the guys thanks, and keep my head down. Larry calls back - indeed, the fire started pretty much now, spread to a 1000 acres in 20 min, and the area is under an evacuation. I turn the corner - and actually see it now, sighing in disbelief. WTF is my luck. I tell him to start driving, and keep an open mind that if I "can" sneak through, I will. As I get down to the parking lot, a SAR vehicle arrives (literally), a woman jumps out and runs towards me, waving arms. Yep, I'm sort of autorized to stop and get inside the truck to prevent me from going anywhere farther. They take me to Leadville shelter per rules, I walk some road, catch a ride to Twin lakes, and soon enough Larry comes, and we drive home...as we observe the black sky full of smoke. So scary. So close...

I cough like there's no tomorrow. I thought last year with bronchitis was bad - that was nothing. Inhaling smoke into your lungs causes an acute case of asthma with COPD combined. I hack mucus, hard enough that every time it gets stuck, I wheeze and afraid that's my last breathe. It was especially bad in the shower, as hot water dislodges a lot of it, and I bend over, suffocating, banging on the door for Larry's attention...I don't sleep that night. Between inability to breathe and the overwhelming feeling of both being pissed off for getting off the trail (again!) and yet also being alive (I would have walked in!), I stare at the night window. Somewhere out there is my Colorado Trail FKT dream. Somewhere out there is a raging fire I escaped. Somewhere out there many more fires that seemingly started around the same time, pressing into people's homes, burning our forests, and threatening firefighters' lives...

I hack my lungs out for the next 4 days. On Thursday, I finally get myself to see a doctor, and get prescribed Prednisone and an Albuterol inhaler. Eventually, things do turn for the best with my health, another 4 days later...and so does my mind.

I'm at peace. Finally. Every previous time, despite whether it was "truly" a must-exit situation, or one percieved as such by me at any given time, it was MY decision to get off the trail. I questioned every one of those for the last 5 years. I judged myself harshly. I pointed at others who "failed" and kept coming back - and also at those who continued, despite what any normal human would label as "insanity". My yearly return was yearning to find answers: do I have what it takes? I knew the "perfect throughhike" of that magnitude is not possible. But can things go "right" at least for the most part?

I wasn't going to quit. The Higher Power did it for me. It settled the score. I'm grateful.

The next few paragraphs are for the handful of friends of mine who are not on IG, and yet they still care about what's up in my life and my running. Those who had read it as it was happening, can skip. 

I've decided I had enough traveling, both in spent energy, and money, last year, and I'd race less frequently, and local, in 2026. I built a great base from December to mid-April, and began my journey into racing with a 21 mile near Denver. It went as well, or better, than expected, and apparently these old legs can churn some ground. 3 weeks later there was a 25M race on Midland trails near BV (and I stayed with Annie, catching up with my trail child for the first time after a very long break). That result was quite impressive by my own standards as well.

Mid-May came with a local Ram Party 55 miler. First ultra test of the season. Gosh, I trained so well, even tapered, but these distances keep getting harder with aging, if you choose to put a real effort into it. I had a goal - when do I ever not have one? I keep setting my standards high, still not willing to drop them. I ran every step for 29 miles (and the race started with a 12 mile 5+% grade uphill), then began short occasional hike breaks on hills. At mile 35 I was 10 min behind my prediction, and mentally thought "game over". That very same crazy 12 mile downhill was a misery in my screaming quads, and at 44 miles my infamous cramps set in. I really wanted to walk, but the gravity kept pulling me, so I just had to churn my feet. In the last 0.4 mile a little dog ran between my legs, I tripped over and dropped hard on the asphalt, screaming profanities. Somehow I mastered a coherent finish line, but split second after all the cramping and pain just washed me fully. I let go of pretense, and hoped Larry would catch me. Real life is often looking not nearly as pretty as the images we share. I got my time goal, 3rd female, and while I swore off ultras in the moment, the next morning the curiosity within was awaken yet again: what am I capable of? I don't get excited before the races. I wonder what I am made of when shit gets hard. I guess I am still in the game...Indeed, as the song says, doesn't matter what I've done, matters what I am doing. Back to training it is. I'm here representing the older generation who refuses to give up. 

My mother turned 90 on Mother's day, and my sister is a blessing for taking care of her. Wish I could give them both a hug. Larry and I rolled over 18 years of romance and building life together (19 since meeting the first time). He's my rock, hurting when I hurt, yet letting me fall and fail, and always proud of the work I do. Here's to many more years of being caught by my best friend and love of my life.

5 weeks after Ram Party 55M included the final training block push with check-points of Incline and Pikes Peak in PR (and a goodbye to a pinch of ashes of my late Portland adventure buddy Mike Bushwhacker), then a taper week for my A-goal race this front half of 2026 - Ring the Spring 100k (nearly 66 miles with over 11k vert gain). We got a heatwave of 95F in town, and mitigating the distance and the elements was the name of the game. I executed my plan to a "t", and, miraculously, my body and mind came together when I needed it. Intermittent rolling clouds and some wind at high altitude provided little reprieve from what could have been worse, as the sections between the aid stations were long and hard and open. I focused on the "here and now", one step, one sticky gel and electrolyte bottle, at a time. It was definitely beneficial to know the trails intimately and always be able to predict when to switch the effort levels. Larry met me at near mile 41 for crewing, all professional, quick and without extra words or emotions. The only bad bout of cramps came in the last 2 miles, making me carefully walk the ridge trail, before dropping to the finish line. And I didn't fall!! For a lot of the race I ran around a young kid Eric, who impressed me with his calmness and steadiness (although to think I was at my best when he wasn't even born...). Despite the relatively small field, I still moved up through it, proving yet again that my strengths are patience, long distances, and less fading in the second half than many others. I stuck to my splits like glue (a 15 hrs chart for 64M came to a 15:18 finish on a final changed course 65.8M), and it was good enough for 2nd F and 9th OA. The placing doesn't mean that much, but it felt extremely satisfying to do justice to my training and fitness level. I might be older, but also seasoned. Tired, though. 

This time period also included Larry's return to trail racing after a 4 years gap, with a win (!) in the men's division in 25k, and a visit from his son and a girlfriend. 

This concludes the first 6 months of the year. My next goal is San Juan Softie 100M on August 14th, and I'm about to put a couple of weeks of training, starting with today's Barr camp adventure. This weekend, though, Larry and I are going to spend some quality time in the Indian Peaks Wilderness, before the next chapter rolls my life in a tight grip.