Colorado Trail wins, again

I was so calm and so prepared. I thought of every detail, replaced all the gear for the lighter (and far more expensive) version, I was trained so well, and even as the news about early monsoon came (damn, got so lucky with the snow melt, planned to start earlier to beat the storms), I didn't blink. I had a new ultralight rain jacket, and rain pants (something I never owned before), a poncho, an emergency blanket, and was ready to sit out the lightening and rolling storms for a couple of hours, and then move on. The start being basically on summer solstice ensured the longest day hours, and my idea was to hike from 4 am (just one hour of darkness, I told myself) till 9 pm. Plenty of moving time. I'll be ok.

Larry drove me to Durango on Thursday, June 23rd. I was so peaceful, even when he wasn't. I wasn't scared, fidgety, anxious. I was, quite literally, 100% certain I got it. I even got some 7 hrs of sleep between 7:30 pm and 2:30 am, and at 3 am I stood at the Junction Creek trailhead. Again. Lets do it.

The first couple of rolling miles along the creek I kept my poles behind me. I train without poles, I am actually not a fan, but I also know I need them. I got me a new set, all fancy Z-pack snappers. Well, as I crossed the creek on the wooden bridge, and the climb began getting steeper, I moved them forward to use, and one of the poles was missing the snap. Oh, shit, when did this happen? I can't extend and lock it anymore. I have one pole that's working, and one - a dead weight. Fantastic start. I tell myself: whatever, girl, don't be a pussy. I, truly, had it as one of my mantra. There were a few more of those: 

- Hike the mile you are in

- Mornings are wiser than nights

- Patience and perseverance

- Don't quit on day 3

I thought to myself, just get through the day, and at camp, dig into the pack, find that little roll of duct tape I've been carrying for years just in case, and try to fix the pole.

Shortly after I come up on a sign: "Active Mountain lion in the area, be aware". Great. I trip over the rock as I read it, and fall down. What a start, broken pole, now a fall (never fell forward with a pack before either) - and a potential of a kitty. Me and the feline companion...

 

The sky began to lit up, and as always, it was absolutely breathtaking. I live for these moments. This is when I think of how fortunate I am to love stuff like this, and am capable to do it. Nothing else matters. Just one foot in front of another.

Since the beginning I told myself: "don't go with

 urgency". No push, no rush, just do your thing. The minutes and miles were clicking so easily, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself at the bridge (14 miles) earlier than last year.  I said hello to the camping family - there's always a family there - and kept pressing on. It felt so natural, to hike. Yes, I have just started, but still. Calm. I told myself, as long as I get through the first 3 days, and end up at the same place, I am ok. I was hoping for farther, but I also tried to lower my expectations so I don't mentally freak out. Just do your thing...

The way I felt so much easier, I was certain I am moving slower, so when I popped at the first road crossing some 19 miles in, I was stunned. What? This is nice. Hiked the next steep section (last year my breathing problems began here), quickly got by Kennebec pass, then Taylor lake, and put a hurt on the next 1 mile climb to the top of the ridge. Beat the storm, honey. It's like barely past 11 am. Whoa. 23 miles.

I began rolling through the high trail, and familiarity of the terrain was soothing. Yet, I was also absolutely amazed: I felt so good able to look around a lot, that for the first time, after being here twice (2018 going South, and last year going North) not only I was noticing just how gorgeous this ridge was, it was truly a RIDGE! I mean, the name should speak for itself - Indian Ridge Trail - yet I was blind to the signs before. Round mountain top, slight downclimb, rocky ridge with drop off's on each side and vast views, repeat 5 times. When it's a ridge, it's pretty narrow, and so much fun - who knew I would say that? How come I never looked around?!? Gosh, I knew every step, yet I never saw the views! I wish I was "just" hiking, I'd take a million photos! I took only one - of the "Old Man of the Mountain", which I waded though fields of!

The storms were left behind and to the right, I was safe. I started to begin my roll off the mountain, down, into a forest-y and soft trail. Oh, life was so good...

I passed a log I sat on last year, without stopping, and soon come up upon my first and only through-hikers of the day: 3 dudes with packs down, resting, looking worn out. Looked like they were going the same direction, because the only steps on the few patches of snow were male and pointed my way. I nodded - I am not the most chatty hiker, unlike Larry - and kept my pace. Bye...

Nothing bothered me. Not small dirt road sections connecting trails, not climbs. It was overcast with slight wind, just perfect weather for a walk. I knew what's coming next, and this made it even easier. I paid attention to the views, and passed so many absolutely stunning campsites, I kept thinking: oh, why do I always hike with a purpose. I so wanted to just be...

Last year I stopped at mile 44.5 at the Straight Creek, first water since the Taylor lake, shortly after 8 pm. I was here at 6:30 pm this time. No need to stop. This is good. I get to see in a daylight a section that I walked for two years in the dark hours of mornings in both directions. It actually wasn't that pretty, the Blackhawk pass, but hey, I put some distance! At my predetermined stop time of 9 pm there was no flat place for the camp, but in 20 min, just as I turned a headlamp on, there it was. 51 miles, biggest day with a backpack ever, feeling really solidly good. I'm fine, I am better than fine on my agenda.

I put my free standing tent up easily, and began tending to things: eat something with protein, wipe the body a little cleaner, take meds, find that duct tape. Took me a whole hour to go through all the chores, always takes longer on the first night. I managed to patch the pole in the position that was about an inch and half shorter than the "normal" pole. Better than carrying dead weight, can still be useful on the uphill.

I got a relatively good night of sleep, and one more victory: I wasn't afraid of being alone in the middle of nowhere. At 3:15 am my alarm went off, and at 3:55 I was making my first steps of day 2. Roll up and down a bit, hit the dirt road while passing a pond on the left, come up on Bolam road intersection, the spot of a great campsite I spend part of the night in 2018, shine the light ahead - and almost to NO SURPRISE I see it. Yep, The Cat. Standing on the left side of the narrow jeep road, next to 2 tents of some folks, just like it did 4 years ago next to mine. Calmly, I yelled: "Hey you!". It stared at me for a second, and slowly walked across the road to the other side, literally 50 feet away from me, head turned watching me. I did my growl (I don't know, it always comes out naturally, as if I am one with the nature), and extended my arms with poles to the side to seem a little bigger. Cat (a young fella), without changing the pace, walked into the wood, giving me one last look. I, of course, I don't speak cat language, but the whole demeanor felt like: "I am not afraid of you, idiot human, and I also don't care to eat you". Yeah.  Or, as my friend later put it: "The cat is like: hey, it's Olga again!" To my own astonishment, my heart wasn't up my throat. Number 10, guys. Am I getting used to it" "Cat Magnet" trail name alive and well? My yelling woke up the people. "What's going on?" male voice. "It's a cat". "What?" "A mountain lion here". Both tents stirred - a couple in one, 2 young (pre-teen) kids in another. A guy said: "Let me get out". I stand there for 5 minutes while he's dressing, and emerging with a headlight, a lamp, and a shovel. I told him my story from 2018 right here, and he was like: "I guess my kids shouldn't go pee at night". Well, as long as they are next to the tent, merging into it to be big...

I begin walking, again, and he sort of follows me for a few minutes. It feels soothing, but I know he'll peel off way before the twilight. He did, though I still thank him. As I turn from the dirt road onto a single track, 4 pairs of eyes are staring at me. Cats are not pack animals, I tell myself, but I still get my little mace spray out, and blow a whistle. Those were deer, they give me a "WTF", and jump away. 

I hit a big open space, and begin my continuous incline for a couple of miles. Sky begins to grey up, and I turn the headlamp off. Another morning passed safely, another dawn is coming.

The single track after that takes me into the woods, and rolls. Up some, but mostly, down. I know I will have to gain all this elevation loss, so I am sort of trying to take advantage of the terrain. At some point, the woods opened up right after crossing a huge raging creek on a huge well-built bridge, and I really start the climb up the Rico pass. I was about dying here last year, and also was threatened by the developing storms at noon. This time, I reached the top by 9:30 am, and was like: that was sooner than expected.

Snap a photo - and no snow to speak of!- and prance down. So much better when it's earlier in a day, cooler, windier. The trail goes down for about a mile plus, then begins rolling gently. Because it's still morning, the mountain bikers are not quite awake yet, and I don't have to fight them for the single track. I am also not dehydrated because it's chilly (well, almost), and I am hiking without panting. Improvement for sure from 2021.

The MTB'ers finally got their way. A one, a two, a few...dozen, another. Right as the sun decided to shine, and I was climbing. Yes, I remember there will be climbs, but still got surprised by how many, long, and steep. I saw a few trail runners (who were hiking), wondered if they are training for Hardrock. Eventually, with a Little Molas lake in the view far ahead, I got cell service, and a text from Larry: "Storms tonight, really really bad tomorrow all day, and then tapering Monday, more later". Um, yeah...what's you're gonna do? I briefly stopped at the parking lot to adjust the pack - my dislocated ribs on the left side suddenly decided to act up, but felt better after shifting some things inside the backpack - and soon got to the Molas Pass road crossing. Anticlimactic. 3 hrs earlier than last year, clouds are back again, all's so much different in a good way. I texted Larry: "Thanks, got it. Doing well." Last year's text said: "This is so HARD!". I smiled. I hoped he did, too.

I got past Molas lake spur trail, and began descending towards Animas river.

That steep rocky downhill is not pretty, and I felt bad for those few backpackers and hikers going up (it's a popular place). We nodded, I took a pretty photo of the river and the mountains. I feared the upcoming climb up Elk creek trail, and was trying to focus on the positives. It's surely is gorgeous... The sky was getting spooky. Well, I am in the trees. My biggest concern in high mountains is always the lightening, and as long as I am not the tallest thing, I should be ok, plus the trees should protect me from too much rain. I started that nasty steep 9 mile climb to the top. I had all the intention to get over it to the high country of San Juan as far as I can, and I knew I had shit-load of time. Just one step at a time, hike the mile you are in...

I came to the piece of trail where the rock wall collapsed during the 2019 snow year and slides, and there was no trail over the ricer to speak of. There is a log that goes parallel the wall over the length of this raging river stretch, to which one has to lower himself carefully from the last step in the wall, then move the full length of the fallen tree (tapering off as it goes), until some rocks below (half-submerged in the creek) allow you to finally get back on the trail. Last year I didn't dare (I suck on logs), and waded in above knee deep cold swift water. I took my chances this time, because I really didn't want to get my shoes wet. Carefully trying to find a balance with a pack on my back (I was walking sideways), I took a step, another, moved almost holding my breath - and I made it! Small victories, I thought, thanking Jesus. I'd hate to slip, and fall, and hit that tree on the way with my parts I shall not describe, and still get wet...worked out.

After that crossing, the climb intensifies the steepness for a full mile. Near the end of that particular section, a couple of men are taking a break, and I don't blame them, I wish I could join. I move on, knowing I have just a little bit left of that difficult part. The trail sort of levels off some (relatively speaking), and goes much more manageable, quickly brining me to a famous spot for the night stay - a beautiful pond with so many great campsites. Why, or why do I never get a chance to set a tent here and enjoy!?? I sigh. More climb, some rock, some whatever, passed my camping of last year (and noted that the section from Molas pass to here took me a full hour less than last year - what the hell?), keep going, another mile, Elk creek crossing. So much time gained!

Somehow I hit my shin over a log trying to spot the best place to cross and not get wet (photo taken at home), but in excitement I didn't feel much pain. After that creek crossing, it's 3.5 miles to the top. 3 horrible 45 min miles, steep and narrow and rocky like mo-fo. I remembered one of my sayings I carried: "Patience and perseverance". One step at a time. I got boats of hours.

I pass a campsite I utilized in 2018 on the way down, I came here near sunset and left fully in the dark, so I took a second and looked around. Another pair of men were setting up their tents, and I mentioned to them I was here 4 years ago. I envied being able to stop before 5 pm. But, I had goals, plans, and determination. 30 min later I met a trail worker walking down, and we stopped to chat for a minute. I thanked all the volunteers for the work they do, we talked weather ("Was nice but boy what's coming"), and I kept pressing on, now a little more urgent. Popped out of the woods - no more cover. Now the goal is to top the mountain in 1.5 miles to get out of the open and slope-y side, make at least a couple more miles to the lake, and put the tent up before the storm hits. The sky looks scary, but with monsoons and summer thunderstorms my expectations go: rumbling thunder far away, lightening, thunder clap closer, count seconds between, estimate where the storm is, rain drops are going to start soon, so it'd be time to stop and hunker down. So far, no thunder, and I continue on my 45 min/mile quest, already see the final half a mile of switchbacks, when - whoa, what was that? Without a warning, the rain starts, and in 2 minutes, it's pouring. I look up with longing (so close, yet so far), look back (50 yards back there, open to the elements, is one and only flat spot I passed in a long time), and turn around. I try to hurry, as the water from the sky gets heavier, as I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I drop my pack right where it is, open it up, drag the tent out. It's windy, things are flapping, and I am getting wet, along with all the stuff. This is where this whole "lightweight gear" fails: to make a tent lighter (my new one!), the manufacture makes the inner tent all mesh. By the time I set it up, fiddling with wet tent poles, the rain gets trough. I put a cover over, but a bit too late - wet inside, pack is wet while laying outside, I am wet like a dog, when I crawl in. I shove my stuff to the corner, feverishly take a sleeping pad out to inflate, put a sleeping bag on (it gets damp fast), and finally get a chance to take my wet shorts and shoes off, put on long sleeve shirt, long johns, socks, and a windbreaker plus rain jacket for layers. 

I shake from being cold for about 30 min, while covering the sleeping bag with an emergency blanket for more warmth, but eventually it stops. Thank God for dry clothes at least! I do the math: I stopped exactly at 6:30 pm. I would have easily made it not only to the top (7 pm) or down to the lake 2 miles (7:40 pm), but over another ridge to a little valley, for the day, had the day kept the fare weather. God damn, I think. So many miles lost to nothing. Only 36 miles for the day (and according to the CT trail app, I am at 88.5 miles total for 2 days). Then, I calm myself: if anything, I can use this early stop for extra rest, regroup, sleep, and be ready to push tomorrow. Common, I said. So many miles and days ahead, not a big deal. Breathe. Eat something. Drink some Vit C  (Emergency packet) just in case. Cuddle up... 

I actually fall asleep around 8 pm, and by midnight, give or take, I wake up and hear nothing. No pounding rain. If I were Nika or Mikaela (those 30 year old Triple-Crowners and CT FKT holders), I should have packed up and used this weather window to hike more miles. I am not. I draw a line at night hiking. You can think whatever you want, but this is not me. Never was me 10 years ago, or 20-30, and surely not now, after 50. I can hike as many miles and hours in one push, beginning in the early morning (even in the dark), and finishing late (in the dark), but there is no fucking way I would ever willingly just set out for a "few more miles" in the middle of the night. Once I put the tent down, even if I don't sleep a minute, it is to stay there until I decide it's time to begin a new day. That's that, nothing to discuss.

I was up by 3:15 am as usual, packed out and hiking at 4 am. I made that half a mile of switchbacks to the top in 25 min, yet despite it being one of my most favorite spots for the picturesque views, couldn't take a picture - still pitch dark. I rolled to the intersection with CDT sign, turned left, and found a bit of snow field here. Still, so much less than last year! Got my feet submerged in all kind of muck and dirt and water making my way around (the snow was totally frozen for safe crossing). The temps were below freezing, and the grass was holding frost on it, being all pretty and sparkling. I reached the lakes (where the trail goes between) right at twilight. Oh, man, how I wished to have camped here last night! Oh, well. I soaked the surroundings into my soul. Very pretty, indeed. All those folks who condemn fast hikers - trust me, we see things, we smell things, we hear sounds. It absorbs into our being. As the night was getting more into the lighter shades of grey, I looked up. Such heavy looking sky, all big clouds of dark silver.

Well, at least it is easier to hike. Not a hot parching day, I am even still wearing all my jackets and rain pants that I put on overnight. And so far, while dark, it doesn't look threatening somehow. In a couple of hours, I even saw a lighter sky to my left, and said a little prayer: maybe it'll come my way, that good weather from over there.

I am trying to remember how many miles it is to Stony pass, a dirt road intersection. So far, in my 3rd day, I only used the phone to take a (very occasional) photo, and never checked the CT app for the mileage or directions. Gosh, I really know this trail like a back of my hand. I estimate the time of my crossing the road, and get there a little earlier. Dang, still strong and fast. I acknowledge the fact that this is my last civilization potential for a very long time. I am about to enter a true San Juan High Country.

As I do, I suddenly feel the sun peeking out and warming the air a bit. Wow, I might just get lucky! I actually stop and take off both of my jackets (a windbreaker and a rain jacket) and a hat. I leave the pants, too tedious to deal with those. I hike in a bliss for about an hour, tops. I even see my one and only through-hiker going towards me, an older woman. She is in her 60's, looking super-fit and like she knows the business (and none of that ultra-light shit). She didn't even carry poles! We exchange a few words, and I think: I want to be like her in 10 years. Then another thought: dang, I can't even say "when I grow up", because I am so close to her age, it's not even funny! I still admire her big time.

It is about 15 minutes after that, on the clock at 10 am, when I feel a gust of cold wind, and a pelleting grapple hitting me. What, that came out of nowhere! I quickly pull my jackets back on, and my poncho to cover over the whole body, including the pack. I keep my fingers and toes crossed for a short roll of this storm, but as I look around, the sky does not give any promises of it...

Yet I walk. What else is there to do? I mean, you hope it'd go away, people hike in storms, there's no lightening, just wet shit beginning to get heavier, pounding rain develops, hail, temperature drops...I keep on hiking. At this point, I am consistently up or down on the slopes of the mountains. Any hope of stopping and setting a tent is out of consideration: the rain and sleet is heavy, it's windy, the pack and tent would get wet before I even blink my eye, besides, on those rocky slopes, setting up anything at all besides your own (very wet and cold) feet, is impossible. I start praying. I am from the era and the country, where while religion was technically part of the culture and genetics, praying was not something we did, denying God and Church and all that. But I pray. This is what we did regardless what the government dictated, it comes from within. When all else is fails, the Higher Power is all you've got.

I take this last photo on the go, and tuck my phone away, as the real wintry mix gets so strong and heavy and pounding, the wind seemingly always in my face no matter what direction I turn, and the slush under my feet is truly wet white snow. I wade through this shit, thinking: "OMG, this is winter storm! I hiked through one of these on Oregon section of PCT, but I eventually dropped down from the high altitude into the forest and rain, crossed the road, hitched a ride, and got to a hotel. There's nothing like this in sight here!". At the same time, I can't even process more than that, because all my will power and strength and brain cells are directed on walking as fast as I can. I am beginning to feel that freezing sensation - and later, looking at this photo, I realized I had my rain jacket unzipped half way. Soaked through, so quick, with wind hitting my wet self...This is how all the rain got inside! Because my legs (at least above the knees, where the crap wasn't coming from under my own feet) were dry, what means the fabric of the jacket and pants (same company) is technically waterproof as promised. My whole body, wet and cold! My hands! Shit, I bought these fancy Montbell rain gloves (never had anything like that), and they got soaked in a matter of minutes! I can't feel my hands, I can't use my poles, because I drag them behind clasping my fingers together to keep them semi-functional. The "no poles" thing doesn't help with forward progress, so I lean into the steps more, and recognize that my lower back is seizing up. That lower back - if you're 20-30 years of age, you probably don't care. But let me bring you into my life. I have 2 herniated disks since I was 30, a poorly healed fracture of the transverse processes, and a spondylolisthesis (a protrusion forward of my one vertebra) - all of it in L4. I know back pain. It is real, it'll never get better (the condition), but it may get worse. This was one of the reason I emailed the FKT people "I don't have many good years left". I was trying to fool nature of age and health. It didn't bite...

There's really nothing I can do to help myself. I hike as fast as I can (and according to my Spot tracker, Larry said, very fast) just to not get hypothermic. Hypothermia is my other nemesis (low blood pressure and low thyroid function). I can't allow this to happen, I can't stop, this may mean a really bad ending. I am thinking about Larry, how I keep bringing him worries. I have to keep going just so he can see the tracker moving and know I am still ok.

I am not sure if it's helping me or hindering - the fact that I know every turn, climb, stretch...I am looking forward an eventual drop into the valley. One more long incline over huge high alpine crossing, super-strong wet snow and wind, lots of stuff on the trail I need to break through, but I am keeping my eyes peeled on the horizon (even with my head lowered): this bump, this field, this CT identifying pole, and I will be dropping into the green away from the white. It won't be a salvation, still edged into the side of the mountain, still rocky, and still so, so wet, but with lower-ish altitude the snow storm should become a driving rain only. Crap, I am looking forward to a driving rain...

I finally top off the climb, and halleluiah, the green valley with not much white cover opens up. It's a long way down, but it's better than the alternative that I just spent hours getting through. I try to hurry up, whatever the hell it means at the time. I slide and slip a few times on the muddy rocks, and begin using poles, my back pain be damned. It feels like this section has gotten longer than I remembered... Last year it was hot like hell, this year the hell froze over.

I finally spot the dirt road far ahead, Carson pass. The rain at that moment actually lessens its crazy power somewhat, like the skies ran out of water dishing it all out on me for the last 4+ hours. It lifts my spirits so much! I quickly start making math: from the road, 2 miles to the Highest Point on CT. Then 5 miles on the ridge up high and rolling. Then 2 miles down into the woods and near the (former) yurt. From there, if it's still manageable, is 9 miles to the Spring Creek road. I am not quitting on day 3. I am NOT quitting, period! I can be at the road before 9 pm, 10 pm tops, and hunker down in the toilet at the trailhead, or at least under the picnic table! With renewed energy I charge towards that tape of the road...but the Gods have none of that. It was a tease! I feel the rain getting stronger, again, just as I reach that dirt, and as I look up, behind, to the side, in front of me - ALL the mountains are WHITE! In fact, it's beginning to sleet, again, even at this lower level of altitude. I spot a 4-wall remnants of the mining cabin on the side of the road, longingly look up towards the High Point, and make a quick decision (probably the only good one all day) - I almost run for it, the cabin, no roof, but at least walls to protect from the wind. I have to crawl over the logs on one side to get inside, and yes, the floor is pretty clear of stuff and flat.

One corner has a log across over the walls, I throw a backpack into it, so at least that thing stays dry, take a quick picture, noting it's 2:30 pm and only 23 miles on the watch, and start pulling my tent out of the pack. My hands do not want to listen to my will, solid frozen. I fiddle with the tent, already wet from last night, way too long, and despite my good intentions, by the time I set the inner walls up with poles, the rain is pouring through the mesh. However hurried I am, putting the cover on it, there's a lake inside, a flood, really. I throw my (used to be almost) dry pack in, and get inside - dripping wet. Yep, this is helpful to the flooding (sarcasm). I shiver and shake, trying to think. Pull my (wet) shorts out and wipe the floor with it at least somewhat. I should probably try and wring them outside, but there's no fucking way I can either imagine putting my head out, nor have working hands. I throw them in the corner, and pull emergency blanket, putting it on the floor. Some protection from the water, I think. 

I pull a sleeping pad out, blow it up, then get the (damp) sleeping bag out. Since all the walls are dripping, all of it gets wet. Really wet. I also realize I am wearing 90% of my clothes, and it all wet, too. Of the dry stuff somehow hidden in a Ziploc bag in the backpack - my long sleeve shirt, extra wind breaker, and a pair of socks. This is all I've got. I strip down and put those things on, quickly noticing half of my right big toe is missing the content of the skin. I can't comprehend taking care of it, as I pull on socks and feel the pain of raw skin. Whatever, my mind slowly shutting off, get as warm as it's remotely possible.

I absolutely totally do not care where my stuff is, some of it even left outside (all the bottles, empty and full, bags for the tent and poles, my trowel), some in a haste sprawled inside the tent's corners, in the paddles. I haven't eaten a bite of food or drunk a sip of water since the storm started, 10 am (not able to operate fingers, reach for it, or simply desire it). I should probably have something to eat now to upkeep my energy, but I can't. I crawl into that wet down bag, zip up to my ears (no hood in this fancy new ultralight thing), and begin shivering and shaking. In fact, my shaking is so strong and so violent, the tent is shaking with me, and the bag slides off the sleeping pad constantly. This lasts for the next 2 hrs non-stop at the rate described. The rain keeps the strength, like someone pours buckets of water of this flimsy tent, and since I had no dexterity to put the tent stakes well, the walls are sagging into the mesh, and I am actually being sort of dripped on, the space closing in. I can't move out of my "safe space" for the life of me. I pray the night comes sooner, the rain stops, and I make it through without completely sliding away into a more severe hypothermia than I already have. And so it goes...hours. Somewhere in there, to keep my brain active, I still do math - on the sections of the Colorado Trail, adjusting my expectations. So, I am obviously not doing 10 days, or, probably, 11. But - ever the optimist I promised myself to be - I can still do 12, miracles happen! And, if not, I have my tracker set for 14 days (as well as my unpaid leave), I can totally stretch the food (I didn't eat all day anyway) and make it 2 weeks! Since this direction has no established records, who cares! I mean, I do. But, I can't give up, I have to do it, come hell or high water!

Oh, how this saying was true. I go between common sense, and wisdom and adulthood, stubbornness, and dependency on people's opinion. I already don't care, I tell myself, but deep inside of me - I do want to be liked. Such a shallow feeling, I know. Childhood trauma and shit. Nobody loves me. I have to prove I am worthy, I have to impress, be a good girl. I can't be weak. I have to walk my talk...But first I have to stop shivering so badly.

The darkness falls, and my shaking, despite falling temperatures, become "from time to time", not constant. That allows me to almost drift away in-between. Somewhere past midnight the rain finally stops. I vow to not get out before the civil light, at least some minutes after 5 am. "Mornings are wiser than nights" I repeat to myself the famous Russian idiom. Do not make any decisions right now.

Around 4 am, I can't hold my bladder anymore (I have human functions after all). At the same time, no way I can pretend to have enough willpower to put soaked shoes on, get out of however wet but still wrapping me sleeping bag, and get outside to pee. I search for options in my head - why am I not a dude, I could have stuck the thing into something! Bingo! I am going to piss into a Ziploc bag. I wiggle my way part out, and reach for one of the spread-around bags, dump the contents out, and try to allocate all this in a way I don't piss on my sleeping bag. I know, TMI. Bear with me, because it was a full success on my first ever try! Nothing leaked anywhere! Encouraged (and after carefully setting the bag outside the tent door), I find a bandage in the dark, reach into the sleeping bag to my feet, and slap it over my mangled toe. I am not sure the skin flap is inside or out, but at least there was a cover. I wait for another hour...

At this point, there no longer any excuses I can come up with to not try to get out. I stuff my shit into the pack, and put back on my wet rain pants and rain jacket. They stayed in the floor paddle all night. I put my feet (in last pair of dry socks) into my drenched shoes. Ah, disgusting. Slowly get my head out - and gasp. The logs are slick and frozen, the grass is white, and so is that big mountain I have to go up to (plus, of course, all of them around). It is sub-freezing. Somehow I am not shivering, trying to move fast, packing the soaked tent, while considering how much extra weight I will be carrying with all this water. A lot. A very big lot.

It is actually pretty, I tell myself. I can make a decision when I reach the Spring Creek road. Even as I say it, my mature adult tells me - yeah, and then what? There are more storms, you're not that regular Joe Shmoo hiker who can stop for 5 hrs mid-day and spread your shit around to dry. Neither your are Nika or Mikaela, who would also do just that, but then pick up miles at night. For you, honey, it's a walk or no walk, none of that broken in parts crap. I sigh. I still don't have to make a decision.

I trudge those 2 miles up to the High Point through the snow on the trail, and slowly, despite the temps still staying way down, the sun begins its glory circle. I look up. My God, life is so much better at sunrise! This white stuff is so gorgeous! I am actually loving it. As I am walking up, and technically deep inside hating the "cold white stuff", I am in love with it all the same. Such a magnificent view! Pristine! Like a bride!

The sunshine makes me positive, even as my brain tells me I am an idiot to even consider continuing. I touch the sigh "High Point of CT" for the third time in my life. Wow, who would have thought. This was the most difficult journey here, but this was also the most beautiful I have ever seen it.

I keep breaking the trail, rolling for another half a mile, as suddenly I hear the text. What? I didn't even know I turned my phone on! I fiddle it out, and it's from Larry - more storms later today (Monday, he said), then a little possible break Tuesday and maybe Wednesday if lucky, but from Thursday to Sunday - the repeat of last Sunday. Remember, I also have to pull out glasses to read that, being no longer spring chicken - and I feel the lenses get fogy. I tear up. No. I can't. I already don't have a single item dry. How do I get through the rest of it? I make a call. Sorry, honey, but this is over. He doesn't hesitate, my Larry. He supports me when I decide on stupid ideas, and when I stop pursuing them. This is LOVE. He says - Wait, there's an easier exit then trudging through the high country snow for 5 miles, then roll lower for another 11 until the road, and still wait for a hitch. Why don't you turn around, get almost back to the cabin you stayed at, take North, and it's same distance, but it'll bring you nearly into Lake City itself. I look up to High Point I have to climb again, then think of getting those 2 miles I just hiked up - down...but, I trust him. I said: ok. And begin my bail out...

I made it back up, then 2 miles down. Take a turn, found a small window of cell reception, and texted my young friend Lindsey who lives in Gunnison: please pick me up from Lake City in 5 hrs or so. She didn't even hesitate - Yes, Olga!

That jeep road down though...on Google maps Larry saw a dirt road with a downhill, thinking it's great. In reality, it is super extra steep off-road bulky rocks with potholes path, and my back was having none of it. Frameless ultralight backpack my ass...My lower back has been hurting since yesterday, all night if I try to turn or sneeze (and I did a lot of sneezing and coughing), and now it finally came to a complete screaming halt. I tried to keep my hands clasped behind, but I also needed poles to help myself going over that shit. It got warmer as I continued down, I took off jackets, and even put on music to drown out the pain. Funny, I carried my music device for nothing so far. I run with music every damn time, but I never hike with it. This was the first time I thought it could be useful. It barely aided in my descend, but I was too exhausted to shut it off. I still haven't eaten (for 24 hrs now), but at least I began to drink my water. About 2 miles down this nightmare, I see a gal coming up. She looks like an ultrarunner! In fact, I know her! I can't put things together, but as she approaches me and looks up, she says: Olga! I was like, holy cow, yes, and your name? Leah, from Durango, I used to run ultras, we've met back long time ago. Leah, dear, please tell me you have a car close by. She's like - nope, still 3 miles down this crappy jeep path, then turn to a country road - and on that, there are plenty of traveling normal cars who could help you. My eyes were welling up, but I couldn't be upset, really. It was such a glimpse of hope...We parted ways, and I walked for another mile (which seems like 10) on this stuff, with my back in torture.. And then -  sweet Jesus, please - a red off-roader jeep with a couple in it coming up. I stand almost in the middle and wave, they stop. Please, I plead, I had made it through the storm in San Juan yesterday, then through the wet cold night, and now my back is jacked. Can you take me down, to the country road, at least, or better yet to Lake City? They looked at each other very briefly, and - sure! I couldn't believe it, tears bursting out. I also couldn't neither get my backpack into the high clearance vehicle, nor myself. I required assistance with that all. When we finally turned back down, those 2 miles took forever and got even worse than the 3 I walked. I shivered in agony - I would have never made it down, I'd be in the side ditch curled up and crying. Even the "country road", now flat and smooth, took a very long time, surely longer than 9 miles would have. I'd be in town by dark, I thought, as I tried to keep somewhat of a conversation with the people from Wisconsin that Lord sent to me. Which is what I told them.

They dropped me off at the café, and I finally ate food and had coffee. Or, Holy Spirits, I am saved. Waiting for Lindsey, I emailed the FKT official Allison: yep, CT won again, you can stop tracking. She cheerfully replied: sorry, I am sure with so much prep you'll be back!

Will I? Lindsey came, sweet girl, and drove me 2.5 hrs to Salida. We did a lot of catching up, not only what happened to me, but her aspirations, training, races, jobs. She's a beautiful soul, and I am so grateful to know this young person (thanks to Annie). I never thought I'd be hanging out with people of that age group - and loving it. Thank you, again, my Peanut.

Annie, who stayed in contact with Larry through my journey on CT, was another light of life, offering to get me from Salida to within 45 min of home. I mean, there's hope for our future, not all the young population is lost in entitlement and laziness and sociology degree and expectations of high salary and granite countertops. While repeating the description of my CT adventure with Annie, she asked the same question/assumed the same affirmation as Allison from FKT: surely you'll recover and be back. Ah, my Little Muffin...

So, will I? As Larry drove me last bit home, at least he didn't make that judgement on my behalf. He knew better. He knew life better, and he knew me. He waited. I didn't hesitate.

The thing is, I had to try it again this year. Physically, I truly had not a single doubt in my mind that I can not only do the thing, but do it spectacularly. Like, fireworks awesome. One has to have such belief to start on a goal of such magnitude. My legs were solid. Like rock poles. Even I liked them, and I have a whole life of body image dysmorphia. I understand that boys and girls in their 20's and 30's can't imagine 50's being "old", especially when those 50's belong to Olga, their friend, rock star, training as much as they do, and having a long list of accomplishments behind. At the younger age, time is cheap. I remember even at 40 I still thought it's forever. Yet, one can't fool nature. Aging is real. I am in my sunset years, downgliding, having fewer years left than lived, by quite a lot, and of a less quality physically.  I have injuries that prevent me from a lot of things, no matter how strong my muscles are, and I fear they get worse quicker than I hope to hold it off. I have a family I need to tend to - you know, I don't live alone, a husband who supports me like nobody ever did in my life (in fact, my own family pretty much hate it so seriously, we don't even discuss it anymore so I don't get nasty comments). This husband, giving me all his attention, deserves some back. I have a job - not a very important at this point of my life, but a job, a responsibility in front of my boss, her business, and my patients. I don't even have paid vacation, and the little time off I am allowed to take per contract, some of it would have been nice to spend with that very honey, not wondering in the mountains alone. So, this year is out (just like it was last year's decision on a repeat hike). And for God's sake, I can't live another year holding breath and putting my life and other however tiny goals and interests on hold, so I can try it again next year. But most importantly, I lost it. As Larry often puts it (I guess this one is an American idiom, or something): With age we have less will to deal with bullshit. I prepared like never before, at 52 I got myself in shape I thought was worthy me back 10 years ago. I meticulously purchased new wonderful helpful gear, upgraded so many things instead of going "old school", spending an exuberant amount of money by my standards. I knew the trail, I even thought I knew the weather and how to handle it. I wasn't ready for the winter wet storm - and that very expensive ultralight gear failed, on top of it (although not to say that any gear would have survived). Plus, my back...I couldn't walk Monday or Tuesday. On Wednesday I was able to actually propel forward with only moderate pain, after which I got an appointment at my chiropractor I work for, bless her heart. I'm not the strongest follower of "healing without science" methods unless I, personally, had experienced its powers, or have a real grasp and explanation how it works. I need to understand (medical school and 20 years of bench research be damned), and since in previous years I only used chiropractor services as prophylactics measure, I never truly felt the difference. Kind of like acupuncture - it existed for thousand years, but how does it work? Herbal medicine - show me the biochemical pathway, otherwise, placebo. Remember my boos Dr. Cash the chiro cracked my dislocated ribs last month? That was a huge "YES" for this kind of medicine. I will now let her do whatever! When she adjusted my SI joint, the pain was as bad, as with the ribs. The sparks flew from my eyes. She apologized, I said: "Lynn, anything from you. You know your shit". She laughed - "Oh, what the pain teaches us". I am better as I write it.

In other news, that shivering? I sneezed and coughed for 2 days, ran a fever last night, and this morning woke up with an ear infection. As a former medical doctor, I am not surprised - also, as a medical professional, I always have some antibiotics in a stash. But, it hurts. My lips grew strawberries of herpes bubbles. My right foot inflamed my Morton's neuroma (I can't even get through a yoga class, and I tried. Ended up mostly sitting).

So, imagine me being in the middle of the next mountain section with no bail out point, backpain that puts me in pretzel, with a fever and an ear infection? How does it sound?

It sounds that some fucked up shit we, humans, can't control, no matter how well we prepare. Who knew in June there will be a snow storm, that will put me into misery I won't be easily able to recover? And if you want to talk misery, I had seen my share most of you can't even imagine in your wildest nightmares, in physical, mental, and emotional world. I can write a fat book on it, even though outside I look and act all rainbows and butterflies. Sometimes we, strong capable humans, hit a point at which we know, just know: NO MORE! You can have it, this dream. I have to accept the fact I am older - and wiser - and I have to lower my goals. Some, out there, on paper, in the news we hear, of course claim they will never bend under their number of years. They will aim huge and reach far. Good fucking for them. I want to live a long healthy life, not be a cripple with another FKT to my name in some place nobody ever reads besides a small niche of folks. No disrespect, I read that. I admire them. Because I know what it takes. Yet, the FKT - or a finish of a race, or other achievement of this sort - is not what makes my livelihood. I am not a salaried sponsored athlete that needs to continue to deliver results. I don't have a job titled "mountain guide", where new outings would bring me more clients. Not even a coach who has to inspire and prove my methods work. I had always done this shit for MYSELF! I am not invincible? Am I less loved and admired for speaking the truth? For looking at tiny goals of enjoying that very running, those very mountains I love so freaking much? Judge me. Challenge me. I will see you in 20-30 years. I don't wish you ill, but talk to me after 50. Who's to decide which goals are what size for whom?

And if you're 50, or close - I know you understand. You are there. You, too, were fighting tooth and nail "Not Me, I am not going down!". And you, too, lost.

I lost. But I gained, too. I gained freedom from this obsession. We've lived here for over 3 years, and all I saw and thought and dreamt about was Colorado Trail, in whatever pieces. When that Wisconsin couple asked me about favorite places, I couldn't even respond. Shame. Indeed, I don't have many "good years" left. So much more to see, to explore. Right here, in my dream home state. Around the country. Friends, family, knitting, reading. My city, other places. Helping others is a great way to offer my experience. And I will run, train, and race. I shall. Watch me. I will celebrate life.

(I don't drink, so 1/4 into this cup of Mojito, I got toasted. But, it was worth to dare myself different)

(And I do love to knit, though it's been months since I held my needles. So soothing...)

(stumbled on this video - even really tough dudes bail when common sense and wisdom speak volume)