Earlier this week, Andrew and I hosted a tutorial covering the foundational skills and gear needed for backpacking in the desert. I wanted to share it with you in case you missed it!
It may feel like deep winter in many parts of the northern hemisphere, but the desert hiking season kicks off in just a few short months. I hope these resources help you feel prepared to get out there!
If you’re interested in our healthy, lightweight backpacking course, check out the details here (it’s free!).
I want to share an alternative approach to annual reflections and setting goals that helps to create a life that feels meaningful and rich to YOU.
My current favorite structure for reflecting on one year and setting goals for the next is the same debriefing exercise I use each evening on guided backpacking trips.
It’s called roses, thorns, and buds.
Here’s how I do it:
I scroll back through my google calendar (because it’s easy to forget what happened last week, let alone 12 months ago!) and I look for highlights or accomplishments (roses), events that were challenging or didn’t go as planned (thorns), and lessons that I want to carry into the coming year (buds).
This exercise not only fills me with gratitude for what went well, but self compassion for what didn’t go so well, and ideas for how I want to set intentions and goals for the coming year.
How do you then choose goals that are actually meaningful to YOU and help you create a life that’s uniquely yours; a life you love?
I look through my roses to see what core values they represent. Why were they roses? What do they reveal about what matters to me at a core level?
For example, some themes I noticed: physical and mental health, time spent intentionally (outdoors, with friends and family), service and mentorship, physical challenge, skill growth and learning.
I use this information to create goals for the coming year that encompass these values (rather than arbitrary goals that are defined as the gold standard by society, but which are meaningless to me).
If the goal is not an expression of, and in alignment with, who I am and who I’m becoming, I’m unlikely to stick to the actions needed to achieve it, and at this point, I’m simply not interested.
As I consider where I want to focus my attention in the coming year, I’m asking myself: What is in alignment with my core values? What kind of person do I want to be and how do I want to shape my character?
Once I have a concrete goal, how do I get there?
Because a goal without a plan is just a wish.
When I work on my own goal list or support clients with theirs, we start with breaking the goal into manageable steps, each of which is made up of quantifiable actions (e.g. to run a marathon, I need to run x minutes per week). Those specific actions must then be scheduled as specifically as possible (e.g. I’ll run 30 minutes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 8am).
BUT THAT’S NOT ENOUGH.
How many of us know what to do but don’t do it?
The key to doing what we say we want to do is in rewiring our habitual thoughts and behaviors so that our subconscious, which is responsible for 90% of what we do, is on board. This can be done through neuroplasticity tools, like pattern interrupts and mental rehearsal. Our brains can change at any age, which is very exciting!
And one last reminder on goal setting:
Even though I’m writing this at the start of a new year, that’s an arbitrary date on the Gregorian calendar. You are on your own timeline. Please do not pressure yourself with artificial deadlines.
May we divest from the diet culture mentality of extreme action and quick fixes, and instead set goals and act from a place of what’s aligned and sustainable for each of us.
Happy New Year, friend.
Katie
PS. I’m currently taking on new 1-1 coaching clients.
What do you want to achieve in 2024?
Whatever your goals and wherever you hope to go, I’d love to help you get there.
One of the ways I do that is through private coaching. By working together 1-1, I’ll support you in achieving your health and/or adventure goals through a customized program centering on any/all of the following:
dialing in a sustainable health routine so that you have the mental and physical energy for everything that matters to you in 2024 (including better endurance and recovery on trail)
using neuroplasticity techniques to change unwanted habits and wire in new ones so that you can finally follow through on your goals
guidance with trip planning, gear selection, trail nutrition, and more so that you can spend more time enjoying the outdoors.
Feel your best and be able to say YES to any adventure that comes your way!
If you’re curious about coaching with me and how it might help you reach your goals more enjoyably and sustainably this year, contact me. From there, we’ll chat about what to expect from coaching and whether working together is a good fit. There’s no pressure and no obligation.
One of life’s greatest pleasures during the season of long nights is curling up with a good book and a cup of tea, and allowing your mind to dive into a world of new ideas.
As such, I want to share a few of my favorite books from 2023.
In reflecting upon a year of reading, I see my priorities not only in how much time I could devote to reading, but in what I chose to focus my attention on.
This list represents just a small fraction of the books I read this year, and it contains both old and new publications. It is, of course, entirely subjective, but perhaps there will be something here that jumps out at you and has the potential to enhance the quality of your life in the coming year and beyond.
I’m always striving to better understand the forces that have shaped the natural world around us and this book does that on a grand scale. In it, author Dan Flores explores a deep-time history of the coexistence of animals and humans in North America. He details the astonishing bestiary that arose on the continent (saber tooth tigers! short-faced bears! giant ground sloths!) and how the arrival of humans precipitated an incredible disruption of this environment. This tome is one I’ll definitely be revisiting.
I like to think that after two decades of studying nutrition science and physical wellbeing, I’m fairly well-versed in the field; and yet, this book was eye-opening. Through his own journey to better health, the author shares the history and science of how our modern lifestyle negatively impacts our breathing, and the drastic ramifications on our physical and mental health. Practical solutions for improving our breathing, and therefore our health and longevity, are included.
This selection may seem extremely niche, but it’s representative of a genre of books I was enraptured with this year, including other titles such as Colorado 14ers Disasters and The Greatest Search and Rescue Stories Ever Told, and even Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon. There’s so much to learn from the stories of others who didn’t come home from their adventures. I find that studying these tales is not only beneficial for keeping my partners and I safe on personal trips, but also for understanding the time- and energy-intensive nature of backcountry rescue missions.
I think a lot about my own mortality. This is not due to a preoccupation with the macabre, but because, like the Stoics suggested, contemplating my own mortality encourages me to make better use of my limited time on earth. In Four Thousand Weeks, which is the number of weeks you have if you live to be 80, the author examines our fraught relationship with time. He offers thoughts on why we should think about time through the lens of our mortality rather than by searching for the perfect productivity app. This book paired well with Stolen Focus: Why You Can’t Pay Attention–and How to Think Deeply Again by Johann Hari, which explores how technology is shaping the way we think and how we can reclaim our attention.
Written by one of Colorado’s most well-known guide book authors, this selection shares Gerry Roach’s mountaineering tales from the 1950s and ‘60s, along with the life and mountain lessons they revealed to him. Through personal narrative, he speaks to the transcendent experiences many of us encounter in the outdoors–a topic I never tire of. It also provides a fascinating glimpse into the early days of climbing culture in the Front Range.
Have a book (or books) to recommend? Comment below.
In September of 2023, I completed the Pfiffner Traverse. The Pfiffner is a high route that follows the Continental Divide along the crest of Colorado’s Front Range between Milner Pass to the north and Berthoud Pass to the south. This post provides a brief overview of the route as well as reflections from each day, a gear list, meal plan, and a few photos.
Pfiffner Traverse Overview
The primary route as outlined in Andrew’s guide (details below) is about 75 miles long with 28,000′ of elevation gain. It’s comprised of sections of established trail, including portions of the Continental Divide Trail (CDT), as well as sections of cross country travel, which make up about 40% of the total mileage. The technical level of the terrain is mostly Class 1-2 with occasional sections of Class 3 travel. I hiked solo and completed the route in a little less than four days.
The route drops below 10,000 feet only twice. It’s an engaging line with ridge walking and expansive views in the northern section, pass-and-basin terrain throughout the middle, and caps off (for southbounders) with a nine mile ridge walk that traverses five 13ers before dropping down to Berthoud.
While it can be hiked in either direction, I chose to hike southbound due to logistical reasons. Starting at Milner Pass allowed me to plan my RMNP campsite reservation more accurately, pick up my backcountry permit on the way to the start of my hike, and to more easily arrange my transportation (leaving a car at Berthoud Pass and being dropped off at Milner).
My goals were to:
Move light and fast, testing my alpine fitness
Enjoy solo time outdoors in beautiful and challenging terrain
Visit seldom seen areas of Arapaho NF and RMNP
Spend a few nights sleeping outside during one of Colorado’s dreamiest months
Get out for one last multi-night high country trip before before guiding in West Virginia in early October, after which access to the alpine becomes hit or miss
History
I find the history of this route fascinating. Karl Pfiffner was a Boulder-based mountaineer in the 50’s. He died in an avalanche on La Plata Peak when he was just 25. He was a friend and climbing partner of well-known (if you’re a Colorado outdoors-person) mountaineer author Gerry Roach.
In Gerry’s book Transcendent Summits, he writes “One of the projects that Karl had talked about doing was traversing the Continental Divide between the Arapaho Peaks and Longs, and he was making plans to do this traverse in the summer of ‘60. I resolved that I would someday do the traverse in his memory. Indeed, decades later, an extended version of this traverse still carries Karl’s name, and the next generations would do well to remember the namesake of this route.” Roach hiked a version of the route in 1987. You can read more about the history of the route on Andrew’s site.
This comprehensive guide contains a mapset, datasheets, permit information, and route description among other resources. I found it particularly helpful as I didn’t have much time to plan. As with any outdoor endeavor you still need the fitness and appropriate skill sets to complete the route, but you’re interested in this route, there’s no better place to start.
NWS point forecast
In the week leading up to the trip, I regularly checked forecasts from locations at varying elevations and locations along the route, such as Milner Pass, Thunderbolt Peak, and Berthoud Pass. This informed last minute gear decisions.
CalTopo
I primarily used this mapping software to sketch a digital route as well as alternates based on descriptions in the guide. This was meant to accompany my detailed printed maps if needed. I also used CalTopo’s sentinel layer to check snow conditions in the NE Gully.
Trip reports
I looked for recent trip reports to assess the amount of snow in the NE Gully to ascertain whether I needed an ice axe and/or spikes. I found one or two reports from 2023, though only one was even somewhat helpful since it was from within a month of my start date.
Timeline
Having completed the Sangre de Cristo Traverse a month earlier, I was in decent alpine shape and I wanted to use this trip as an opportunity to push myself. I determined my timeline based on my daily vertical limit, which was around 7000-8000 feet per day. Based on my experience in the Sangres, I was fairly confident I could sustain that pace for the duration of this route, which would equate to roughly four days (28,000 feet of total vertical divided by 7,000 feet per day).
Weather. The route spends several continuous miles above treeline at various points. As most hikers familiar with mountain travel are aware, weather can move in abruptly. There are lower elevation alternates that can be taken for most sections of the route. I was aware of these, and as I describe below, still found myself outrunning an afternoon storm on day one.
Elevation. Since I live at 7,000’ and hiked this route after a summer spent backpacking above 10,000’, I didn’t find this to be an issue. But it’s an important planning consideration for anyone coming from sea level.
Vertical per mile. With 760 feet of climbing or descending per mile, the vertical change is steady throughout. Good to be aware of this and plan your itinerary accordingly.
Highlights
Hiking the first couple of miles with my mom and brother
Engaging route finding and following bits of elk trail
Golden aspens, crimson ground cover, and frosty morning vegetation
Elk bugling in the valleys
Long nights, crisp mornings
Solo mountain time
My moose encounter (details below)
Hiking through pristine alpine lake basins in lesser visited parts of RMNP and Arapaho NF
Seeing very few people despite being less than two hours from Denver
Pfiffner Traverse: Day by Day
DAY 1
Miles: 19
Vertical gain: 5300’
After coffee, an elk sausage frittata, and a large side of fried potatoes, which I dutifully finish reasoning that I’ll be grateful for the calories later, my mom, brother, and I depart Grand Lake, and head for the Kawuneeche Visitor Center. After a brief chat with the ranger, I have my backcountry permit in hand and we’re winding our way up towards Milner Pass.
The plan was for my family, visiting from Ohio, to hike with me for an hour or so before heading out through Estes Park and onward to DIA. Though they’ve always been supportive of my hiking habit, they’ve never been physically present for the beginning or end of one of my trips. We didn’t backpack together when I was young, but we spent a lot of time outdoors – spring morel hunting, summer car camping, winter skiing, autumn glassing for deer. They’re the reason I feel so at home outdoors and it felt special to have them here.
Our 10:30am start is later than ideal, but I decide that it’s acceptable because the chance of precipitation is only 30%, the mileage to my RMNP campsite isn’t far, I have low elevation alternates if needed, and ultimately, the time with my family is priceless. We enjoy a few miles together, and too soon, it’s time for them to turn back. After hugs and well wishes, I head up the trail solo, a heaviness in my heart.
Gradually ascending to the ridgeline with gorgeous views of the surrounding ranges, the mid-September air is crisp and perfect. I’m watching the weather that’s building to the east. Passing a few parties of hikers, I depart the trail and push to get over Mt Ida as the wind picks up. The weather blows in fast and graupel pelts my face as I crest Ida and begin scrambling down the south side to the relative safety of the saddle. With my attention fully focused on the sky, I stumble on some talus, and full send. I stand to find a large bloody scrape on my left thigh and a sore right knee. Okay, off to a good start.
Sheltering behind a boulder, I throw on layers, inhale a snack, and check my map for a lower elevation alternate. At the Chief Cheley saddle, I make the conservative call and head down towards a low route. About 200 feet down, the graupel stops and it looks like the storm has blown over. Not wanting to give up my hard-earned elevation gain, I stupidly begin to side hill on talus around Cheley. Upon becoming sufficiently annoyed with this plan, I crawl up class 3 terrain on the east face to regain the ridge where the easier walking is found.
I enjoy an hour of sun before the next squall hits. The snow begins as I descend past Haynach Lakes and fortunately, already under tree cover. I join the CDT and power up through a burn area in the Tonahatu Creek drainage, feeling strong. Back above treeline, I spot more weather to the north. It’s slowly moving my way. Knowing I’m exposed for the next five miles, I pick up the pace. Anxiety builds as the storm inches closer.
Just as I hit the south side of Ptarmigan Pass, the snowfall begins again. Thankfully, I’m beginning my descent towards North Inlet and tonight’s campsite. Within moments, the entire sky is a deep bluish purple and it’s clear this squall is more serious. A loud clap of thunder rattles above. I race toward treeline and the descent into Hallett Creek as the snow pummels my bare skin. Around 10,000 feet, the snow turns to rain, and it’s not long before I’m soaked and cold and my hands are going numb. With the fading daylight, there’s no chance of drying out as I descend into the trees. In an act of mercy from the universe, the rain finally clears and golden beams of the day’s last light shoot through the pines, diffusing the most celestial light throughout the misty valley.
Down down down, I finally reach camp around 6:45. Wet and cold, I fumble to set up my shelter with my barely functioning hands, the task taking three times longer than normal. I peel off wet layers and get something dry on, the adrenaline slowly clearing out and the exhaustion settling in. Gather water, crawl into my bag, and get some hot food going. Finally able to relax, I study my maps, hoping for a better weather day tomorrow.
DAY 2
Miles: 19
Vertical gain: 7600’
Sleep is intermittent as I have weird dreams and vague worries about putting on wet clothes and walking through more storms. I awaken groggily to the sound of my alarm at 5:33. Frost covers my tent and I can see my breath. Lighting my stove for coffee, I decide I’m not walking until it’s light. Even though I know about the potential time sucks I could encounter (difficult off trail travel, navigational errors, and weather), I’m dragging my feet. Know better, I tell myself that even if I leave by 7, I still have 12 hours of usable daylight. I text Troy for an updated forecast and eat slowly.
Having consumed my coffee and breakfast and with no other ways to procrastinate, I crawl out and pack up my frozen, wet shelter. Even with gloves on, my hands become numb. Ascending through the trees on snow-dusted trail towards Lake Nokoni, it’s cold, but beautiful as birds chirp and the sky lightens. I’m grateful for the elevation gain as my working muscles generate body heat.
Lakes Nokoni and Nanita are the most picturesque alpine lakes and I wish I had time to linger. Orange and yellow leaves lay atop a crimson ground cover. I remember that it’s the 21st. Happy first day of autumn, I say aloud. At the saddle above UN Lake 10584, I’m finally in full sun, and I stop for a snack. It’s chilly and the sun feels wonderful. I get a message from Troy that the radar looks better for today. I hope it’s accurate.
With more optimism in my step, I push on, up over a pass, down into a basin, up over a pass, down into a basin, and repeat for the remainder of the day. Departing Beak Pass, I make my way down through forest and over blow downs to East Inlet, where I pick up good use trail around the lakes. On the south side of Isolation Peak Pass, I cruise bits of elk trail through the remote and aptly named Paradise Park, and exit RMNP via Paradise Pass. I skirt along the east short of Upper Lake, stopping to refill a bottle. Resting on a rock in the sun, I eye Cooper Peak Pass, which looms 1100’ above me. Climbing up the steep tundra, then talus, I reflect on another summer coming to a close and what am amazing one it was. Soon, I’m up and over, descending the talus towards Island Lake.
Around 4pm, a storm moves through the next valley to my east. Flashing back to yesterday, I get a bit nervous, but it passes by without trouble. I pick up trail near Gourd Lake and make fast miles until shortly before dark when I hit the junction of Buchanan and Thunderbolt Creeks, where I begin to look for camp.
I’m disappointed to stop 1.5 miles and 1,000’ short of my goal for the day, but due to the late start and slow off trail travel, I’m not surprised. I find a protected spot in a pine grove just north of a chilly-looking meadow. I’m grateful to be warm and dry as I set up my tent with fully functioning hands. I cook dinner as the last of the day’s light drips from the sky. Just as I start to eat, I’m startled by a loud rustling very close to my tent. I fumble for my headlamp and scan the pine grove. The beam catches a set of glowing deer eyes staring back at me just 10 feet away.
I get a message from Troy informing me that tomorrow’s forecast looks clear though I may get a storm tonight. And just as I read it, a clap of thunder booms overhead and rain starts to fall. Grateful to be in my cozy nest, I study tomorrow’s route. It will be another long day with the most challenging terrain encountered thus far. I remind myself that I planned it this way as I drift off to the sound rain on my tarp.
DAY 3
Miles: 14
Vertical gain: 7500’
After a night of decent sleep, I’m hiking by 6:30 and there’s just enough light to not need a headlamp. I walk along the timber at the edge of a meadow through frost-covered grass, noticing the temperature difference between my campsite and the frigid meadow. Shortly thereafter, as I exit the meadow to the south, I’m startled by loud grunting and brush thrashing sounds coming from behind me.
I whip around to see a bull moose charging straight towards me through the meadow. It quickly becomes clear that it’s not veering off its course. Frantically, I search for an escape. I know I can’t outrun it so I break through a mess of dead limbs and force my way up the trunk of a blowdown that’s wedged against a standing tree. It’s not much, but this at least gets me 7-8 feet off the ground.
Just as I’m positioned in the tree, the moose bursts through the edge of the timber 30 feet away and stops to look around. I make a loud noise foolishly thinking I’ll scare it off. Looking in my direction, it strides fifteen paces closer, snout uplifted, sniffing my scent on the air. Suddenly I remember that moose have very bad eyesight and I stand as still as I possibly can. After a few minutes of staring straight at me, it turns its massive head, thrashes some brambles with its antlers, and begins to wander up-valley in the same direction I’m headed.
Realizing that I’ve been holding my breath, I let out a long exhale and watch until it’s out of sight, allowing my sewing machine leg and heart rate to return to baseline. I climb down the tree, relocate the elk trail I’d been following and keep moving, hoping that was the last I’d seen of him.
Alas, not ten minutes later, I cross an avalanche slide clearing and spot the same moose on the opposite side of the creek. Darn! I step behind a tree, giving him more time to wander out of sight on the opposite side of the narrowing valley before I tip toe my way across the talus. Hoping to get ahead of him, I pass through more timber and into another clearing. I vigilantly scan the timberline and I spot him a few hundred yards away, still across the creek, looking straight at me.
Now in another avalanche path clearing, there’s nowhere left to hide, and the moose is slowly ambling in my direction. I hike uphill as fast as I can toward steep bluffs at the head of the valley, trying not to look like a threat. He continues to meander towards me and I keep moving as fast as I can, finally reaching the bluffs before he catches up to me. I climb onto the wooded grassy ledges next to a waterfall and look back. The moose stares for a few minutes before losing interest and turning back down valley. Thankful to be in relative safety and annoyed that this diversion has eaten up precious daylight, I charge up the drainage towards my immediate objective, Paiute Pass.
The pass is snow free, as expected this late in the season, and I go straight up and over with a short class 3 scramble. The descent is more straightforward than I expect with just a little deadfall to work through. Soon, I’m busting through the trees and onto the Pawnee Pass trail, startling some hikers. I smile, hop on the trail, and cruise west, excited for the chance to make up a little time. At the first junction, I begin my ascent towards Crater Lake and the most challenging feature of the route, the Northeast gully of Lone Eagle cirque.
I make quick work of the trail up to the campground and head towards campsite 12 from which I need to begin my ascent. I pass sites 10 and 11 on decent trail which then splits into several use trails. I pursue the most well-trod one and it leads me to the lake and some steep bluffs. I return to sites 10 and 11, and pursue another, and it leads uphill to a stealth site on a bench. Impatient, I return to the lake and skirt along some ledges between granite bluffs, making my way along the edge of the lake while feeling fairly sure I’m off route.
Revisiting my maps, indeed I’ve gone too far around the lake, but I can see my next objective so I decide to push straight uphill through thick brush. It’s not graceful, but it gets the job done. I continue to grind up the steep terrain until finally, I’m about a hundred feet below the top of the NE gully and my exit from the cirque. There’s one large patch of snow in the shaded north side.
Having recently melted out, the footing is steep, loose, and chossy. I start up the most stable talus, which ascends toward the snow patch where I plan to cross beneath it and climb the right wall on sandy but snow-free talus. I begin my crossover, and the footing is extremely loose and I begin to slide. Changing my plan, I reverse and begin to climb the rock to the left of the snowfield. It looks like I can cross over above it. The pitch steepens as I climb and I’m making class 4 moves on less-than-ideal footing that I don’t want to have to reverse. Don’t go up what you can’t come down, I remind myself.
Above the snowfield, my passage straight up and over is blocked by steep, sandy slabs with no holds. Crossing over to the east requires a few steps on steep, loose ice sand, also with no holds. Downclimbing would be doable but risky. I look at the runout in the event of an unarrested fall. I select the least awful option and mentally rehearse my moves across the steep, loose gully. I complete my sequence but not without a tenuous foot hold giving way beneath my left foot mid-way across, causing me to slide on my side a few feet before I’m stopped at a ledge.
I stand up, blood droplets forming up the length of my left leg and hand. After a quick inspection to confirm I’m fine, I hop the rest of the way across and climb the remainder of the talus and scree up to the saddle. I sit down, regroup for a few minutes, and carry on. The route finding for the descent into Wheeler Basin and Coyote Park is enjoyable, requiring me to stay engaged and focused.
My intended campsite was Columbine Lake, but with the sun setting behind Satanta Peak and facing an icy wind as I crest Arapaho Pass around 6:45, I pull out my maps to evaluate the options. Rather than hike a ridgeline at 12,000’ in the dark with winds increasing and temps dropping, I make the decision to drop down to the south side of Arapaho Pass and find camp in a protected grove near a creek. From there I’ll have options for reconnecting with the primary route in the morning.
Troy messages me that tomorrow is expected to be clear, but very windy with 45 mph gusts. Great, I’ll be on an exposed ridgeline for most of the day. I’ll take it though: wind I can handle. At least it’s not precip. I look over my maps, weigh my options for regaining the crest, and decide on a route with a decent amount of confidence that it’ll go.
Before drifting off to sleep, I glance up at the starry sky and waning crescent moon, and reflect on the day, from the moose encounter to the beauty of the terrain to the NE gully to the decision to reroute. I’m spent, both mentally and physically, in that gratifying way I’ve only been able to find by pushing myself in the backcountry. It’s been a jam-packed few days. I look forward to a solid finish tomorrow. Body, stay strong. Mountains, grant me safe passage.
DAY 4
Miles: 24
Vertical gain: 8,000’
Moving by 6:45, I admire the pink, blue, and purple sunrise lighting up the valley over the Front Range. I’m excited for my last day, which should be mostly on trail and straightforward, with wind, but no storms. It’s a big day, but I expect to be at my car by sunset, sleeping in my bed tonight.
My route works out, and despite a tired body, I make good progress. By 10am, I intersect the CDT near Devil’s Thumb, having seen a few hikers and hunters along the way. Golden aspens twinkle in the morning light, and I hear the eerie bugle of elk in the valleys below as I walk an old, unmaintained stock trail, the wind picking up the higher I climb. My alternate ends up being nearly identical in mileage and vertical to the primary route, but lacking in off-trail fun, remoteness, and solitude. If timing and daylight hadn’t been an issue, the guidebook route is the way to go.
Once on the CDT and bundled up for the wind, it’s time for some good ol’ mindless mile-crushing. After the previous three days, and despite the steady 20mph winds, this feels like just what I want. At Rollins Pass, I take my first real break of the day tucked in behind some boulders. I down some food and water, pop in headphones, and prepare for the final push: nine miles over five 13ers, all off trail on an exposed, windy ridge before my final descent into Berthoud Pass.
I crawl out from my boulder shelter, sky clear, wind howling, and begin pushing up the tundra and talus on the north side of James. I feel depleted from the previous days’ effort as I will my heavy legs through the steadily increasing wind. C’mon body, let’s do this. The terrain between James and Bancroft Peaks has some fun little scrambly bits that provide a nice distraction to the slog. I talus hop from Perry to Eva, and soon I’m facing my final steep climb up Flora. The shadows have already taken over the east side of the ridge to my left, and the cooling winds chill to the bone. Step step step. Just keep moving upward.
As the sun sinks low in the sky to the west, I top out on Flora. I did it. Just three miles downhill on trail to Berthoud. As I switchback down down down towards the headlights creeping along highway 40, I dream of dinner, a shower, and bed. I turn on my phone to text my family that I’ve made it. Finally, at 6:20, I’m at my car!
I collapse into the front seat, mentally and physically beat up, scrapes all over my body, relieved to be done. I head towards dinner in Silverthorne, and soon I’m sitting in the dark in my car inhaling Chipotle, tears flowing down my face from the pain of Tabasco on my sunburnt lips. Troy texts to see if I made it.
“I did!”
“Good. I was about to start driving towards Berthoud Pass if I didn’t hear from you soon.” We make plans for which 13ers we’ll climb the following day. Under a starry sky, I drive the windy roads toward Salida with a weary body and a full belly, feeling deep gratitude for a good trip and this amazing life.
It’s a complete framework to quickly master backcountry meal planning so you can enjoy improved energy, faster recovery, and a lighter pack on your next hike. It includes spreadsheets and templates to make planning fast and simple
I created the course based on the process I used to plan a gluten free, dairy free, healthy meal plan that would keep my autoimmune symptoms at bay on a 4-month CDT thru hike.
Here’s How It Works: 1. Calculate Caloric Expenditure (i.e. How much food to pack) 2. Dial in Your Macros (i.e. What type of food to take) 3. Choose a Resupply Strategy 4. Create Your Meal Plan 5. Complete Your Goal Hike with Abundant Energy & a Lighter Pack
Students have used this course to meal plan for all range of trips from a weeklong trip in the Cascades to a multi-month hike of the PCT. Find the details here.
As the season of high outdoor adventure winds down, it’s crucial to shift our focus from conquering peaks to caring for the invaluable tool that makes it all possible – our bodies and minds. Much like storing gear for longevity, our well-being requires some post-season attention. In this blog post, I’ll share insights into the importance of post-season self-care and offer a toolkit for backpackers to recharge and ensure they’re ready for many more seasons of exploration.
The Body’s Call for Rest:
After a summer of pushing limits, our bodies and minds often send signals that it’s time for a break. Decreased motivation and fatigued muscles are gentle reminders that demand attention. Learning from past experiences, I’ve come to appreciate the need for rest before being forced into a mandatory hiatus due to injury or illness. Ignoring these signals can lead to more serious issues like HPA axis dysfunction (adrenal fatigue), a lesson I learned the hard way after the Pacific Crest Trail.
The Concept of Seasons:
To maintain long-term health and continue pursuing outdoor passions for years, I visualize my journey as moving through different seasons, much like nature. Just as there are seasons of activity (spring and summer), there are seasons of downtime (fall and winter). Embracing periods of nourishment, rest, and repair is essential for preparing the body for high-output seasons. Going full throttle year-round risks burnout.
Postseason Self-Care Toolkit for Backpackers & Adventurers:
Adrenal Support:
Prioritize more sleep.
Reduce caffeine intake.
Scale back on mileage and vertical.
Microbiome Support:
Incorporate probiotics and soluble fiber into your diet.
Nervous System Balance:
Engage in parasympathetic-dominant activities like yoga, breathwork, and meditation.
Balance sympathetic-dominant activities with slower, nature-focused pursuits.
Nutrient-Rich Diet:
Consume an abundance of fresh foods, particularly vegetables, to replenish nutrients lost during extended backpacking trips.
Supplements:
Introduce adaptogens and vitamin D to support overall well-being.
Mineral-Rich Teas:
Explore teas like dandelion, raspberry leaf, alfalfa, and matcha for both their nourishing qualities and soul-soothing benefits.
Health Monitoring:
Schedule bloodwork to detect deficiencies, inflammation, and potential infections.
Use wearables like the Oura ring to monitor resting heart rate and heart rate variability for insights into recovery.
Mental Health Check:
Acknowledge post-trail challenges like depression and reverse culture shock.
Connect with others for support.
While this post-season self-care toolkit serves as a starting point, the most crucial element is tuning in to your body and honoring its unique needs. As you gear up for the next adventure—perhaps the upcoming ski season—remember that intentional recovery is the key to sustained outdoor passion. Save this toolkit, listen to your body, and embark on the journey toward a healthy, adventurous future.
In August of 2023, I hiked the ridgeline of the Sangre de Cristo mountains from Blanca Peak to Methodist Mountain. This is referred to as the Sangre de Cristo Traverse.
Though there are variations on the route, the primary Sangres Traverse runs along the central spine of the Northern Sangre de Cristo range, a subrange of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The main ridgeline traverses over 77 peaks, including five fourteeners and two thirteener centennials. It contains sections of extended class 3 hiking as well as class 4 and low fifth class scrambling. Depending on various factors, such as the weather or one’s comfort on technical terrain, alterations to the primary route can be made.
This post provides an overview of the route as well as highlights from each day and the trip as a whole. It’s intended to be informative rather than instructional. Linked below are my gear list and food planning spreadsheet. If you don’t like reading, scroll to the bottom for 21 of my favorite photos from the trip.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Overview
The route I completed covered 115 miles and 55,000 feet of vertical gain. These numbers include dropping off the primary ridge into basins for camp, water, and weather/technical detours. I was joined by Troy Klaassen and it took us 8 days to complete the route. We carried all of our food and gear from the start.
From Blanca Peak to Methodist Mountain, we followed less than 10 miles of established trail/road; instead hiking cross country and utilizing elk and sheep trails when we were lucky enough to find them. The majority of the travel occurred above treeline (~12,000’) where we were exposed to howling winds, intense sun, and rocky scrambles. Due to being on top of a ridge, there were no “on route” water sources and few opportunities to take cover if/when weather suddenly rolled in.
My goals going into this trip were to:
> Explore the Sangres on foot with the intention of developing a more intimate knowledge of and connection to the place I live
> Stretch and enhance my physical and mental capabilities (e.g. daily vertical accumulation, off-trail navigation and route finding, adaptability to rapidly changing circumstances, etc.)
> Connect a line on foot from the Highway 150/Lake Como Road intersection to Highway 50/CR 107 in Salida while staying true to the range’s central ridge as much as feasible
The entire trip was a highlight and as with any adventure, there were takeaways to be gleaned, but as I reflected on the trip in the weeks afterwards, there were a few themes that stood out.
The value of relationship to place. In researching and walking this route, I became infinitely more familiar with this range that I’ve lived by and recreated in for years. It felt special to connect many of my favorite local spots in one trip and to see from a new vantage point the peaks that I literally look at every day on my morning walk. That said, more than leaving me with a feeling of “been there, done that,” this trip revealed to me how much more there is to explore: so many subsidiary ridges, treed valleys, and alpine lakes.
The diversity of the terrain and the natural beauty. Following one ridgeline probably sounds boring to a lot of people, but I found it endlessly enjoyable. I was surprised by the diversity in terrain from the technical class 4-5 sections of the Blanca and Crestone massifs to the many steep class 3 thirteeners that pepper the ridge, to the rolling tundra found farther north. The unique positioning of this range with the massive San Luis Valley (SLV) to the west and the Wet Mountain Valley to the east, and the ability to stare down the ridgeline to our farthest objective was awesome. The remote alpine basins and hidden tarns, the colorful sunrises, and the dramatic clouds that flowed over the ridge never got old.
The importance of a good partner. These types of trips (off-trail, remote, demanding, multi-day) are physically and mentally taxing, to put it lightly. You need to be out there with someone you trust, whose risk tolerance is similar to yours, whose fitness is on par with yours, and with whom you can communicate openly. Ideally, you’ve already been on many shorter outings with that person, you’ve vetted each other, and you know it works. When you’re out with a trusted partner, that can make the trip all the much better. The opposite is also true. This is a tenet I was already well aware of from my Great Basin hike and Grand Canyon Traverse with Ryan “Dirtmonger” Sylva. This trip reinforced the value of a good partner to me and spurred self reflection in both what I seek in a hiking partner as well as the ways I can be a better one to others. Our team work wasn’t perfect, but I’m appreciative to Troy for the ways he showed up as a solid partner during this trip and in the debrief afterwards.
Around 1pm, we leave Troy’s truck at the dirt lot that marks the junction of Lake Como Road and Highway 150. It’s finally time to start this thing.
I’m a bundle of nerves and excitement.
I’ve been considering walking this range for years. It’s hard not to when you drive highway 17 through the San Luis Valley. The picturesque north-south ridgeline begs the question: could I traverse that whole thing on foot from end to end?
This range inhabits a special place in my heart and mind. I’ve lived on the north and south ends of the range, fallen in love on its flanks, had my heart broken here, buried my late cat under a Pinyon here, built lifelong friendships here, completed my 14ers here, and driven around these peaks more times than I can count. If there’s any place that’s felt like home in my adult life, it’s these mountains.
It’s 85 degrees on the hot, exposed, dusty 4wd road that we must walk up to access the main spine of the ridge. Our packs are heavy with 8 days of food and a few liters of water. We’re both feeling a little nauseous from the heat and exertion. I also drank too much coffee this morning which isn’t helping matters. We rest in the shade of Pinyons, slowly making our way up the 4400 vertical feet towards our camp near the base of Blanca.
Golden aspen leaves on the trail tell me that the transition to fall has already begun in the high country. We hike past Lake Como and find a higher camp near Blue Lakes at 12,200’. The day’s heat subsides as we gather water, cook dinner, and discuss tomorrow’s plan. The basin’s three 14,000’ peaks (Little Bear, Blanca, and Ellingwood Point) loom above, tinged with alpenglow.
I go to sleep grateful to be out here after years of dreaming and months of planning. As with the start of any real adventure, I know challenging times are in store, but I don’t know exactly when they’ll arise and what form they’ll take.
Tomorrow the real work begins.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 1
At 5:03 my alarm sounds and by 5:11, I’m drinking coffee in the dark, watching the stars fade as dawn lights up the edges of the sky.
By 6, we’re slogging up towards the Blanca-Ellingwood ridgeline To the west, the shadow of the Sangres is taking form on the floor of the expansive SLV. At the top of Blanca, we high five, “one down, seventy plus to go” I say.
Being that it’s a Saturday, there are several other parties on the mountain, but after departing Ellingwood Point on the class 3 and 4 ridgeline over to California Peak, we don’t see another person until the end of the following day when we drop into the Great Sand Dunes Preserve for water. The weight of the full backpack makes the ridgeline scramble feel much more challenging than it did on a scouting mission 2 months ago.
We drop north off California and the whole range – the entire following week’s work – is laid out in front of us. The crest drops away to the SLV in the west and the Wet Mountain Valley to the east. We walk rolling tundra for the remainder of the day and make camp in a protected area ~12,200’ behind a knoll south of Carbonate Mountain.
I walk up to the ridge to pee before getting into my tent and I’m astounded by the beauty of the scene that greets me on the other side of the ridge: rain showers over the Sand Dunes and valley to the north tinted pink, orange, and yellow by the sunset. I call Troy up and we enjoy the scene before a chilly wind sends us for our sleeping bags.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 2
The morning is an easy, uneventful four miles down the ridgeline to Mosca Pass, the low point of the route at 9,700’. The spring right off the ridge that we were hoping for is dry and we walk the mile down into the Preserve for water. We go to a spot I’ve stopped at with guided trips in the past. As will become our practice, we fill up for the entire day and head back up to the ridge.
The next 10 miles of walking up and over Mount Zwischen is long, dry, and hot. It’s also littered with blowdowns. The view out over the Dunes from the summit is pretty spectacular though. The descent is steep through dense forest on tired feet.
The most joy I find all day is when I pick up bits of elk trail here and there and we can cruise until the path disappears as suddenly as it appeared. At Medano Pass, we descend 500’ into the Preserve to fill up on water behind an established camp from which dogs are barking at us. We hike the 4wd road out of the Preseve and north from the pass until we find a suitable camp underneath the shadow of Herard.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 3
Shortly before 6am, we begin our daily migration back to the ridge. The higher we climb, the windier it gets. As we crest the ridge, the full force of the gales hit, carrying icy wind up from the shadowed valley to the west. We lean sideways into the 40-50 mph eastward winds as we push north over rolling tundra, summiting one small peak after another.
I need more layers, a snack, a break from the wind. I drop off the ridge to the east where it’s nearly windless and it’s 15 degrees warmer. I wipe the snot from the right lens of my sunglasses. We snack, layer up, regain composure and head back into it. We see weather over Blanca to the south as well as the Crestones to the north. Being almost exclusively above treeline, it’s incredible how far we can see around us – all the way back to where we started, and all the way to where we’ll sleep tonight.
By noon, we’re at Music Pass and we trace out the remainder of our route for the day: Marble Mountain, Milwaukee Peak, and the Crestones, beneath which we plan to camp. A steep 1300’ and we’ve regained the ridge. We skirt through the notch by Milwaukee, enjoying an oddly placed mile or so of nice trail that disappears as suddenly as it appeared.
With 8000’ of vertical on our legs already and daylight waning, we opt to take the Cresolita saddle rather than the ridge directly over Broken Hand Peak. I’m disappointed, but it’s the right call. As we descend into South Colony Lakes at dusk, the pikas’ chirping echoes around the basin. At the outlet of the lake, I achily bend over and wash the grime from my face and legs. We find a protected spot in the willows to settle in for the night.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 4
Morning comes too soon and sleep was insufficient as I spent part of the night defending my food bag pillow from the mini bear that was scratching around at the edge of my shelter. That’s soon forgotten, however, as we begin our ascent and I’m entranced by the red glow reflected off the Needle. Soon we’ve regained the primary ridge via a fun class 3 connecting ridge from Humboldt.
Clouds roll up and over a saddle from the west, blotting out the sun as we climb Obstruction. From the summit, through breaks in the clouds, we look down to Willow Lake, a longtime favorite haven, and across the bumpy ridgeline of 13ers that connects to Adams. In a flat below Adams is Mo Lake, a cat-shaped tarn I christened last August the weekend after I said goodbye to my 17-year old cat.
We descend a steep, loose gully skirting below the first two major obstacles of the ridge, which would’ve required hours of technical scrambling, and reascend at the saddle south of Peak 13517. A series of steep, scree-covered slabs and class 4 moves takes us along the remainder of the ridge to Adams. From there, we follow the chunky class 3 ridge to Fluted. The end of the technical difficulties! I’m both relieved (we might actually do this thing!) and sad. The technical parts, while slow, are an engaging puzzle to solve.
The remainder of the day is rolling block field until we pick up a mile or so of trail in a saddle near Comanche and drop down to Venable for camp. The basin is home to dozens of marmots which whistle at me as I pass through their domains on the way to the small lake. Three deer study me as I gather water. A gentle rain starts to fall and I scurry back to my tent. Cooking dinner from the safety and warmth of my tent, a rainbow appears over Westcliffe to the east. I fall asleep listening to Annie Dillard wax poetic about the glory of nature.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 5
After a night mostly spent listening to the flapping of my tent in the wind, I open my eyes and notice it’s lighter than it should be at 5:03am. I’ve slept through my watch alarm and scramble to pack up as Troy is already almost ready to go.
The day is gloriously repetitive, consisting of going up and over several peaks >13,000’. Up 1000’, down 1000’, up 500’, down 500’, up 1300’, down 1300’. Eureka, Hermit, Rito Alto, Peak of the Clouds, Silver Peak, and on and on. The peaks were a nice break from the slower, technical terrain of the previous day, and more steep and engaging than the rolling tundra I expected. It felt wonderful to walk along the ridges I’ve seen so many times from the lakes below. Occasionally we stop on summit to snack and I just sit and stare contently at where we’ve been and where we’re going.
We make camp early at a small lake below Electric Peak. I take my time setting up my shelter and then walk the half mile to gather water. I’m nearly done when I notice movement in the otherwise still tarn. I think it’s insects at first, but the frequency picks up, and I realize it’s rain drops. Covering the water slowly at first, and then more quickly. I rinse my face and legs and scamper to my tent. I hop in just as the squall picks up. I bury myself in my quilt and eat spoonfuls of almond butter and drink lemon chamomile tea while I watch the rainfall outside. I’m warm, dry, and clean in my tent at a remote lake at 12,400’ in my favorite range. It’s hard to imagine any better feeling in this moment.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 6
I awoke to a lone pika call at 4:30am, feeling rested and grateful for a full night’s sleep. We climb out of our basin camp and as we regain the ridgeline to Electric Peak, a red sun lights up the Wet Mountain Valley. The surrounding peaks emit a golden glow. The shadow of the range begins to take shape in the valley to the west. There’s the outline of Electric and our microscopic figures crawling up it.
At the summit, I look north and spot the Chalk Cliffs. HOME! We’re actually almost there. In a way, it feels kind of unbelievable.
There’s an icy wind, which I’ve come to expect each morning when we regain the ridge. I walk with my hands in my pockets and think about hiking this route again, solo, pushing myself as hard as I can. And then I wonder about that desire to run myself ragged, to walk until there’s nothing left, to find transcendence by searching for the limits of the physical.
Today’s terrain is a continuation of the previous day, and as I hike up another steep rocky ridge, I send a genuine prayer to the universe for endless talus covered 13ers. This feeling is like nothing else: heart pounding, breath rhythmic, in out in out, step step step step, thinking like the sheep, allowing my body to take the most obvious line, connecting bits of worn terrain. Some trampled tundra here, flattened scuffed rocks there, a slight opening in the grass.
At Cottonwood Peak, our main route drops below 13,000’ for the first time in 40 miles. The afternoon is hot and humid as we wind down through blowdown hell (though not as hellish as Zwischen) to Hayden Pass. A quarter mile from the pass my pole breaks. For 25 minutes, we search a small piece of ground for the missing spring. No luck, but I’m grateful for Troy’s help in the search as it’s already been a long day and we’re both ready to find water. We hike out to the pass and descend 500’ before we find a trickle big enough to fill our bottles, and then reascend to make camp.
I watch the cumulonimbus build behind the ridge to the south and darken the valley to the east as my dinner cooks. Flash. 1…2…3…BOOM! It’s close. Dinner is done and the show begins. I watch the storm mingle with sunset light as it passes overhead.
I love this outside life.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 7
I wake up excited for our last full day. We follow old trail up Galena in the twilight. Clouds are rolling in over the pass and the entire sky is pink, orange, amber, and yellow as the sunrise light reflects off the clouds. The beauty is unbelievable.
All day, we hike up and down “bumps” on the ridge inside of a cloud. I feel like I’m in a dream, hiking the same 100′ of talus on repeat. Time is standing still. My watch says we’ve been hiking for 4 hours, but I can’t ascertain any progress.
The clouds begin to break a little after noon and we’re above one of my very favorite alpine swimming spots. On a subsidiary ridge, I spot two sheep descending steep talus. It feels so meaningful to connect all these places I love and these peaks I literally look at every morning on my walk, addressing them by name, “good morning Simmons, Hunts, Twin Sisters…”
My body feels strong, even after 50,000’ of vertical gain in a week. Stronger perhaps than when I started. I feel gratitude for my body’s strength and resilience. I know it’s not a given.
I watch the sky vigilantly all day as storms build in every direction around us. Around noon we drop 700’ steeply off the ridge to get water. This is our original planned campsite, but it’s early and we think the weather will hold a bit longer. So we test our luck, fill up, and push on. And the weather (and our luck) does hold for another few hours; long enough for us to get up and over Hunts Peak. At the summit, we’re greeted with a cold wind and a loud clap of thunder. It’s raining in the valley directly to our east and up north over Salida. Time to get down!
I inhale a few spoonfuls of almond butter, nearly clogging my airway, and then we haul down the steep scree slope as the wind picks up and thunder continues to echo nearby. We bail into a basin on the east side of the ridge, where 500’ down we see some trees and a potential flat(ish) spot large enough to fit our tents. Hail starts to fall as we make our way down the slippery wet tundra and scree slope. We configure a couple of clever camp spots and as soon as we’re set up, it begins to rain in earnest.
I sit in my tent drinking warm emergenc, eating the last few ounce of almond butter, listening to the pikas, and watching the clouds swirl around the basin. Salida is 15 miles and 3k’ of vertical away.
Sangre de Cristo Traverse Day 8
When I awake, the predawn air feels damp and chilly. The sun tries to light up the sky, but we remain inside of a dense cloud for much of the morning. We hike northward, only a few minor peaks and two named peaks before our descent into Salida. After a few hours, the sun begins to burn off the top layer of clouds, revealing the most incredible inversion in the valleys on both the east and west side. The ridgeline is an island of land in a sea of clouds.
Through the dense fog, I walk north, feeling the magnetic pull of home so strongly I can’t slow down. I periodically stop and wait until I see Troy’s figure emerge from the fog and then I turn and keep walking. The terrain has mellowed into tundra and block field. We reconvene beneath Simmons Peak, remove some layers, and then ascend together. The clouds have burned off even more now. The sky is blue. Salida is 6200′ below under a blanket of clouds. Methodist, our final peak, is one connecting ridgeline away.
We gingerly crawl down the wet, slippery, lichen-covered rocks and into the blowdown forest that covers the remaining section of ridgeline. The Decker fire came through here in 2019. Amongst the burned out skeleton trees, fireweed and yarrow add splashes of color to the bare ground.
I’m laser focused as I weave in and out of downed trees and baby aspen groves finding elk trails to link together. I round the side of a knoll and spot five elk as they disappear off the other side of the ridge. Thank you for the trails! I stop to snack on raspberries along the way, but never for long. I’ve got places to go.
After what felt like much longer than it should’ve taken, I’m on the final push up up up the steep southwest ridge of Methodist. There was trail we could’ve taken at the last saddle to bypass this climb, but I forgot, and now I’m here and I’m climbing and panting and soaked from pushing through wet brush, and there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing in this moment than doing exactly this.
And suddenly, I’m standing on a road. It’s the service road that connects to the communications towers on the summit. And shortly thereafter, Troy is there too. We have 9 miles of road walking and 4600′ of descent to Highway 50. We tap poles and commend each other on a well executed trip.
I look at my watch, “we should be to the burger place by 1.”
“Sounds amazing,” he responds and we begin our descent off the ridge that has been our home for the last 8 days. We walk out of the sun, down through a layer of fog, and eventually Salida comes into view.
“I’ve walked out of the mountains into a lot of different towns, but never into the one I live in. It feels pretty great,” I say.
Photo Essay
I intended to pick out 5 or 6 of my favorite photos to share, but here we are with 21.
