Carried into Colorado: Storms, Missing Cyclist & San Juans

ThruhikeCDT

Jun 17

There’s something about the mountains; they don’t just call, they pull. Over the past week, I didn’t so much hike as I was carried by the land itself. The wind pushed at my back, the ridgelines guided my steps, and the changing skies seemed to whisper: Keep going. It was as if New Mexico had one final push to offer before we crossed over into Colorado, and we took it with everything we had.

Ending New Mexico

The trail had become more than a path; it was a place of reckoning, a mirror. The weight of the last two weeks still hung on my shoulders. A blur of health issues, family concerns, and the emotional toll of being pulled in too many directions off-trail. But Neapolitan and I were determined. We laced up our dust-worn shoes and chased down the final 60 miles to the Colorado border like it was our salvation.

The terrain changed as we moved with high desert hills rolling into dense pine forests, and golden light shimmered across open meadows. The afternoons brought thunderheads and hail like clockwork, turning the air electric, then cool.

And still, we pushed on. Hopewell Lake, Lagunitas Campground—every night, we landed exactly where we needed to be, as if the trail had reserved a place just for us.

Day three was a beast. Twenty miles to the Colorado line, followed by three more to a parking lot. But what a reward. We hit the border with cheers, cold sodas courtesy of trail magic, and a bottle of champagne Neapolitan had packed on ice the entire way. That’s dedication. We even had cell service, and in true hiker fashion, our first question was: Can someone bring us pizza?

Trail Magic and A Missing Cyclist

Enter Tumbleweed, our trail angel once again, who coordinated a delivery to the trailhead. We met Mike there and watched the sun drop into a canyon that framed some of the most jaw-dropping mountains we’ve seen yet. Colorado greeted us not just with beauty, but with purpose.

Just as the day was winding down, a woman approached us in a rush; her husband, a cyclist, had sent a cryptic message that he wouldn’t make it back to the road. She had no idea where he was. Luckily, Neapolitan had seen him earlier and could give a time stamp and rough location. That info helped her track him down. He was found at a nearby campground, cold and gearless. His night would’ve been a dangerous one.

The First Climb: 12,500 Feet

That next morning, we woke to frost on our tents in the parking lot and began our first major Colorado climb, an 11-mile slog up to 12,000 feet. The air was thin, my lungs protested, and my coughs felt hollow, but these were the San Juans, and they demanded our respect. Heavy packs pushed us down, and we eventually gave in to an afternoon nap. That night, we slept beside a frog-filled lake, fresh from a chilly dip that doubled as a bath.

The following day started with ambition, but it unraveled quickly. We accidentally descended the wrong trail and ended up at the base of the mountain we’d just climbed. Morale dropped. The trail was becoming patchy with snow, and some postholes went up to our hips.

We were underfed and overexerted. My oatmeal-and-soy-noodle diet was no longer cutting it. And five liters of water a day wasn’t enough to revive our tired bodies.

Low Food Supply and Rerouting

Through some quick navigation and research, we found an exit route: Blue Lake junction leading us toward the town of Platoro. Six miles down the trail, then another 5–7 down a dirt road. We hoped for a hitch but ended up walking the whole way.

Neapolitan found a trail shortcut that led directly behind the town. We practically collapsed into the main office. Inside, we ordered every cold drink on the menu: vanilla bean frapp, pumpkin frapp, hot drip coffee, strawberry banana smoothie, root beer… all of it. We needed calories and comfort.

Relaxation in Platoro, CO

That night, we stayed in a cabin, did laundry, showered, and consumed more fluids than we could count. My sunburn radiated like a furnace, and the chafing on my back had turned into a bloody mess. Our bodies needed care, badly.

We stayed a second night to heal both physically and mentally. I caught up on work and posts, and we spent the afternoon in quiet recovery. Later, we connected with locals: summer residents who flee the snow-filled winters. Platoro sits above 9,000 feet, inaccessible for much of the year. It felt like a secret town made just for weary hikers and the occasional tourist driving through.

We’ve fallen behind our hiking bubble, but we’re no longer worried about speed. The goal now is different: connect with people, savor the journey, and embrace each step. We’ll get to Canada when we get there. Rain, sun, or snow.