Fear and Loathing on the CDT
It’s August 30th, 2023 and I’m jogging across the gravel parking lot, my car in sight, that final wave of relief so welcome I could cry. But I already did that today, twice, and I don’t feel like adding more tears to the cocktail of sweat, urine, and the contents of an energy gel that I am somehow plastered with. At that moment, I’m not sure I can think of any greater joy than clicking the “End Workout” button on my GPS watch and collapsing into the front seat. Of course, I really wish I could have just found more of that joy on the run. There was some amazement, perhaps, but the cortisol and loathing bursting through my veins stifled any real positive feelings.
Five hours ago, I left home in the dark with extremely timid ambitions of completing the Pawnee Buchanan Pass Loop, a 26-mile jaunt through the Indian Peaks Wilderness over two mountain passes. I’d backpacked it twice and know how scenic it is, but I also know how wild it is too. Both of those trips provided considerable stress and maybe too much adventure. They were big contributions to the end of my backpacking days. I’m a little salty about that. So, I wanted to “conquer” it now, just run it in a day, and overcome my fears. Ha. But I am alone today, so it was too much to ask. Running mountains scares me. Running mountains solo scares me more. I needed to thread the needle between the fear of running in the dark (bears, mountain lions, glowing eyes through the trees) and summiting the last pass after noon (hail, thunder, lightning). Today, the weather forecast was very good so the pressure of a true alpine start was removed. This is why I was even in the car, driving up the winding canyon, trying not to shake. But my resolve was weak and doing this run alone was going to be a bad idea.
I did actually get some takers (solicit strangers to run through the mountains with you! It’s fun!) but we couldn’t get the timing right. In the end, I’m here on a Wednesday, because I quit my job and I’m about to embark on a months-long road trip and I want to make the most of this time. Despite my desire to do the PB loop, I haven’t lost sight of this; I am trying to enjoy the luxury of having time to romp in the mountains in the middle of the week. Today was really about just getting out, so I had crafted a Plan B, another shorter loop that was also on my bucket list. It was only 18 miles, in an area that I’ve had largely positive experiences and felt fairly comfortable. I just hadn’t chosen which plan I was going with when I got in the car. A or B. It was still dark, but just barely, as I got to the Peak to Peak Highway. It’s the moment of truth; right or left. Go Big with Pawnee, or go…less big at Rollins Pass. A million pros and cons run through my head. One big sigh and I turn left.
So that’s the first time I cry. Coward.
I pull into the large parking lot at Moffet Tunnel, most definitely not the location of the PB loop start. There is one car in the parking lot. Shit. Fear creeps in. It did not occur to me that one of the things I found comforting here is that it’s a pretty popular spot, but it’s 6am on a Wednesday. Not the weekend. I wait, because after all I don’t need to start this early. This loop shouldn’t take nearly as long to complete and I’ll have no problem getting off the divide well before noon. Plus, I consider the aforementioned perfect weather forecast. So I wait for more cars trickle in. It isn’t a good wait, because I get to spend that time chewing myself out for turning left. Plan A would have been a rough day, I would have been scared the entire time, and yeah, something bad actually could happen, but man…I’d have felt so damn proud.
It gets brighter out and a few more people arrive to the trailhead, get out of their cars with no hesitation, no expressed fear, and start up the trail. Including solo women. And here I am, giving myself a pep talk to start Plan B, the Plan that was already a cop-out, the Plan that was the Comfort Plan. I gather my wits and my things and I shut the car door, hoping that others scare away any wildlife and that doesn’t become my job. I take out the bear bell just in case (have I ever seen bears here? No! Am I particularly scared of bears? Not usually!). Nerves are high, but I start.
Up the trail I go, like I’m moving through honey, or maybe something less sweet. I know this trail well; I have been up here more than once this year alone. I pass railroad tracks, I pass the abandoned shack (blue, with red trim), I pass the meadow, the Forest Lakes Trail fork, the Crater Lakes Trail turn off, and up, up, up we go. Slowly. I blame it on the nerves, which is probably actually correct right now, because I’m not just fighting gravity but I’m fighting my instincts too. My gut just wants to stay home, under a warm blanket, curled up on the couch, waste away my life. So much advice is around listening to your gut but my gut is a fucking liar and it wants me to be someone that I don’t want to be. (Solve that, Therapist!)
I do eventually make it to the first lake, and I feel better. A lot better, in fact. My favorite space in the high country is right at tree line. The world opens up, and you can see all the varied, textured landscape spread out below, with a backdrop of jagged mountain tops just within reach. There are clusters of stubby little trees dispersed throughout fields of alpine grass and dainty little flowers and I can see the trail beyond, cutting up to Roger’s Pass. Something close to joy creeps in, but I have a lot of miles ahead of me today still. I continue up, hiking the best I can up the steep pass, hoping that at the very least I can get a Personal Best on the Roger’s Pass Segment (I did!).
At the top, I’m rewarded with expansive views to the east and west. I’ve been up here a few times before, so I’m maybe less in awe than usual, but this is the first time I’ll continue north on the CDT. I have always wanted to take that trail; I’ve eyed it every time I’m up here, wanting to follow the narrow little path as far as it goes, just me and the high alpine landscape, not quite on top of the world, but on top of my own little one. So now I do. The fear has dissipated slightly, though I start to get nervous about how close to the ridge this trail may go - I don’t know! It’s new to me. New is nerves. I get to discover, but with that, comes anxiety. I let myself feel a little more bliss though. Along the CDT I jog - now I’m not moving particularly fast because I’m at 12,000 feet - and I come across a middle-aged woman carrying a large backpack. We say hello. She asks me what I’m doing all the way up here and I say “running” and probably something about enjoying the mountains in all their glory. I find out that she is thru hiking the CDT. I am in awe. She is also, apparently, in awe of me, and I don’t understand. With good tidings, we bid farewell and I continue northward, very very alone.
For what seems like forever.
From Roger’s Pass, the CDT looks like a thin but constant line ripping across the wide flowing ridge line but in reality, it’s merely a suggestion. The thought of a trail. I lose it repeatedly in the next mile, constantly looking at my GPS to see if I’m in the right vicinity. It becomes clear the trail does not really exist here, only in fits and starts. I find myself hiking across the uneven terrain, picking my way around divots and rocks, unable to run much, until I find the next stretch of a buffed-out line. A few times, I traverse fairly close to the edge, where the rolling landscape suddenly drops off into a sharp cliff of exposed rock, plummeting to lakes and cirques below. I mostly avoid the edge, but a few times I creep closely to peer over, both scared and in reverence. It’s magnificent up here and I want to enjoy it but in comes the intrusive thoughts, the fear that the wind will carry me away over the edge, depositing me into the crushed rock below. I will my body onward, take a few running steps, and fumble again on the uneven terrain. Over and over.
A thing that I think sometimes: if I could hate myself into being faster, I’d win the goddamn Olympics.
Academically, I know this is a hard route. If I had never conceived of Plan A, I would feel good about this. But I dream big and when I fail to do things, I’m just left with disappointment, even when I still do things I could be proud of. I’m trying to make more realistic goals, to lessen the disconnect between who I am and who I want to be, but it’s not solving much. Ultimately, I want to be someone who can do big things (and I have! Four Pass loop might be harder than PB Loop - and I did that! I was a nervous wreck). I want to be someone who isn’t hyper fixated on the slim possibility of something going wrong. Time and time again I tell myself this. If you want to do things, DO THEM! If only it were that easy. If only I could turn down the fear dial.
The running does get easier, up on the divide, and the fear dial turns down with it, just a hair. I connect with Rollins Pass Road, and from here I spot the confluence of the High Lonesome Trail and Kings Lake Trail, the next mountain over, part of my favorite trail running loop in the high country. Seeing the tiny trails that I’ve been on, off in the distance from way up high makes me feel…something. Maybe power. I follow the road back east, moving even faster as the rocky 4x4 road snakes down the mountain. I still haven’t seen anyone, other than a few intrepid Jeeps far away at the western Rollins Pass terminus. I eventually find my junction with Forest Lake Trail, which is somewhat of a reprieve and somewhat not; I’m getting closer to the finish, and I should see more people, I hope, but the terrain gets more shut in again. The road felt safe, especially up high where I could really see my surroundings. Here, the fear comes back but at least I’m on the way down. I pick my way along the rocky trail, once again losing the ability to run, and once again losing the trail.
I stop by one of the many accurately named Forest Lakes, stopping my watch and settling down on a perch by the shore. The light dances across the shimmering water, mesmerizing, and I find myself shedding more tears. Mostly, I am frustrated that I’m not done by now, that I have been plagued by fear and slowness but it’s also maybe a little less about the run and a little more about the messiness of my life at the time. It’s probably good for me. So I cry as I eat some pretzels and listen to the water lap against the rocks. Then it’s time for the final stretch.
Here, in the dense forest and rocky lakes, it’s hard to get back on track. This is my cautionary tale to download a map of the trail - this I had done and it saves me when I get farther off course among the boulders, trees, and lakes. Once I get through the lakes though, it’s smooth sailing on a real, solid trail. I do my best to pick up the pace, 15 miles in now, just trying to get back. Quicker on familiar trail, even quicker more as I pass smiling hikers with a wave.
This does not have a happy ending, where I learn to appreciate my accomplishments and feel proud about this big solo adventure. Instead, I finish my run relieved but frustrated, loathing myself for not trying the Pawnee-Buchanan Pass Loop, for feeling so much fear, and for moving so slow. My mind is in my way, again, and I’m supposed to be above it, so I feel shame about that, too. With every accomplishment, the goal posts move. I can see this, but I can’t feel it. Yet. If only I could just be happy.
My journey lately, now, one year later, has been a bit different. My life is almost never about seeing the light, finding the silver lining, appreciating and loving my accomplishments in the moment. That’s not me. Sometimes the best way I can love myself is to accept the negativity and shame and mental challenges because the dark builds up the landscape of our world just as much as the light. It’s a gift to exist; sorrow, fear, shame, anger, everything. Everything as far as the eye can see.