Highway 114 to Cottonwood Pass: July 5th - July 9th, 2025
* Day 1: Get out of the cabin by 6:05 AM; our easy days at Twin Lakes come to an end. Susan's mom and dad drive us the hour down to Poncha Springs, and we hug goodbye feeling so grateful that they made sure we could be part of the family trip. First step: coffee and bagel sandwiches from the FlaminGo food truck. Second step: hitchhike further to Saguache. We've barely even posted up under the highway sign when a Dodge cargo van pulls over and a van-lifer says he can take us there. He's a paramedic from Austin with a 16-year-old dog who gets to mostly set his own schedule and spends a lot of time in the area; he really likes the FlaminGo. The FlaminGo is a place of good fortune. The interior of the van is wood-paneled with care and sports a few nice paintings. The driver makes a reference to previously having a wife, but I leave that stone unturned. Susan's in the back, sitting on the floor; at least she has more space than when we were both tessellated in the trunk of the Subaru for family trips to Leadville. After 40 minutes of pleasant conversation he drops us off at the convenience store in Saguache, where we also got dropped off 4 days ago. Third step: hitchhike to the trailhead on Highway 114. We stop in to get some of that good, dry, crispy, green-chile beef jerky, New Mexico-style carne seca, but the bathroom is closed. Serendipity strikes again - while we're using the bathrooms at the public park, Susan starts talking to the local librarian and he quickly offers a ride back to the trail. His old CRV doesn't have back seats, so Susan sits on the floor. She has a really impressive streak of not getting to use a seat belt as a passenger. He tells us about how this job and even a house in Saguache "fell into his lap", and it sounds like his life is really going in a good direction. Saguache sounds like a nice little town. So by a little after 10 AM we're back on Highway 114, .3 miles across from where we popped out on the 1st. Never would've guessed we'd make it all the way here in just 2 short hours. Time to start hiking. We keep rolling through the Cochetopa Hills, a little higher, around 11,000 to 11,600 feet, but still below treeline. The Sun is bold by the month of July and beams down with intention, loosening the dust and releasing the hot-pine smell of fire-weather. Thankfully Razor Creek still trickles along. The mosquitoes are bold, too, enough of them awakened and hungry that bites from even 1 out of 10 would be too much to put up with. The south-bound CT hikers trickle along, too, and Susan doesn't trust their warnings about a dearth of campsites. They tend not to see as much as her. Alpine bluebells fluoresce against dark-green brushy undergrowth. We manage to go about 13.5 miles, not too shabby for a day that involved 3 separate rides to the trailhead. Should set us up well to get to Monarch Pass.
Rain forms over the higher peaks behind us
* Day 2: Woke up and started hiking happy to have put a big hill behind us yesterday. Uneventful ambling through the forest until we pop out at Sargents Mesa and get our best look yet at the upcoming Collegiate Peaks, which also amble themselves, north and slightly west, great grey pyramids still with some traces of snow. Mt. Ouray, Chipeta Mountain, and Pahlone Peak stand much closer, close enough that we debate whether we'll have to go through them before Monarch Pass, bald slopes reminding us that this recent stint below treeline js the exception, not the rule. We head a little off trail, across the field to visit the Soldier Stone. Some CT hikers tipped us off that it was worth a look. Here stands a granite obelisk dedicated to the fallen, of all nations, of the Vietnam War and other "long wars lost". Around the obelisk are scattered polished, grey granite slabs, inscribed with writing in various languages, seemingly in tribute to the countries burdened by this conflict. I can mostly read the French ones and they all seem to point to the futility of war. Ammo boxes huddle at the base, under the coins and bullets tucked into small grooves of the obelisk; Susan and I rifle through the amalgam of paraphernalia they contain - unit insignia patches, log books, photos, potential cremation remains, a booklet of Vietnamese phrases like "Are you hiding a weapon?" and "Where are they keeping the prisoners?" We quietly head back to the trail through clusters of cheery pastel-purple asters with dark-yellow centers, grappling with the problem of honoring our veterans while detesting the wars they fight and the things they have to do. More uneventful hiking; I think we're on a ridge but the dense pines and groves of aspen obscure views down to the San Luis Valley. Having to carry more water these days. While taking a break a CT hiker, an Irish man who's lived in the US for 20 years, stops to chat and bemoans how Irish culture is dying out because of all the immigrants they've accepted recently. We push back on this, and he assures us that asylum seekers in Ireland are given houses and can live entirely off social welfare for the rest of their lives. I'm gonna have to fact-check that - it could come in handy later. We wish each other happy trails and Susan and I slog up another 900-foot hill - why do these keep popping up at the end of the day? Mt. Ouray looms large and sharp, now, over the top of Headwaters Hill, a triple-divide point for the Arkansas, Rio Grande, and Colorado rivers. We take the piss a little by using a small, slanty campsite next to a trickling spring, but it's the only source of water for 7 miles behind us and 6 miles ahead. Almost 18 miles today, and still over 15 to go tomorrow, 2 more than I expected - I mixed up the length of this section with the next one. The gurgling spring is better for sleep than numbers.
Mt. Ouray and tall peaks appear across Sargents Mesa
* Day 3: We get a resupply and a shower today, something to look forward to and get us out of the tent a little earlier. Mount Ouray stands shady in the morning, still dark and waking up, in contrast to the bright green fields already basking in the sun's glow. Hike through Marshall Pass to a much-anticipated vault toilet, and some CT section hikers insist on giving us some chocolate. Continue hiking through rolling forest ridge, upstream against a steadily-increasing flow of mountain bikers coming from Monarch Pass. Thank goodness we weren't here over the weekend, because by the end of even this Monday 30 or more of them have whizzed past, heading south. The trail climbs out of treeline for a while and we see why the bikers all love it here: tall, barren peaks across the pass stand resolute along the skyline while meadows speckled with white, yellow, red, and purple wildflowers unfurl below. We get down to Monarch Pass a little earlier than expected and switch into plan-mode. Weather? Distance? Resupply? Transportation on the far end? Butterfly House hostel? Spend an embarrassing amount of money on resupply food at the Monarch Crest store, but convenience has a price and we're willing to pay. This way we don't have to bother getting to/from Salida, and next hitch a few miles down the pass to the hostel. One of the mountain bikers from earlier gives the ride; good thing we yielded to him. Butterfly House is a slightly sprawling collection of cabins, bunk houses, and repurposed vehicles, and we spend some time interpreting the check-in instructions before a friendly fellow hiker helps us out with some directions. Daddy Long Legs, a CDT hiker we met back in Lake City, is actually staying here as well, so we head to the bunk-cabin she's in and settle in. Despite the apparent chaos the place has every little detail a hiker could want and facilities are in good repair; it's apparent the owner still cares for it angreat deal. There's towels and fresh sheets ready to grab, a working washer/dryer right in the cabin, and a hot shower. We head back up to the main lodge after getting cleaned up and Mandy is very friendly, helps make space for us at the table surrounded by other hikers. Beer flows liberally from a tap above the sink. Mandy and her husband are from Texas and on the CT southbound, their first long hike. Catnip and Happy Hour are on the CT south, doing 25+ mile days. Annu, a guy who actually gave us some extra food from his resupply box up at Monarch Crest, rolls in; he's hiking the Collegiate Loop clockwise. Daddy LL is the only other CDT hiker. Word arrives that one of the caretakers is here to work the food truck and make us all burgers, so everyone eagerly piles outside and gets their order written down. Susan notices there's an expired food license from 2018 in the window of the truck. The burgers come out and the giant plastic pitcher of beer reappears and Susan and I sit at different wooden picnic tables, taking the chance to talk to people besides each other. I overhear Susan saying some things about climbing, while Happy Hour eagerly talks about the Colorado Trail and other hikes he's done, and the Texan guy shows several pictures and videos from his phone. I dispatch my double-hamburger with ease despite the warning of how big it is. 9 o'clock rolls around and it's past everybody's bedtime so we all part ways in the blue dusk. Susan's single hamburger didn't quite fill her up, but the popcorn hiding in the cupboard turns out to be rancid so she has to settle for food dreams. I stay up too late on my phone.
* Day 4: Wake up at 5:40 AM, get ready to go, strip our beds, and out the door just after 6. The food truck isn't doing breakfast due to a lack of staffing and the fact that the CT hiker bubble has yet to ooze its way this far down the trail. Thankfully the Monarch Lodge up the highway opens its restaurant for breakfast starting at 6 AM, and we're all the better off for it. We're each served a generous portion of French toast, two eggs, and three pieces of bacon; the toast is a perfect crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, rich with powdered sugar and syrup and butter. We get refills on our coffee. Outside hang several hummingbird feeders and we get to spend breakfast watching at least a dozen flit around, just oval bodies and delicate beaks rendered slightly hazy by wings that operate in a probabilistic cloud, fast as electrons. I hope we can be like these hummingbirds today. Theoretically 19 miles and over 4000 feet of vert to get to the camping at Tincup Pass, although we will take some shortcuts. Shortcut 1 is to just keep following the forest road up and up an alpine basin, rejoining the trail just under treeline and avoiding a bunch of gratuitous switchbacks. Run into a SOBO CDT hiker, our first encounter with one of the folks who jumped up to Wyoming and started coming south to stay busy while the CO snow melted out, and have a really pleasant conversation about the trail and his brother. Small lakes sparkle cerulean under craggy Sewanee Peak. Over the pass to sprawling alpine meadows around Chalk Creek - it's been a while since we had this much time above the trees. We follow a rail-to-trail to the now-collapsed alpine tunnel that caused plenty of heartburn for the old Denver-South Park-Durango line (and the deaths of many workers), now almost unrecognizable except for the easy uphill grade and exposed rail ties that show through at some intervals, grey as the stone, nearly fossils. Wildflowers pop all around the gentle green valleys as we climb through more passes and reveal ever more bare, rocky pyramids in the distance. Pass Marmot, another CDT hiker going north; she's 70 years old and first hiked the trail in 1996. Cred. We complain about Republican schemes to sell off our public lands and she takes an instant liking to Susan. Conversations with the CDT folks genuinely just feel more enjoyable, on a much more aligned wavelength. We roll down a series of very gentle and extremely well-constructed switchbacks to Chalk Creek, near Tincup Pass, my watch showing only about 16.5 miles; thanks, shortcuts! It's busy there - 4 tents up already. Briefly consider joining a group of 3 tents but quickly decline and quite literally hide in the woods, navigating back to a tucked-away little site in the duff under a cluster of tall lodgepoles, close enough to hear the creek. But when Daddy LL hikes by we're happy to see her and invite her to camp nearby. Our stove attracts mosquitoes and Susan finds a surprise - she pulls her bug-net out of its little orange pouch only for a highland coo to tumble out with it! It's a little souvenir I got from Glen Coe the last time we were in Scotland, where later the midges bit up Susan's mom's face. How appropriate that it would make an appearance when we're fighting clouds of bugs, seems like good luck.
Hummingbirds show us how it's done at daybreak
* Day 5: Need to make it to Cottonwood Pass by 6 PM to meet Kim, who very generously offers hikers rides in the Buena Vista area and is our ticket into town. 4 mountain passes and an extra hill stand between here and there. The first one is the biggest, a plethora of switchbacks that climb up away from Chalk Creek and the pines below. Today will be almost entirely above treeline, the first such day we've had in a while, and we hope the forecast is accurate that there might be only scattered showers, no thunderstorms. Over the next pass we traverse the cirque between Emma Burr Mountain and Mount Kreutzer, and I have trouble watching where to put my feet because the great dark crags of the wall between them keep capturing my eyes. Reminds me of the Scottish Highlands. Dark volcanic rock that looks chossy but has calved some pretty big, wacky boulders now jumbled beneath the headwall. The water flows much more freely up here; seasonal streams still splash down the rocky grooves they've cut through the alpine meadows. Eventually we crest pass 3 and round a corner to be treated to a very different view: a broad valley stretching for miles, cradling the Taylor Park Reservoir, with the Elk Mountains far removed to the north west. The western slopes of the Collegiate Peaks drawls on ahead, blanketed by thick, dark forest that terminates neatly beneath the bare summits. Finally the last hill is behind us and the serpentine Highway 306 comes into view, the glisten of parked cars beckoning us towards Cottonwood Pass. We arrive shortly after 5 and idly pass about 40 minutes before our oh-so-kind lift down the hill recognizes us by our hiking clothes and invites us in. She's retired and points out the large and new ranch estate where she and her husband live now, on the outskirts of Buena Vista. Apparently pronounced "Byoona Vista" because the original locals didn't like sounding too Spanish. Kim points out the corral where they raise miniature horses to provide rides and a petting zoo for disabled children. Sounds like a lot of people have moved in since COVID started the remote-work boom. The librarian in Saguache told us housing is really expensive here. She drops us at the Topaz Lodge, by far the cheapest place in town, and Susan and I happily settle in to the worn but clean 1950's-era room. All we really want is some Domino's pizza (inspired by her parents' recollections of "Domino's Death Disks" from college and the number of advertisements we've absorbed from watching so much TV), but they aren't doing delivery. It's $65 to get two medium Domino's pizzas and desert off DoorDash. So we prepare to drop $50 on "artisan" pizzas from a food truck literally across the street, but he's closing down as we walk up just past 7 PM. Finally land on a different pizza restaurant with fairly priced and honestly pretty good pies. Orded takeout and Susan walks back to take a shower while I try to walk to a convenience store. Except it's not actually a gas station c-store, but a touristy candy shop that closed already. I walk farther and cross the throngs of traffic on US Highway 24 to get to a grocery store, where a fair number of shelves are bare and they don't seem to have any refrigerated Gatorade-esque drinks. Feeling kinda grumpy. But luckily Susan has the pizza by the time I get back and things quickly improve from there. A shower helps, too. Weird vibes from Buena Vista. About 80 miles over the last 5 days - I think the new shoes are broken in.
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