I-70 to Grand Lake: July 23rd - July 28th, 2025
* Day 0: Zero day in Dillon. The Super 8 actually has a waffle station so breakfast is "elevated". That's a word we've learned from having Food Channel on the TV for literally about 10 hours straight. Maybe we expect to absorb some calories through the airwaves. Guy Fieri doesn't take himself too seriously and makes a lot of bad puns so he's my new favorite celebrity food personality. Second breakfast at the Blue Moon Bakery is actually elevated, a delicious lox bagel heaped with cream cheese, and a couple espressos. Susan is on a hunt for new underwear but strikes out at Sierra, although I snag a bunch of food we didn't come in there for and we also leave equipped with bear spray. Next stop is US Bank, and then to REI - this is the most amenities we've seen in a town in ages. But REI only sells women's underwear online. Make a proper grocery run at City Market and stock up on enough food to avoid leaving the hotel room again. Leftover pizza and teriyaki beef bowls and banana pudding and potato salad and bao all disappear throughout the afternoon. Every time we run the microwave it squeaks and groans and builds itself into a high-pitched whine but suddenly quiets after a minute, deciding not to explode after all. Susan ends up getting underwear from TJ Maxx. I haven't shaved since starting the hike, and while the full beard probably isn't going to materialize I do finally trim the moustache because the whiskers curling past my lip and into my mouth are quite distracting. I'm way behind on the blog because my phone died partway through the last section but still procrastinate writing the last bits and preparing it. So many other little chores and things to focus on. Our plans for the next section stay flexible because of uncertainty in the weather, but I really hope to take another ridge detour that culminates in an actual scramble up James Peak. Regardless, I stay up too late writing, given the chunk we need to knock out tomorrow and the fact that it might be difficult to hitch back up I-70. Still indulge in a second shower, though.
Food food food food
* Day 1: I moved the alarm back because I was up too late, and Susan never minds the excuse to snooze a bit longer, so we don't get to breakfast til about 7. Always checking the forecast, and it changes every time we look. Take the signs Susan made from a cardboard Bobos box and post up right at the on-ramp for I-70 east, hoping someone won't mind hauling us a few exits along on their way to Denver. Every time we leave the hotel room the two summits of Buffalo Mountain and Red Peak capture my eyes, a round bald dome on the left and a ridgy fin on the right, perfectly cleaved by an elegant valley that offers passing motorists a chance to wonder at what might be hidden up there. After about 40 minutes a pickup pulls over, but we get to ride in the cab this time because the bed is taken up by a mountain bike. The driver is a dealer for Dynafit products and tells us about how much climbing ropes cost now because of tariffs. As if that hobby wasn't expensive enough... Hiking out of the trailhead at exit 218 by 10 AM - not too bad. Briskly back to business on the CDT - at least in CO, whenever the trail hits a highway that means you gotta go immediately up 1,000 - 3,000 feet on the other side. The parking lot nearly overflows with cars and we quickly see why, as the trail leading up Herman Gulch opens up to panoramic views of the slowly unrolling valley and the tall, sharp peaks that bound its upper reaches. Wildflowers shine abundant on either side, still bright with summer colors. Unfortunately wildfire smoke also hangs in the air, casting a haze that's tough to tell apart from rain under thr billowing clouds and making it noticeably harder to breath. We turn off onto a trail towards Vasquez Peak and are suddenly alone again, the droves of day-hikers content to remain lower down. Hike up and up until finally attaining the ridge at a series of unnamed peaks. A pretty decent stretch of exposed hiking stands before us now, and the skies already show signs of turning dark and cross. We continue onward along the ridge, and start catching rumbles of thunder every so often. Wind rushes towards the great dark mass forming just a little bit down the valley from us, and we hem and haw about whether to keep walking. There's not exaclty anywhere near to hide. But a particularly forceful blast of cold air convinces me that we ought to try at least a little bit of hiding, so we duck down to the leeward side, against a snowbank, and suit up in all the rain gear. It doesn't take long for the spitting rain to turn to light hail. Thunder grows louder. Down the valley, towards Vasquez and Stanley peaks, the storm has found a target for its fury, hanging a pummeling column of water overhead. Susan points out that's where our trail eventually leads and it's probably good we're not farther along. Shortly after making a comment about how it could be mostly cloud-to-cloud lighting, we start to see flickering white tongues branch down towards a ridge close enough to make you wonder "Wait, what if that happened over here?" The thunder cracks and peals now, the lightning close enough that the air is still torn apart by the time it reaches our ears. A particularly angry cloud, the bottom frothing with grey tendrils, seems to be growing in our direction, eager to expand the storm's domain. For the life us we can't tell which way the storm is going, but do know that it stopped raining where we are and the trail leads mostly downhill, so we make a break for it. And behold, the storm moves off, leaving the upper reaches of Stanley Mountain covered in a thick white coat of hail, and the sky slowly morphs from spent-grey to mostly-blue. Our trail finally starts to descend along the flanks of Vasquez Peak, which is good because another round looks to be brewing off to the west. The Henderson Mine below gives off a steady turbine-drone and we're happy to stay above it, collecting water that isn't questionably metallic. Enormous grey granite boulders stand in meadows and forests along the way, ancients with thick moss now that they've calmed their rolling ways. Roll into camp after what feels like an eternity but really we made pretty good time on the nearly 16 miles and thousands of feet of uphill today. A day of uncertainty tomorrow. The hum of the mine below, faint yet unwavering, is certain; if that ever stops it probably means something bad has happened.
Hitchhiking at the I-70 on-ramp
* Day 2: Today starts immediately with a steep hill smack in the face; either I need to be more jacked on caffeine or I need to be basically sleepwalking, but sadly I land somewhere in the middle and my functioning consciousness knows that this a tough way to wake up. 1000 slow vertical feet brings us to the top of Stanley Mountain. In the clear morning a classic golden sunrise slowly illuminates the peaks and valleys. We come to the top of the ridge, finished with our brief stint barely below the trees at 11,400 feet. We must truly be getting farther north because treeline is dropping - 11,400 used to be solidly within the forest but now it's on the fringes - but I'll believe it when we see a "Welcome to Wyoming" sign. Start to pass some dayhikers, and remember it's a pleasant Friday morning near a popular trailhead accessible from Winter Park and really even Denver. Then we reverse course from this morning, and rapidly drop down to Berthoud Pass. There's a whole plaza paved with tan stone, complete with benches, info boards, a big "Continental Divide" sign, and an even bigger warming hut outfitted with composting toilets. The parking lot is full and waves of hikers and vacationers come and go from the trailhead. Certainly a comfortable spot to hang out, so we dawdle there too long, filtering water and checking the forecast, before finally joining the parties slogging up Flora Peak. Climb number 2 of the day, less steep but more stretched out. Small talk with some of the day hikers, big views - Grays and Torreys stand proudly to the south, and the great ridge of the divide stretches on north, cliffs emerging sporadically from the brown rubble summits. At the top we leave the crowds, striking out along the crest; I've convinced Susan to take an alternate path over the 3 peaks in front of us instead of the normal trail down and around. We'll meet it again at the summit of James Peak. On paper, it sounds like fun (in fact, our paper maps call it "classic and cool"), staying on the Divide proper, rambling up and over several more peaks, and getting a little bit of scrambling in on the way up to James. In practice, the talus underfoot soon becomes tiresome, sharp angles that make you either tilt your ankle to an odd angle or take an edge to the bottom of your foot. Sometimes both. Down steeply to the next saddle, braking with the trekking poles pointed out in front, and then up Mount Eva on the other side. Only about 9 miles in but I'm already kinda beat; I guess this is already the 3rd mountain today. Wreckage from an old power line tower lays strewn about at the summit, rusting sheet metal and fallen and tangled metal piping and concrete foundation that's now just more rocks for pika. Plop down near the summit and watch another group of pika dart and scurry and make off with bouquets of grass and flowers their own size over again in their mouths. The big question right now is where the hell to get water and set up the tent. We had a decent enough weather outlook, but now dark clouds start to gather around Parry Peak, the next in our line of summits, and I feel like it would take me forever and a day to get to the top. Maybe we can go down off the summit of Eva, but we'd have to climb it all over again tomorrow. Settle for going down to the next saddle and then to the west to look for water. Descend down grassy slopes about another 500 feet, drop the packs at the least-slanted 15 sq. feet we can find, strike out with the first snowpatch, and go down about another 300 feet to find some gently trickling water. Only 11 miles today but it's been a lot of up and down and hopefully we can get an early start tomorrow. The threatening storms blow around but never quite arrive on our little patch of turf. Grateful for that because with the tent pitched above treeline there's not much between the us and the force of the heavens; we pre-emptively guyed out the tent. On my last trip out of our shelter I stand awestruck for a moment at the dynamic sunset - cold, hard, blue clouds butting up against a burning orange horizon, dropping waves of mist in an attempt to blot out the sun in this battle of fire and water where the mountains, at least, win out with their share of moisture. Of course, after half an hour this storm finally finds us, and I'm awakened to the violent trembling and flapping of the tent. We oriented the tent east-west, in line with the prevailing winds, so obviously this blows in from the south. The poles bend and flex inward under the buffeting winds; Susan pulls up the weather and it says the winds here should be nice and calm. I lay awake watching the fabric convulse, wishing my earplugs worked better, and finally catch a face-full of rainfly as one corner caves completely inward. But nothing breaks and that's the worst of it; the tent continues to shake and shiver in the breeze all night, yet never deforms so much again. But it's hard to sleep when you worry your shelter might flatten on top of you.
Looking out on the way up Eva
* Day 3: Big day today. At 4 AM the lights of Winter Park twinkle and glitter like a host of fallen stars caught in the inky valley, while lonely headlights wind down the banked curves of Highway 40. Much like yesterday - start by hiking up a mountain first thing. Back to the saddle under Eva, then farther along to Parry Peak. Across the summit of Bancroft, where the ridge switches to run east-west. We start getting glimpses of the last cliffy section to James Peak, alternatively convinced it won't be too bad and nervous that it might be too tough with overnight packs on. But as we descend to the final saddle a use-path appears and guides through the easiest passage of the first cliff. Bypass a spire on the west. And then a final rocky bit of low-angle ramps and ledges with good grip on layered gneiss. I go through a couple steeper parts just for kicks, and remember how much fun it can be using your whole body to climb up a mountain. Smiles as we arrive at the meadows beneath the summit just a half-hour later. Loch Lomond sparkles below, adorned with a few lakes circled around it like blue moons. An easy trail leads to the summit of James Peak and we celebrate the last time on this trail when we'll be over 13,000 feet high. Bring on the oxygen. But not quite, because while we descend down the other side of James, it's just down to a lower ridge that we'll follow most of the rest of the day, between the 11,500 and 12,000 and still devoid of any shelter from storms. Great views, though - the bare chain of the Divide stretching so neatly north, eventually rising to the heights of the Indian Peaks Wilderness and Rocky Mountain National Park, which slowly morph from jagged silhouettes to a more rounded jigsaw of summits and valleys as we hike closer. Get through the initial bubble of day-hikers slogging up James from the north side, complete the obligatory switchbacks, and roll on along until finally reaching Rollins Pass. By now the sky is too clouded, too crowded, and the cumulus have started jostling into each other, getting angry and puffing up to be tall and dark grey. We plop down after the last uphill of note and debate whether any of the rolling storms will hit us. One particularly angry candidate strikes the ridge in the distance with lightning and crashes down thunder, dropping a cylindrical deluge thick enough to appear navy blue at a distance, and I think of a line from a Buddhist monk on King of the Hill. But it tracks to the north, probably about where we would have been if we hadn't sat dawdling - rewarded for our sloth. Finish out the ridge walking, trying to ignore the other storm bearing down out of the south. It's sunny here, at any rate. Past Devil's Thumb, and finally start dropping for real! Steeply but at least it brings us back to the trees in short order. And the trail descends comfortably farther than that, down to thick lodgepole forests where we wouldn't notice the blowing wind except for the whoosh through treetops. The last few miles drag on but we finally reach the intended campsite only to find it occupied. The occupant is on the phone and maybe says something about us sharing the space but I don't know how to talk to someone also on a phone call, let alone after hiking 18 miles and going over 3 mountains, so we skulk around the woods until finding a good runner-up on top of some lumpy pine roots. Freeze-dried meals simplify prep and cleanup and get us to bed faster. Nothing worse than a few sprinkles, today, so feeling pretty lucky about that, all storms considered.
The lights of Winter Park early in the morning
* Day 4: The bad news: we have to hike a long day again today. The good news: it's all down low and doesn't gain much elevation, so it should still be easier than yesterday. Other bad news: it's bloody *cold* here in the morning, even at the still air of 10,000 feet; humid from being around the creek, and the cold air gathered in this depression doesn't see much sunrise. As we leave in the morning frost coats some patches of ground; it could be worse. Descend even farther and the heat builds quickly from the clear sky; of all the days to have a clear, stable forecast, it's the one where trees protect us anyway. First we arrive to Monarch Lake, as the Indian Peaks seem ever taller and more abstract in the distance. The Indian Peaks Wilderness is part of why we have to go so long today; we're aiming for a sliver of coast along Lake Granby that managed to slip by un-wilded, and you need a special permit to camp anywhere in the IP Wilderness. I miscalculate distances on my watch and get grumpier at the never-ending 1-mile shoreline. As soon as we hit the lake we're vying for space among throngs of day users. The volunteer posted up at the cabin is very keen to know our trail names and even keener to have us sign the trail visitor log; I tell him we go by "The Raccoons". Don't hang around there too long because the next stop is much more appealing - a convenience store! Coke, ice cream sandwiches, and chips. Raccoon food. Talk with a nice guy from Des Moines on his first big road trip, mind blown by the towering Rockies summits, and by talking with strangers and finding out many Europeans get like 6 - 8 weeks of vacation a year. Walk just a bit farther before another stop, finally at Lake Granby, to dry out our tent and sleeping bags in the roasting afternoon sun. Well, at part of Lake Granby - Arapaho Bay - because you can't even see all the way to the other shore. But this is no pleasant walk on a flat beach; the trail undulates 100 feet higher before turning inland to take us over Knight Ridge. The views are rewarding but I'm ready to be done. Motor on along and happily pass the Wilderness Boundary sign, find that our planned camping isn't filled with raucous boaters, and enjoy dinner right on the shore. Manage to keep each other entertained as we prep and eat the ramen bombs one at a time from the Jetboil.
Looking back across to Arapaho Bay as we ascend Knight Ridge
Looking back up the valley as we descend in the morning
* Day 5: Still gets cold overnight, despite being even farther down. I blame all the water and moisture in the air. We're not technically along Lake Granby anymore, but a long, fat arm of the Colorado River that slowly assimilates into the Lake. Susan spots a few frosty patches as we start walking about 7 AM. Pass into Rocky Mountain National Park, more proof that we're actually making it north. On the lake, err, river, the glassy blue surface reflects a few puffs of morning clouds, undisturbed by wind or vessels. Connect with Shadow Lake and opt for what is actually a pleasant lakeside stroll among the folks enjoying a cool Sunday morning. Each step takes us closer to Grand Lake and a bevy of needed services. First stop - Blue Water Bakery, for second breakfast and coffee. And some delicious to-go pastries for tomorrow. Priorities. Grand Lake sits literally at the western entrance of RMNP, so it ain't a cheap place to stay, and we have to get to the KOA that sits outside of town. No TV for us, this time, but the cabins have 4 walls and a roof and that sounds just fine right about now. On the way out of town hit up a grocery store, a gear shop, the hiker box, and the second grocery store. In Grand Lake for about 3 hours and we've spent about $300. Wheeeeee! That cinnamon bread French toast this morning was definitely worth it. At the GL visitor center have a befuddling interaction with the hostess, who seems determined not to help but also determined not to say out loud she doesn't like us and we should leave. Mainly it was impossible to communicate that we showed up to town *without a car*. The last hill up the baking highway asphalt to the KOA, with grocery-bag backpacks, feels a lot harder than it is; I sweat more in those 10 minutes than I did on days 2 or 3 of this section. But the KOA is super nice, good facilities and common areas and even guest-use propane grills. I hope we have time to play some air hockey. Neighbors with the screaming red pickup with black trim are questionable, Susan overhears some pretty crude comments, and we keep to ourselves. Use the grills to make some hot dogs and Susan preps tomato and avocado to make some proper completos. 6 of them disappear easily. Pulled a short day today in anticipation of tomorrow's marathon - trying to hike the entire RMNP section in one day, albeit with lighter backpacks. Tents and sleeping bags are heavy. Suddenly I have to make decisions about what to pack, instead of just always throwing everything inside like every other time, so that takes a little thought. Also how to not squish the sandwiches. Forget bars, we're going on a day hike! Give me some real bread, meat, cheese, and veggies. Hustle to do laundry, going back and forth from the shower block in our rain gear because the town clothes are dirty. Don't mind me, sweating in Gore-Tex on a sunny July evening, this is totally normal. Try to get into bed early but someone plays country music loud enough to hear all over the campground. Quiet hours aren't til 10 PM - what's a raccoon to do when they're ready for bed at 7:30? I guess that one's our fault. Close most of the cabin windows because more than half our neighbors have smokey fires going in their firepits, and the campfire smell threatens to permeate our clean clothes and ruin the illusion that we're staying inside, damnit! Agree on tomorrow's strategy. Try to get as much sleep as we can before that early alarm.
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