Day 1: What we carry with us, what we walk away from

We wake up at 6, a mix of excited and hesitant and bleary (I was waging a holy war against the air conditioner most of the night). Breakfast is the weird hotel continental thing, the chairs too large so they bump against each other under the table. On TV, Fox New is reporting on a poll that Trump is tied with Hillary, and the boys next to us slurp their oatmeal in the most grating way.

We are out on the trail a bit after 8. We haul over to the big Colorado Trail sign for our first photo of the trail, and a huge-bearded man biking with a baby cart stops and offers to take a photo. He wants to tell us about his friend who had 15 years of corporate life, then quit his job to be a backpacker and ski bum after one thru hike of the Colorado Trail. The big bearded guy says that he, too, has pretty much given up on work to spend all his time outdoors now.

I wonder if there is some symbolism in this story, but maybe it's not so much symbolism as a simple reality: lots of people come out to this trail seeking great change to their lives, sometimes not even knowing what that change needs to be, and then sometimes the answer upends their comfortable lives. Maybe, at least in part, the trail teaches that it's OK to be uncomfortable.

I don't know. I'm not sure what the trail needs to teach me, at least not yet.

The first six miles are gentle and easy, walking on a dirt road by the South Platte River. We settle at a black picnic table at 10:30, I am already starving and need to pee. I devour a cheese stick, almonds and a Snickers, while Granite nibbles a Kind bar and some almonds.

I talk about work. Of course? I enumerate frustrations, hopes. I wonder about people and opportunities and the future. I'm like a lot of people in the nonprofit world—I got in relatively young, hungry to use my whole life to change the world. And now it's most of a decade later, I'm tired, and I'm humbled. I'm looking ahead and wondering if this is everything, if this is really the sum of my life's work, and feeling guilty for wanting anything more. I ask Granite, "Do you think I'll think less about work, later on in the trail?" 

He's noncommittal.

The wide road eventually curves up, where there is a dam cascading water and a friendly couple who tell us about their 7 kids, including the one with big dreams and uncertain execution skills.

Now, finally, a bit after 6 miles, we start an ascent. It's already close to noon and the heat is intense. I loop my grey bandana over my neck to shield my skin from the scalding sun, and the heat envelopes us like a dry sauna. The trail isn't so steep and the path is for the most part sandy and walkable. The trees create a dappled canopy above, and Granite says that he's thanking each one individually. The breeze comes and goes, and I'm thankful the the coolness, for the slight break from the heat.

We climb a few more miles to arrive at Bear Creek. There are big, backcountry campsites here—fire rings and flat earth. There's enough space for 10 tents, but it's just us and a very quiet girl. Her name is Kellie Marie. She is carrying a 10-year-old Chihuahua in a pouch. She says the dog is named Hermione and weighs 5 pounds.

We thought we'd camp here, but it's only 12:30. It seems wasteful to lie around all day when there are mountains to climb. I soak my feet in icy water and eat a bit.

So we leave the girl and her big pack and tiny dog behind, promising to see her tonight at the river, the next water source. I give her some leukotape for her bad blisters and tell her that her trail name should be Koala, for no particular reason. She smiles and says she likes it.

The next few miles are awesome. My feet feel like nothing after a lunchtime soak in the cold stream, and my pack feels fine. The curve of the trail is reasonable, something I feel I can handle. The nervousness, the awkward uncertainty, starts fading. I feel powerful, perhaps? Like I can do this.

The next water source is at mile 16, which would make a longer first day than we intended. But our feet are happy and our mood is curious, so we head on. Here and there, the trees break for a moment and we can see gentle mountains, thick with ponderosa pine. We climb for a few miles, then skirt along the ridge.

By mile 14, my feet are complaining and even my incessant snacking isn't keeping my energy up. The last 2 miles down to the river (the South Platte, we meet again) are painful. I'm hungry, achy, and finished.

"I'm done with this hill," I say.

"No you're not. Or it's not done with you," Granite teases.

"I'm emotionally done with this hill," I amend.

But isn't this moment, this foot-achy, tired, hungry mile, isn't this exactly what I wanted? Because it's hard to tune it out. The reality beats in on my consciousness. I am constantly reminded that I am here, and when I step away mentally it's purposeful, intentional, and brief.

We arrive at a wide river and there are maybe 8 people camping here already. The first guy we see waves us to the nearest campsite and we drop our packs. Granite wants dinner (he barely ate today) but I need to soak my feet. We hurry down to the river and I strip off my pants, I don't care about the boys on the bank. I wade in past my knees.

My legs are covered in mottled heat rash. Red sand paper, pinprick sensations, from my ankles to my upper thigh. Damn.

I keep my legs submerged to the thigh by dropping awkwardly onto a rock in front of Granite. We stay there, him dangling his feet in and collecting water, until I can't feel by heartbeat in my legs.

Now the day is glorious. The heat abates, the smell of sage is everywhere, the clouds paint wild swirls across the sky, and the Western sun shoots beams of golden light through the clouds and onto the red cliff face and the pine trees.

We wander back to heat water for dinner, light headed and a bit achy. Then we curl up on my foam sleeping pad and wait as the sun sets, both of us crammed onto one sleeping pad to avoid the carpet of thorns and rough grasses surrounding us, our bodies overlapping. Granite teases me for acting like campground manager and moving a late comer in to the last camping spot while planning what to do when the 3 groups behind us—including Hermione and Koala—show up. But they don't come.

The sunset it grey and soft mauve and purple shot with gold, and we agree to sleep with the rainfly off. We're going to try 16 miles again tomorrow, to get to the next reliable water source.