14,265ft. & 14,060ft.
Elk Range
25 & 26/58

Prior to this past summer, I had never gone on a hike, of any scale, by myself. I hadn’t driven to a trailhead without another human in the vehicle. I hadn’t slept in my car, or set up a tent by myself at a trailhead or miles from a trailhead, or in a backyard for that matter.

I’d done each of those things with other people, but never alone. I hadn’t even entertained the idea.

But this summer found me determined to get out and away as much as possible, regardless of my ability to track down company. And that’s exactly what I did. By early July, I had successfully completed three solo 14ers, one of which included a night. alone in the backcountry. Over the course of a few weeks, a fear transformed into a comfort zone and I loved it. I soaked it in. I craved it.

I enjoyed the wide eyes of the group of six guys I met on Mount of the Holy Cross when they learned I was backpacking and climbing a 14er entirely on my own. I enjoyed the little nest I’d created, and slept in, in the back of my Subaru. And I enjoyed the friendships I built and maintained from every single one of those solo trips.

But for whatever reason, this day was different. There was something inside of me intensely dreading another solo trip. Maybe it was the trauma that ensued the first time I attempted Castle and Conundrum, (which I won’t get into here). Maybe it was the leg pain. Maybe it was the knowledge that this trail was more remote and more technical and attracted lighter traffic than any of the three mountains I’d previously climbed alone. Maybe it was simply an extreme bout of extroversion kicking in.

I invited several people along without any luck.

I remember siting at a gas station in my hometown trying to gain motivation to point my car south and then eventually committing to the drive with a weird gut feeling. I remember pulling my car over at an i70 rest stop and painting my nails as I delayed the anticipated loneliness ahead. I remember driving over Vail Pass and pulling over a second time. That time I sent a quick text to my dad telling him how much I was dreading hiking alone. He predictably told me not to go and I pre-meditatively explained I had already made it 3/5 of the way there. I continued on to Glenwood where I killed some time visiting with a friend until I was finally ready to take a deep breath and admit to myself that the 45 minute drive ahead, the night in my little Subaru nest and the hike the following day would be spent alone.

Then I received a text. It was from a friend I had met on Longs Peak. Earlier that day I had casually mentioned my hiking plans in a conversation about something unrelated. My words included an invitation to join me, but given the fact that it was his final week in Colorado, I had no expectations. Honestly, by that point I had completely forgotten mentioning it to him.

But in that text, sent just after 7pm, he told me he wanted to come. I immediately called him to confirm plans and affirm I wasn’t delusional. He articulated his plan to get a few hours of sleep before embarking on the four hour drive. He said he would meet me at the trailhead at 4am. I hung up the phone and cried really happy, relieved tears.

As is often the case, the trailhead had no cell phone service, so my friend had no way to let me know if he was running behind or if he decided not to drive four hours in the middle of the night to hike with a girl he’d only met in passing. I woke up just before 4am and anxiously peered out the back of my car. Right on schedule, a pair of headlights approached.

I hopped out of my car and greeted this guy I had only met once, over a month ago. If we’re being honest, we hadn’t even gotten to know each other that well on Longs Peak. It was more of a leap frog sort of day that included tiny conversations here and there and him patiently waiting behind me as I took my sweet time on the section of Longs known as ‘the Trough.’ We didn’t think to exchange contact information on the trail, but we connected after I happened to stumble upon his instagram later that night. And now here we were, at 4am, together again in an entirely different part of the state.

In addition to the gift of his company, his truck was able to shave about five miles off the round trip hike, miles my little outback wouldn’t have been able to brave. The hike itself continued to follow a road for a few miles and then I got a taste of why the Elk Range is so notorious – the terrain in that area is loose and crumbly and sure footing is rarely guaranteed – and Castle and Conundrum are supposed to be the most tame of the mountains in that range. It made for a slower than anticipated climb, but it was enjoyable nonetheless and I never once took having a companion for granted.

Every 14er I’ve been on has a superlative home in my mind and Castle was my favorite view to date. I think it had a lot do do with the versatility. The colors and textures were different everywhere I looked. It blew my mind how I could see so much variety from a single vantage point. I gazed north attempting to identify the other Elk Range 14ers and then I shifted my my gaze immediately ahead of me to Conundrum Peak.

Conundrum Peak is one of a handful of four ‘unranked 14ers’ due to its proximity to Castle Peak. That being said, the trek between the two was no easy feat. We scrambled between the two, being ever aware of our footing. My favorite part of standing on Conundrum was looking back at where we had previously stood on top of Castle Peak. It looked like a giant. I added both mountains to my list of mountains I’d miss (and tried some kangaroo jerky another hiker offered me) before we began our trek back to the truck.

As we climbed Castle Peak, we had noticed other hikers descending from the saddle between the two peaks instead of returning via the trail we were on. This is the route the hiking app I was using suggested and it was ideal in the sense that it meant we wouldn’t have to climb back up and over Castle Peak, but the significant lack of snow present made it a particularly sketchy-looking option. (You can see this section in the second photo I posted. The route can be seen above the large lower snow patch, my understanding is that this entire gully is typically filled with more snow, making it less of a literal scramble).

We discussed our choices, with safety being a priority, and decided we’d slowly and carefully attempt the saddle route. If you’re reading this and you attempt these peaks in a season where there is similar amounts of snow, I recommend taking a deep breath, sucking it up and trekking back up Castle Peak. It wasn’t a whole lot of fun. But we made it and eventually we were soaking in the sunshine, walking along the road and feeling a sense of unmatched accomplishment for having both checked off two more 14ers. Or one, depending on who you are.

For the record, I include Mount Cameron, Conundrum Peak, North Maroon Peak and El Diente Peak in my official count, which makes me one of the people who say there are fifty-eight of these beasts. In my lifetime, I plan to stand on top of each one and every time I think about this an uncontrollable excitement wells up inside of me. Being able to say I’ve stood on top of each will be neat, but that excitement is purely due to the experiences, like the one I just wrote about, that I have ahead of me. And for the people, like the one I just wrote about, that I have yet to meet.

And I’m sure I’ll solo a few more, too. But I’m glad I didn’t have to spend this one alone.