Segment 2: The Night My Tent Collapsed
2025 SoBo Colorado Trail Report ft. the Buffalo Creek Burn area, South Platte River Trailhead, a night of chaos and a 10-mile dry segment.
[ Day #: 2 | Total Miles Hiked: 8.5 | Miles Remaining: 482.5 ]
I wake up from the perfect sleep, my body refreshed. Peeking through the no-see-um netting of my tent’s open vestibule, I find the massive trunk of the Ponderosa pine still looming above.
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Morning dew dresses the pine needles and wild grasses nearby, seeping into the peat of the hearty Douglas-fir forest faster than the sun can come. It’s a fair 49°, and I’ve managed to start the day a little after 5 a.m. I stayed up a little late last night, scrolling through pictures and videos from the last few days, reflexively on my phone before bed despite not having any phone service.
It takes me forever to get packed up.
I don’t tear down my tent until it’s nearly 7 a.m. I’ve spent two hours on breakfast, recording, organizing, and writing in my tiny notebook. Journaling on trail has been immediately gratifying, though; it helps me identify and track negative thought patterns in real time. That’s half the battle, of course; the other half lies in adapting those patterns and aligning them with a more positive mindset.
Despite being stuck in the woods with nowhere to go but southwest, old thoughts and patterns begin to creep back in — I think a lot about Arlo (my ex) and a guy I met back in Michigan shortly before I left. He’s a sailor, too. Neither are really brain fodder I want to accompany me on this hike, so I write a word of warning in my journal:
I am pulling at the fabric of my own reality with misdirected affection.
It’s enough to snap me out the anxious cycle for now. I’ve got a suspenseful day ahead of me; I’m either doing 11 miles or 19, depending on how I want to handle the upcoming Buffalo Creek Burn area. It’s a hot, exposed, 10-mile stretch with no water sources along the way, and I may just try to knock it all out once the sun’s down. Considering I only walked about 8 miles yesterday, though, the likelihood that I’ll jump up to 19 today seems slim.
From Bear Creek, the trail gradually ascends through a mix of pine and Douglas-fir before transitioning into more open terrain, and I catch glimpses of Waterton Canyon and the Platte River corridor from my switchback above. The ridgelines and canyons stand out in layers on this clear morning. A little before noon, I find a wonderful lookout point to stop for lunch. I set my pack up against a tree trunk and lean back into it, letting the straps come back around my waist once more (super comfy & highly recommend). Underneath me is a tiny red foam sit pad I got on Amazon, a surprisingly sturdy, solid budget option.
Surprisingly, I have service here.
Through an onslaught of notifications, I see my brother’s name Jacob, who I haven’t talked to in a while. I give him a call and he answers on the first ring. We chat for a while; there’s a lot to update each other on. Jacob is no longer pursuing an engineering position with the Navy, due to delays in the application process; instead, he’s landed a job with the U.S. Air Force, and I couldn’t be more happy for him. He feels similarly about my 42-day venture in Colorado’s wilderness, and all the possibilities that lie beyond. It fills my cup to know my brothers are both doing well; when you care about someone, their success feels like your success, and you try to share in that celebration as much as possible.
Once we hang up, I realize how hot and sweaty I am, and try to readjust so that more of me is in the shade. A few hikers pass by as I root around in the contents of my Ursack for today’s lunch: sriracha tuna packets, turkey sausage, and pitted dates.
After I eat, a wave of fatigue hits me, as if all the energy has just been zapped out of my body. Slightly annoyed, I assess the rest of today’s schedule: it’s approximately 1 p.m. now, and it’s starting to look like my best option is to hike some of the Buffalo Creek Burn stretch tonight and some of it tomorrow. That means I’ll have to dry camp, but if I do “camp stuff” near South Platte River (about four miles from here) and refill again, I should have enough to make the dry stretch before noon tomorrow.
Reassured by my new itinerary, I feel much less hurried, and even pull the brim of my sunhat down for a quick 15-minute nap. When I wake, my throat is raw and dry, a reminder that I’ve been mouth-breathing through this whole altitude adjustment.
I briefly think back to Llama, and amuse myself with the idea of him walking up on me (taking a nap, on Day 2) — but he’s probably well ahead of me by now. Besides, I’ve decided I’m not looking to be the kind of hiker that “crushes miles”. I’ve come to understand that the hikers racing for the terminus and I are in it for different things, and that’s okay. As long as I’m allowed to continue swimming in rivers, taking pictures of bugs, and stopping for naps, I take no issue with the mad dashers in the night, forging ahead.
Afterwards, I pull up the weather, unsure of the next time I’ll have cell service. Tomorrow calls for dry thunderstorms in the afternoon and evening, and the area I’m in is currently under a Fire Weather Watch. I grab my pack and head back onto the trail, descending into a gentle, grassy slope on a hillside. Eventually, Foxton Rd-97 comes into view, a wide gravel road that separates Segment 1 from the South Platte River trailhead. I can hear the rushing water well before I see it, a low roar that grows louder with every step until the canyon finally cracks open and reveals the river below. Afternoon sun glints off the current, throwing shards of light across the surface.
The trail curves toward the bridge, and I pause at the edge, glancing down at the sweat already drying into salt on my shirt. Below, cottonwoods throw long shadows across the banks. A handful of hikers are clustered there, tightening straps, filling bottles, and eyeing the climb that waits on the other side. I take a side trail through the marsh and set my pack down in the mud; time to refill on water and start rehydrating dinner. Then I remember I still have my bathing suit on under my hiker clothes and venture, why not?
Shrugging, I unlace my shoes and unbutton my pants, returning to a river rock perch on South Platte. A trio of middle-aged hikers glances over at me from the nearby bank and roll their eyes. I don’t last long, for the effort of trying to rinse my pits off sends bone-chilling shivers down my entire body, and I practically run back to my clothes. Some time later, I carry my full water bottles and Heather’s Choice Shepherd’s Pie through the gates of Segment 2, the hot water from inside the meal bag burning my palms. There’s a nice, flat rock to sit on a good distance from the water, and I post up there, pulling out my tiny notebook while I wait for my shepherd’s pie to become edible.
The one I’m using for this trip is a 4.25” x 6.75” Rite in the Rain (160 pages), along with one of their all-weather EDC pocket pens, which writes surprisingly well (and can apparently perform in temperatures ranging anywhere between -30° F and 250° F). The Palo Santo stick is from my sailor friend in Michigan; his was the only gift small (and light) enough to be able to bring with me on trail, and I’ve been looking for the opportunity to light it since he gave it to me. Ironically, the “energies” I’m attempting to cleanse from my (mental) space are mostly thoughts of him.
As if on queue, he sends me a message. It’s a passage from Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, and more specifically from the chapter “The Ponds”:
I don’t see a halo of light around me or my shadow, but back on Lake St. Clair in his 27-foot Catalina, I remember an unmistakable ring of impenetrable sunglow following us from the marina all the way to Gull Island. His bronze skin like sea glass, the light filtering through in warm, liquid tones. We etched the perimeter of the island with bare toes and stretched out in the wide open sun, even coming across a fellow boater’s pet hog at one point, mesmerized by the novelty of it all.
A twig snaps nearby, and I glance up towards the trail.
The frank-looking man with the trimmed black beard from last night’s campsite is making his way towards the water, empty bottles in hand. We both exchange an awkward hello. On his way back, we talk shop: gameplan for the dry stretch, campsites for tonight, weather for tomorrow. His name is Colin, and he’s hiking with his partner, Alex. They were planning to camp near the water for the night, but he agrees that it’s a good idea to get a few miles of the dry stretch completed this afternoon and hike the rest out in the early morning hours.
After a while, Alex and I meet, and I sheepishly apologize to them both for any noise I may have made over the course of the night, explaining that I was recording videos for my channel. Alex points to a small hearing aid in her ear and smiles, saying she didn’t hear a thing. The warmth in her voice dissolves something in me, and I laugh, reflecting on how easily she moves through this landscape without a sense most people take for granted.
I head back out with a full 2.5-liter water carry, climbing uphill through a mix of pine and rocky soil. The sound of the river fades to a chorus of grasshoppers, cicadas, and the soft crack of twigs underfoot. Past the old quartz mine, where the last of the sunlight glints off the dust, the forest begins to thin — shade falling off, air drying, and the trail shedding its green for a sun-bleached palette.
The trail traverses exposed slopes with big, wide views back east over Waterton Canyon, Denver’s foothills, and the Platte River drainage. It’s getting darker, and I’m having trouble finding a campsite; when an overgrown path emerges on the side of the main trail, I follow it about a hundred yards. There’s a hat hanging off the only nearby tree, “Marmot Mountain” stitched across the bill. It feels eerie, like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s space. I call out a quiet “hello,” half expecting an answer, but the hill stays silent.
The spot seems fine: open views, soft breeze, nothing to complain about. A while later, I see Alex and Collin come down the trail, and I wave from my little ridge. They call out a hello, spot the spur path, and continue down to a flatter area below to make camp. I eat dinner, crawl into my tent, and drift in and out of sleep as the sky goes dark. Then the wind hits. A sudden blast, hard enough to level my tent in seconds. I throw my headlamp on and pitch it again; it topples again. The wind howls loudly, the hardy brush nearby folding in.
Barefoot and frustrated, I realize I’ll need to find a new campsite, and fly off in the direction I think Alex and Collin may have gone. I don’t make it far before stepping on a cactus. The sting snaps me back to reality, and I realize I’m out here with nothing: no shoes, no phone, no sense of direction.
I turn back, praying I’ll somehow find my tent, and thankfully, I do.
I pull on my shoes, jacket, and Garmin, pack everything up, and grab my pack. Every step, in what I assume is the right direction, feels like it takes forever. When I call out a shaky “hey,” Alex answers somewhere in the dark — about two hundred yards from where I’d been camped before, which puts us roughly three hundred and fifty yards off trail. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t stray that far, especially with my questionable sense of direction, but so much for keeping promises on Day 2.
The ground is lower here, and more protected by trees. After a bit of wandering I find a decent patch of ground. Alex helps me spot a hidden cactus, marking it with pinecones so I don’t set up on it. I’m embarrassed, but grateful. It’s the kind of quiet trail kindness that sticks with you long after the miles are gone. When I finally lie back down, my head feels congested again, pulsing with leftover adrenaline and altitude. I breathe slow through my mouth until the air stops catching. The night smells faintly of resin and dust.
Somewhere between the wind dying and the cold creeping in, I dream something strange. It’s Arlo. A familiar betrayal plays out, this time warped by the backdrop of my own personal insecurities. It’s part fever dream, part déjà vu, my subconscious workshopping scenes from a show I quit watching months ago. I wake up around 4 a.m., immediately alert, and write it down in my journal like it’s weather data: isolated emotional disturbance, moved through quickly, zero precipitation.
By 4:30 a.m., the air is calm again, heavy with dew.
We pack up in the half-light and work our way back toward the trail, laughing softly at the chaos of the night before. The world feels scrubbed clean — wind gone, sky pale — and the burn area ahead waiting, vast and bright, for whatever comes next.
After a few miles, I stop to make breakfast while Alex and Collin hike on. Before leaving for the trail, I’d mixed up quart-sized bags of oatmeal and protein powder to eat, assuming the taste would be tolerable. I was wrong. The textures don’t mesh, and the chocolate peanut butter flavor I thought I’d love makes me gag uncontrollably. Determined, I force-feed myself one large spoonful after another, nearly throwing up with each bite. I need the protein, and besides, there’s no way to dispose of whatever I don’t eat. If I bail on it now, I’ll have to put it in my trash Ziplock and pack it out, which means extra weight and additional grossness.
Two hikers pass by, greeting me with a cheery “good morning”, and I choke out a response in between gobs of putrid mush. On the last bite, a smile illuminates my sullen face: it’s over! And I didn’t even chuck my hard-won protein. I push on, careful to take smaller sips of water, since I’m already down to a liter and a half. This is my first “long” water carry, and I have no idea how much water I need to be comfortable for 10 miles, especially considering I dry camped. Is 2.5 liters enough? I guess we’ll find out.
At the end of this stretch is a Fire Station that has a water spigot, a mile and a half out from Segment 3. I am trying to make it there before 9 a.m. Many people consider this burn area to be lacking aesthetically; I find the opposite to be true. From here, you can see the entire sweep of the Front Range rolling east toward Denver, a sea of pale granite and silvered snags. Fireweed, penstemon, and young aspen shoots spark bits of color through the gray, and I silently cheer them on as I walk, inspired by their tenacity. The trail eventually rejoins tree cover before opening up onto County Rd-126; to my left, I can see the faint outline of the firehouse.
When I arrive, I see a couple other hikers stopped there, and we get to talking while I refill my water bottles. They’re the guys who saw me gagging on the side of the trail, and they have a couple commiserative stories to share with me. Both are seasoned hikers, so we talk a lot of shop, and I ask them a seemingly endless list of questions filled with random scenarios and circumstances. They are notably generous with their time and advice; I appreciate this, because despite all my preparations, there seems to be a fresh set of questions every day. Old, illogical concerns like bears and mountain lions are being thrown out the window; new, practical concerns like heat exhaustion, exposure, and the potential for snow later on take precedent.
That said, I’ve successfully completed my first dry stretch, and at no point was it an uncomfortable experience.
Waking up early, rationing appropriately, and consuming electrolytes made all the difference — all decisions that were shaped by talking to other hikers, and electing to take their advice.
The minutes tick by, and another trio of hikers joins. I recognize them; they’re the hikers that were on the banks of the South Platte River when I went in for a bird bath. They are friends with the two hikers I’ve just met, and seem a bit more open to meeting me now, introducing themselves as they plop down next to us. I’m boiling water for coffee, my reward for making it to the next water resupply point, since I wouldn’t allow myself any this morning (rationing). The thru-hiking couple, Alex and Collin, come and go, ready to start towards Little Scraggy.
Despite my newfound comforts of shade and a seated position, my stomach begins to grumble incessantly, and I contemplate the practicality of running into town for a double bacon cheeseburger. It does not seem to be in the cards; Conifer is the closest town, and its burger joint doesn’t open until 11:30 a.m., which is nearly two hours from now. I reluctantly opt for the mac and cheese packet in my Ursack and head back on the trail after saying my goodbyes.
Ahead: Little Scraggy Trailhead, an unexpected town stop bearing gifts of sauna, cold plunge and star gazing, and learning more about the history of pedestrianism…
I’m exploring partners for the next long trail.
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