Home - Christine Reed

I’ve been Colorado-based for almost 10 years now. I don’t live there anymore, but I still go back and back and back. It’s the last place (and maybe the first) that I truly called home. Some of my favorite people are there. And some of my favorite trails.

Whenever I go back to Denver, I find myself running on the Platte River Trail, a concrete path through city and prairie, with the Rocky Mountains growing out of the west. I always go to Wash Park to see the flower gardens and the Denverites walking their dogs and babies. And I always make my way up to Evergreen, to hike the loop up to Bergen Peak at Elk Meadow Park. There are certain things that just make me feel like I’m home again. Heaving and puffing up a huge climb to almost 10k feet is one of them—the epic, open view west from the peak is another.

The summer of 2023 was no exception. I hadn’t been ‘home’ in many months, because I don’t go to Colorado in the winter. I had finally learned my lesson that winters in Colorado last through May, and waited a little longer to come back than I had the year before, so that I wouldn’t find myself snowed into my van with no heater… again.

It was late-June when I parked my car in the lower lot of Elk Meadow Park. I clicked the tiny plastic buckles on my running vest together and slid my trekking poles to their extended position. The sky was idyllically blue, the sun piercing, and a few wildflowers were just starting to bloom. I skipped down the path, framed on each side by knee-high waves of golden grass. I could tell from the footprints which had broken through the dry crust on top of the trail to the sticky earth beneath, that it had rained recently.

I told myself I was going to climb the peak twice, run a few laps, use it as a training grind—be the kind of hiker who does that sort of thing. I’m not. I try to be sometimes. But it’s always so easy to talk myself out of the grind halfway through. Especially when there’s an easy out. I’m already at the bottom of the mountain, you know?

The elevation filled my lungs as I started the climb, taking up all the space that would normally be occupied by oxygen. I sucked in the pine trees around me—their familiar umber scent can be found all over the country, but it always brings me back here—and put one foot in front of the other. I had just hiked 80 miles of the Appalachian Trail with a full pack on, so the climbing felt lighter than usual.

I pressed myself forward, trying to see how far I could make it before stopping. My body temperature rose as I did, sweat beading on my brow and dampening my sun shirt. Could I make the entire 2000-foot climb in one go?

I am the type of hiker who must be mindful of my feet and had been watching their methodical contact with the damp duff cushioning the earth. It is for this reason that I didn’t notice the darkening of the skies until I reached a break in the trees about halfway up. I always stop there to gaze out over the mountains—to witness their forms breaking into the sky, all snowcapped peaks and jagged grey shoulders. An achy feeling swelled in my chest as I looked off to the left. The knowing that I cannot be everywhere at once, or anywhere all the time. I loved this place, this view, these mountains.

A shiver wracked my body. I better keep moving. I glanced up the steep hillside to my right, toward the still hidden peak. It is sometimes harder to see the mountains we are climbing than those in the  distance. A dark cloud loomed, and a sudden gust of wind blew through me. Could I make it to the top before the rain? Would it be a passing shower, or something more serious? I checked my watch: 10:30 am. Too early for afternoon thunderstorms. It must just be a passing squall. I continue upward, knowing that there are trees all the way to the top of the mountain. Only the small rock outcropping at the very top is exposed. If there is lightning, I will stay under cover. Light drops began to fall. Only a few of them danced through the pine boughs to find me.

Thunder rumbled low in the distance. I realized then that I hadn’t packed gloves or my headband. I knew better. These items rarely left my running vest, but to be washed, but somehow, I’d managed to leave them behind this day. I snapped the plastic buttons on the front of my sun shirt and rolled down the long sleeves. The warmth recovered wasn’t much. I debated for a moment whether to continue or turn back. A wide-open field stood between the mountain and my van, blocking me from safe exit if lightning struck.

Shadows disappeared as the sprinkle turned to a downpour. Wind swept the thunder closer, blowing rain against my bare legs. Goosebumps erupted all over my body. I clamped my teeth together to prevent their chattering from mocking my lack of preparedness. I continued climbing, nearing the top of the mountain. With trekking poles tucked under one arm, I jammed my bare hands into the flimsy pockets of my sun shirt. The cold from my fingers spread to my core, through the thin inner fabric.

A flash of lightning lit the sky. Liquid hardened, and hail pelted the earth. Shit. Shit. Shit. I turned on my heel, digging into the saturated earth. Pea-sized hail shot through the tree cover like bullets. The sound of it making contact with all surfaces surrounded me. Piles of hail gathered on the trail, looking like snow at a distance. If the hail grew larger, I would want to be under cover. Directly beneath the biggest pines, small voids in the ice could be found. I crawled into one such void; a space scarcely large enough for my body. Though my bare fingers had started to numb, I could feel the tree’s rough trunk, as if I were touching it through the gloves I had forgotten. If the storm was going to pass quickly, I could wait it out.

My body curled in on itself by instinct. Protecting my heart from the elements. The heat of movement abandoned me quickly. I stared out into the valley, thick with dark fog, and tried to smile at the predicament. I wasn’t lost, I wasn’t far from the safe, warm interior of my van, I wasn’t afraid. Whatever happened, I was going to be okay. But too much of my skin was exposed. Every muscle contracted and spiraled inward. I became smaller and smaller, shrinking against the cold. My teeth chattered and a thin string of snot dripped from my nose. I wondered how long I could endure this cold without moving. Perhaps I would be better off running through the hail to warm my body.

Another flash of lightning. Another low rumble of thunder shook the earth and my bones. Is this what I am training for? To keep cool under pressure? To be gritty in the face of suffering? To remember my gear next time around?

The hail pounded steadily against earth and trees before it relaxed, then came in angry waves again. If I had called for help, I wondered if even I would hear the sound of my voice. My thoughts veered back and forth. Stay or go? Run or hide? Cold or violent projectiles? Minutes passed at an agonizing pace, never revealing the sky’s plans for this little pocket of existence.

My wet, bare hands had turned bright red—blood pulsed sluggishly, painfully through them. Stopping had been a mistake. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to get back to my van, but I couldn’t stay there.

I gathered myself and crawled back to the trail. With my trekking poles under one arm, I tried to run. It was a clumsy endeavor, poles attempting to escape to the hillside below, my running gait impeded by the hands jammed in my thin sun shirt pockets. I wanted to cover my head against the pelting hail. I needed to hold the poles properly to avoid losing them. I stopped to readjust, attempting to carry the poles through my shirt pocket. But that put them at a strange and dangerous placement, hanging in front of my body. Frustrated nearly to tears, I relented and pulled one hand from its pocket and gripped the metal trekking poles with stiff fingers. As I continued to run, the cold was biting.

The hail slowed as I descended the hill, but perhaps it was only the density of the trees preventing it from reaching me. The sky seemed to lighten outside of my tunnel, but perhaps it was only wishful thinking. The thunder felt farther than before, but perhaps that had been the thundering of my heart, reverberating within as I’d hidden beneath the pine tree.

As I approached the base of the mountain, my feet crunched through the thick layer of icy hail balls. At lower elevations, the ice had already begun to melt, turning into slushy puddles. I knew I had another decision ahead of me. Whether to cross the open space at the bottom—nearly a mile of exposed trail to reach my van. But I got lucky. A shaft of sunlight pierced the grey cloud layer, shining its beam down into the valley.

A wide grin split my face as my feet pounded down the trail, faster than ever. At the junction point, I looked up. The darkness still cast its shadow as it moved through the foothills, but my patch of grey had begun shifting to white. I hurried across the open space, hoping the storm was truly finished, and fell into my van in the parking lot. I pressed the button on my smartwatch, thinking for just a moment about all the stationary time I had recorded as part of my “run.” There was no fucking way I was doing a second lap.

Clouds split and blue skies returned as quickly as they had gone. The storm had passed. I had returned safely to my van. Endorphins flooded my brain and chest. I laughed out loud to no one but myself. Perhaps there had been a little danger. For sure, it had been my own fault. The mountains in Colorado (even “small” ones that “only” reach to 9712 feet) are predictably volatile, especially early in summer. I was a hiker with several thousand miles under my belt. I have been the one to check my less experienced friends’ backpacks before a hike, making sure they’ve brought the essentials. I knew better.

But we all make mistakes. We all forget something sometimes. And it turned out okay. So, I could revel in the rush of brain chemicals dumping over my senses. I cranked the heat and headed back toward Denver with a too big smile on my face. I spoke aloud to myself. “That was so crazy. Awesome. Wild. What an adventure.”

I scolded myself for loving the experience so much. But isn’t there some deep instinctual part of human-animals that feels the memories of a time when we lived exclusively in the natural world? Where the cover of a pine tree was the closest thing to home that we knew? When we found safety under an overhung rock and were grateful for it?