Run for Our Lands III: One Week on the Colorado and Continental Divide Trails

Words and Photos by RPL Ambassador Oscar Ponteri

 

I am no stranger to the Cascades’ behemoth volcanoes, and I have even become acquainted with the jagged Sierras in recent years, but nothing could have prepared me for my first real view of the Rockies. Nodding in and out of sleep on a bus from Denver to Leadville, I opened my eyes to find myself face to face with a wall of mountains: 6,000 feet of rock rising with reckless abandon, making cars and buildings in the valley below look miniature—a declaration of sheer natural power. “Oh man,” I muttered under my breath. 

Less than a week after finishing my 230-mile trek across Oregon’s Pacific Crest Trail (read about that journey here!), I found myself back on the road for one final Run for Our Lands adventure: Colorado’s Collegiate Loop. The famous route covers some of the most challenging and beautiful portions of the Rocky Range, overlapping with the two famed—and federally protected—footpaths, the Continental Divide and Colorado Trails, in a 165-mile loop with 27,000 feet of elevation gain. 

Hikers, runners, and recreationalists like myself have been flocking to the Collegiate range for over a century, drawn not only by its natural beauty but also by its rich history. The San Isabel and Gunnison National Forests, designated as some of America’s first public lands in 1902 and 1905, respectively, are not just high-country lands, but also repositories of millennia of human history. The first traces of humans in the Colorado mountains date back to the Folsom peoples, prehistoric hunter-gatherers who presumably used mountain passes to access hunting plains and valleys approximately 13,000 years ago. Then, following the last ice age (roughly 11,700 years ago), indigenous peoples in the area began to make seasonal trips to high-country lakes and passes for strategic hunting purposes. One of the most spectacular points of interest on my hike was not a vista, but rather the site of an old indigenous game drive at an altitude of over 11,000 feet. The Monarch Peak ‘drive’ consists of a series of rock fences that were used to herd deer, elk, and bighorn sheep to coordinated points where hunters could make an attack. Over the millennia, numerous indigenous groups and cultures have occupied the collegiate range and its surrounding areas, leaving behind a rich tapestry of history and culture that is as much a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves. 

Without consideration for their history with the land, in the 18th century, the Ute people—in addition to Colorado’s Cheyenne and Arapaho peoples—were systematically driven from their homelands by white settlers and the emerging mining industry, which turned the Collegiate range into some of the most abused land in the United States before it received federal protection. Today, the Ute peoples are considered the primary historical and present-day indigenous caretakers of the area—the Southern Ute Indian Tribe maintains an active reservation in southern Colorado. 

The site of the Monarch Pass historic indigenous game drives. A Forest Service plaque marking the area attributes the drives to prehistoric hunters.

 

From the Journal, Day Two: Friday, July 18, 2025, Collegiate Loop Wilderness 

Hollow wind, stiff rock,
Joy and solitude:
I have been through the mountains,
I have been through the woods.

 

Mount Elbert shone softly in the dawn light as I set off from the Twin Lakes. Heading south along the Colorado Trail, I weaved through pine forests, high-altitude prairies, and aspen groves, still bound in awe by the size of the towering mountains above. Despite the PCT fatigue that still lingered in my legs, I couldn’t help but feel cruisy, floating up and jogging down slopes with little regard for the extreme altitude. It wasn’t me, though: The trail—light, smooth, and damn fast—glided across the landscape like an open invitation. Wooden bridges carried me across mountain streams, brambles were trimmed back, and scree was compacted and stable—no coincidence, but rather, evidence of a highly active and engaged network of volunteers. 

Later on down the trail, I met Paul Talley, the Executive Director of the Colorado Trail Foundation (CTF), who was busy leading a week-long trail crew as they rerouted part of the path around a snow drift and sensitive wetlands. Witnessing the work of volunteers in progress was a powerful reminder of all the effort that goes into creating accessible, public recreational experiences, especially one as smooth as the Colorado Trail. This maintenance project was just one of the many that the Colorado Trail Foundation would be responsible for as the primary non-governmental organization overseeing the preservation and sustainability of the trail in its entirety, from Denver to Durango. According to Talley, in 2024, the foundation had 500 volunteers complete more than 15,000 hours of trail work across the state. “We are supporters of public lands because obviously this trail wouldn’t exist in its current form without the partnership with the federal government and the state of Colorado,” he remarked before setting off. 

While organizations like the Colorado Trail Foundation offer a beacon of hope (and a good path to get involved!), they can not be expected to be a bulwark against federal funding cuts and policy changes, which are increasingly hostile to the longevity of our public lands. In many ways, I feel like a broken record saying this because I have made similar arguments in my previous reflections from the Pacific Crest and Appalachian Trails. Still, the truth is that this exact situation—federal cuts, stressed nonprofits, and service reductions—is playing out in every state in predictable and preventable ways. As a result of nationwide layoffs, at least 90 Forest Service employees in Colorado were directly cut. While there’s no itemized breakdown for the San Isabel National Forest alone, the layoffs likely included probationary recreation staff, trail crew members, campground support staff, maintenance technicians, and public-safety-related personnel—consistent with other forests. Meanwhile, in Gunnison NF, the Forest Service has declined to hire any seasonal or non-fire workers for the summer—roles typically filled by roughly 12 workers who usually cover trailheads, deferred maintenance, trail openings, pit toilets, and guide coordination have been left vacant. In Colorado’s White River National Forest, 27–28 positions were cut since January 1, 2025; 17 were cut from the Rio Grande National Forest; the list goes on. 

What is most evident, besides the fact that our natural resources are in great jeopardy, is that personal and communal mobilization is more important now than ever. Without being hyperbolic I can say with certainty that every public lands stakeholder that I have talked to over the course of the summer—from athletes to nonprofit leaders—has emphasized getting involved in local and national politics, leaving comments on open issues, calling legislators, and staying up-to-date on the conditions of your local public lands as a clear and nearly-obligatory way to protect the natural resources that you love most. 

 

From the Journal, Day Five: Tuesday, July 22, 2025, Gunnison National Forest

Sunrise, come soft like
dew on the bluebells—color me
as you do the sky.

 

Making my way around some of the most prominent 14,000 foot peaks in the range, I learned quick by talking to locals and other recreationalists that these mountains weren’t just for show, they were serious personal testing grounds: I met two sixty year old women, hiking Mount Princeton for their third summer in a row, a Texas State University professor trying to do a self-supported route connecting over ten 14,000’ peaks in less than three days (he had done Leadville a prior year but it was “pretty easy”), and countless trail athletes jogging on hills that others would scarcely dream of walking up. Even my friend Kendall, a Colorado native, casually told me that she climbed her first ‘fourteener’ peak at age six. I was surrounded by the craziest of the crazies, and I loved it. 

The diverse community of endurance athletes I met in Colorado underscored a beautiful truth: Public lands provide us the freedom to test our limits. The mountains, in their incomprehensible vastness, invite us to follow innate impulses—to venture into the unknown, to push against our edges, to discover the world and ourselves. Protected wilderness unfolds like the world’s largest playground, where twisting trails take the place of slides, rocky scrambles replace climbing walls, summits feel like castle towers, and there is always a bigger, grander challenge waiting around the corner. 

After returning home, I had the privilege of speaking with trail runner and co-author of Becoming a Sustainable Runner, Zoë Rom, to discuss the Collegiate Mountains’ transformational powers. Rom was a backpacking guide in New Mexico when she began to fall in love with the Rockies: “Anytime I had time off from work, I would drive up to the collegiates, I was just obsessed with them.” Since then, she has completed numerous ultramarathons in the area and achieved impressive finishes in the Leadville 100, Collegiate Peaks 50-miler, and Crested Butte 100k, among many other competitions. When asked about an ah-ha moment in the mountains, though, Rom turns back to her early days of exploring the Collegiates, specifically her first time climbing Mount Elbert: “I remember being really moved by how wild the terrain was and how little deference it gave to my existence and desires in kind of a freeing way.” 

As Rom highlights, while the mountains help us challenge our inner barriers, one of the most significant gifts we can gain from spending time outside is the ability to turn outwards and appreciate the authenticity of the world around us. “I think that initially I came to public lands and trail running with maybe a bit more of a Zoë-centered mindset… I think I’ve learned particularly from having amazing mentors and learning from indigenous land stewards, [how to have] that relationship of not ownership, not extraction, but of real kinship, reciprocity, and attempting to understand the land on its own terms, rather than my own human terms,” she said. In her 100-mile effort at Leadville in 2024, it was the notoriously difficult Hope Pass that pulled her out of her mind and into a larger place of gratitude and connection with the land; she thought about all the other people throughout history who had relationships with “that little patch of land.” Reflecting on the experience and her outward mindset, she remarked, “Especially during a 100 miler, [the race] sort of strips you down in a way that I think you could either become incredibly self-centered and retreat inwards, or you could go, go to a place of radical connection with yourself, with your fellow like competitors, and with with the land itself.” Rom’s perspective resonated with me on many levels. Looking back over the summer, there had been moments of both struggle and joy so profound that all I could do was feel amazed in nature’s ability to produce such moments in all its rugged authenticity. Colorado still had some of those surprises in store for me as well. 

 

From the Journal, Day Five: Tuesday, July 22, 2025, Gunnison National Forest

I drank from a river
in the shadow of the mountain—
hands cupped, chrysalis of life,
creation, creation, creation. 

 

On my fifth day, inspired by the hikers and athletes I met, I decided it was time to test my limits. That morning, I woke up at 3:00 am, determined to complete my final 60 miles in one big push. Headlamp lighting the way, I climbed above the treeline before even a hint of dawn had touched the sky. Soon, jagged mountain silhouettes began to glow against the yellow sky. The trail rose and fell over mountain passes, maintaining an average altitude of over 12,000 ft. However, the stunning scenery—ridgelines, glacial lakes, alpine prairies, sweeping views around every corner, and even a few moose—made the miles seem to float by freely.

The Collegiate Loop wasn’t ready to let me get off easy, though. Midway through the afternoon and with over 30 miles done, the sky turned dark—typically symptomatic of the Colorado thunderstorms I had heard so much about but never seen. Unperturbed, I marched on. I had made it nearly a mile above the treeline when the first rumble of thunder rolled over the ridge. Within five seconds, the drizzle turned into a dumping. Thirty minutes went by, and things only got worse: White flashes of lightning filled the sky, followed (often in two seconds or less) by thunder, echoing with tremendous power off the mountain faces. A group of hikers hurried frantically down the trail past where I had sheltered myself under a singular pine, and I yelled out, “Do you know how long this is going to last?” “‘Until tomorrow,” one of them shouted back. “Tomorrow, what?” Cold and confused, I made the split-second decision to follow the mystery group back down the mountain. Back below the trees and sheltered in my soggy tent, I dreamed of a sunny break in the day, but it never came: Just as the others had predicted, it poured nonstop through the afternoon, evening, and deep into the night. 

The next morning, I woke up early to a wonderful silence. The previous night’s rain weighed heavily on the top of my tent, but there was a crispness filling the air, and I could see the stars. I ate breakfast in the pre-dawn glow and began my climb back above the treeline; I was ‘wearing the soak’ (a term I had learned a month prior in Vermont), but the scenery was so incredible that I hardly noticed. For miles in every direction, ethereal peaks, painted pink and orange by the morning sun, pierced through a layer of morning fog covering the vast valley below. 

Realizing that this would be my final day on trail, I took in every vista, skipped over rocks, and recounted the many memories that the summer had produced—from crying on a bench in Vermont, to glissading down snow banks in Oregon, and now, crossing 12,000-foot mountain passes in Colorado. I had given so much of myself to the land, and the land gave even more in return.