Tackling bucket list hike between Aspen and Crested Butte more of a challenge than expected

My limp started just after mile nine.

For five hours, I’d carried a 15-pound pack up 3,000 vertical feet of dirt and rock paths, and my right knee was throbbing. Traversing from Aspen to Crested Butte via the 11-mile West Maroon Pass had been on my bucket list for years, but I was beginning to doubt that I could make it through the final downhill section.

My husband and I had started hiking around 7 that morning, the sun bathing the iconic Maroon Bells, where the trek begins, in golden light. The walk began easily enough, on the 1.4-mile trail to Crater Lake. The gradual upward climb served as a much-needed warm-up for the rest of the route.

Then the real work began.

West Maroon Trail is a quintessential, high-alpine Colorado hike. The trail gives and takes, alternating between taxing climbs and relatively flat sections with scenery that (almost) make you forget the work it took to reach them. Dirt paths wind in and out of White River National Forest, opening onto meadows that sit in the shadow of unbelievably tall, craggy peaks. In July and August, the view is speckled with magenta elephant’s head, purple columbines and yellow Old-Man-of-the-Mountains.

As we approached the final mile to the saddle of West Maroon Pass, I kept reminding myself that the view is always worth it. The work was clearly laid out before me: an unyielding climb that grew steeper the closer the high point came. Also ahead: my husband, putting one foot in front of the other without pause. I began to do the same. I counted 100 steps, then paused for 30 seconds. Counted 50 steps. Paused.

Aspen and Crested Butte sit more than 100 miles apart by road. West Maroon Pass brings the towns much closer together and is considered a relatively accessible trail for fit hikers and backpackers. (It’s also one section of the popular Four Pass Loop; advanced reservation permits are required for anyone planning to stay overnight.)

I’ve lived in Colorado for 20 years, and hiking has never come easily to me. Rather, it’s never come easily to my lungs. Rarely do I pursue trails where I need to carry more than my water, some protein bars, sunscreen and an extra layer. The added weight of my pack as I climbed up to the pass added more of a challenge than I’d anticipated.

Another challenge had come earlier: Traversing between Aspen and Crested Butte requires some logistical planning, particularly if you don’t want to deal with shuttling cars between the points. First, you have to get to the trailhead. If you start on the Aspen side, as we did, you need to get yourself to Aspen Highlands and then book a shuttle to Maroon Bells. (Those who start in Crested Butte can park at Schofield Park, about 14 miles outside of town.) At the end, hikers can book a shuttle to drive them back to their starting point for a single-day adventure or make plans to stay overnight and then either hike back or schedule a return shuttle the following day.

We’d opted to stay overnight and shuttle back in the morning — hence the overly stuffed backpack, with deodorant, face wash and toothpaste being necessities.

My husband and I had initially planned the hike for July, but snow continued to block the route, adding about 2 miles to the end of the trek and requiring crampons to navigate. So I’d persuaded him to spend his late August birthday huffing and puffing up the mountain instead.

I was questioning my decision-making as I pushed through that final uphill segment. But 20 minutes after I began the ascent, I stood atop West Maroon Pass. To my right: the valley of green and scree that I’d just defeated. To my left: equally high peaks, persistent patches of snow and our final destination — Crested Butte.

I bit into a turkey sandwich — while tsking away a hungry pika that already looked bloated with scavenged crumbs — and applauded myself for being more than halfway through a tough slog.

I mistakenly thought the hard part was done.

We still had 4 miles to go. From the looks of it, the immediate walk down from the saddle involved a steep scree field, but that eased into gradual switchbacks leading to Schofield Park, where the shuttle I’d reserved would be waiting.

My assessment was accurate, but my body didn’t care. Two miles into the descent, after we’d passed meadows awash in pinks, purples and yellows, my knee started to give up. I trudged on slowly, praying that each curve of the trail would be the final one.

Finally, around 2:45 p.m., we emerged from the woods into the parking lot — 30 minutes late for our shuttle, with no phone service. (Dolly’s Mountain Shuttle will wait for hikers for 15 or so minutes and then attempt to get them on their second afternoon pickup.)

Thankfully, we didn’t have to wait around as a couple of fellow hikers with a car in the lot were kind enough to give us a lift into town.

Sitting down had never felt so good. Unlacing my boots was as relieving as taking off ski boots after a full day on the hill.

The hike had taken longer and pushed my body more than I anticipated. But I beamed with pride at what we’d accomplished. Or perhaps it was just the relief of finally taking off my shoes.