A 30-Day MTB Bikepacking Adventure: From Salt Lake City to Boulder Along the Trans Rockies Connector Trail

For 30 days, we rode our mountain bikes through some of the most jaw-dropping terrain in Utah and Colorado, tracing the Trans Rockies Connector trail from Salt Lake City to Boulder. Our route took us through towering mountain ranges, vast deserts, and everything in between, offering us a chance to test our limits, face unpredictable challenges, and discover the true meaning of adventure.

Our journey covered 1,600 kilometers, navigating steep climbs, rocky trails, unpredictable weather, and plenty of mechanical issues. We battled intense heat, bone-chilling cold, and countless thunderstorms, all while carrying everything we needed on our bikes. But beyond the physical struggle, it was the moments of unexpected kindness from strangers, the joy of reaching a hard-earned summit, and the quiet moments under the stars that made this adventure truly special.

Our bikepacking route (more or less):

A Jet-Lagged Start to the Journey

Salt Lake City to Affleck Park

We landed late, jet-lagged, and crashed at a hotel by the airport. After a quick sleep, we prepped our bikes and headed into town. A stop at REI for backpacker meals, gas, and a cooking pot, then it was back to sweating in 45°C heat.

Tired and still foggy from the flight, we started with an easy climb on a paved road. After 35 km, we reached a beautiful campground next to a stream. No reservation? No problem. The friendly host let us stay anyway.

When we asked about black bears, he laughed and said the real threat was elk. If we saw one, we were supposed to hide behind a tree. Great.

We pitched our tent, settled in, and enjoyed a peaceful first night under the stars—no bears, no elk, just pure adventure.

From Struggles to Surprises: A Day of Single Trails and Generosity

Affleck Park to Park City via Mormon Pioneer Trail

Jetlagged and slightly disoriented, we woke up early, had breakfast and packed up our bags. The first singletrack of the journey—a beautiful stretch of trail through forested sections of the Mormon Pioneer Trail and Pony Express—was a little reminder of how challenging riding a bike with 20kg of extra weight attached to it could get.

A pit stop in Park City led to an unforgettable moment when we met Seth, a former cyclist who generously invited us to his house for a shower, food, and a well-needed recharge, even though he and his family weren’t even at home themselves. He just said, he’ll leave the door open and tell the neighbors we’re coming. Five minutes later, another guy stopped and had a chat with us and left us with a $50 voucher for his wife’s bar the Alpine Distillery in Park City. Talk about unexpected kindness on the road! We headed to the bar, had a drink while feeling very out of place in our dirty MTB clothes and made ourselves at home at Seth’s place for the night.

Broken Gear, Deerflies, and Finding Solitude

Park City to Mill Hollow Reservoir

We woke up at Seth’s place and took our sweet time packing up—except for Till, who somehow managed to forget one of our charging cables (classic). The first part of the ride was a breeze: a smooth, tarmac descent with farms dotted along the way, perfect for easing into the day.

We stopped for lunch at a supermarket in Kamas, but, of course, things weren’t as smooth as they seemed. One of our two water filters had broken, so we went on a mini-quest to replace it. Our luck changed when we found a fishing shop, where Ben, the owner, came to the rescue. He didn’t have any filters for sale but just so happened to have the exact one we needed, and—like a true legend—gave it to us for a little donation. Saved by the fishing shop fairy!

The last 8 km were brutal—an endless uphill dirt road that felt like it went on forever. The horseflies were out in full force, and as soon as we stopped, we had a whole swarm of them attacking us.

Just as we arrived at the reservoir, the rain started pouring down. Of course. The campground there was nearly full, so we pushed on a little further uphill and found a perfect, secluded spot on the opposite side of the reservoir—completely alone, just the way we like it.

Filtering 12 liters of water in the rain wasn’t exactly glamorous, but the evening still turned out to be beautiful—peaceful, and quiet.

Sunrise Views, Crawfish, and a Perfect Lakeview Camp

Mill Hollow Reservoir to Strawberry Reservoir

We woke up to a stunning sunrise over the reservoir, with the sky turning every shade of orange and pink. The ride kicked off with a long-ish climb, but it was all worth it when we hit the epic downhill to Strawberry Reservoir—breathtaking views that made us forget about the sweat we’d just poured into the ascent.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant by the water. Obviously, we went for the classic burgers and fries—because what else would you order?

Afterward, we ventured away from the crowds and went for a swim in the lake. I was all ready to dive in, but as soon as I saw the crawfish crawling around, I kind of freaked out. Not the peaceful swim I’d imagined.

The afternoon was all about chilling—did some laundry, soaked up the sun, and took a well-deserved breather.

Since camping by the water wasn’t allowed, we hiked up a hill and found a sweet, quiet spot just above the lake. It was the perfect spot to set up camp, away from the crowds, with a view that made the whole day feel worth it.

Mountain Glides, Gas Station Gourmet, and a Perfect Camp Spot

Strawberry Reservoir to Skyline Drive

The day kicked off with a smooth, rolling dirt road that made us feel like we were gliding through the mountains. After just an hour, we treated ourselves to an ice cream stop by the lake—because why not? The sun was shining, and we deserved it.

A short uphill later, we were rewarded with an incredible 27 km descent, filled with jaw-dropping views that made the climb feel like a distant memory.

We were heading into a super remote mountain area for 3-4 days without any resupply options. The only place we could restock? A gas station. So, we went "grocery shopping" at the gas station for a whopping $142. The selection wasn’t exactly gourmet: we picked up some questionable pre-peeled eggs, protein bars, cheese, and crackers—basically the mountain survival essentials.

After a few more kilometers on the highway, we turned onto “Skyline Drive,” which would be our home for the next few days.

We found an epic camp spot next to a river, and, of course, we had to take a refreshing cold bath in the water. We settled in, enjoyed the quiet, and went to bed early, ready for whatever the mountains would throw at us next.

From a Grueling Climb to Unexpected Hospitality by the Lake

Skyline Drive to Fairview Lakes

Today’s motto? *Up, up, up.* And up some more. Our legs were tired, the heat was relentless but the higher we got, the prettier the views got.

We had our eyes set on camping at Fairview Lakes, which looked like a dreamy spot on Google Maps—blue water, lush trees, the whole picturesque package. But when we got there, reality slapped us in the face: Fairview Lakes was private. The sign didn’t exactly say "welcome," so we decided to see if we could find someone and ask if there was any chance of pitching a tent somewhere nearby.

We snuck around the gate and knocked at the door of the first camper van we saw. And, as fate would have it, we met the Harrisons, a super chill family who spend their entire holiday there. They couldn’t have been more welcoming—offering us water like we’d just crossed the Sahara, and even making us dinner! Till got a juicy steak, while I got a zucchini from the BBQ (which, honestly, I was totally fine with).

Not only did they feed us, but they also pointed us toward a perfect little spot to set up camp just a short walk from the lake. We got exactly what we needed: good company, a good swim, and the perfect place to rest our sore, sun-baked bodies.

Kindness on the Road and the Leeches of Jet Fox Reservoir

Fairview Lakes to Jet Fox Reservoir

In the morning, we headed back to the Harrisons to fill up our water one last time, and they invited us to join them for breakfast. Over cheese omelets and coffee, they mentioned they were Trump supporters. Honestly, it didn’t even matter—these folks were so warm and friendly, that we didn’t feel the urge to discuss politics.

We finally hit the road around 11:30 am, thanks to Till and Mr. Harrison, who were deep in conversation about everything under the sun (mainly about our route and fishing).

We made our way further up Skyline Drive, and by early evening, we were dangerously low on water. Spotting two camper vans, we pulled over and asked if they could spare some. Turns out, they were some of the nicest people we’d met—after chatting for a while, they not only gave us water but also loaded us up with muesli bars, electrolytes, and—best of all—carrots! Fresh veggies in the middle of nowhere? Heaven.

We had planned to push on to Ferron Reservoir, but I was exhausted. When we passed Jet Fox Reservoir, I couldn’t resist—this was the place to stop. It was peaceful, secluded, and the water looked so inviting. I had visions of a refreshing swim and washing my hair, but when Till dipped his feet in and came out a few seconds later with his legs covered in leeches, my dream shower quickly turned into a nightmare.

Determined not to give up, we ran into the water, scrubbed ourselves as fast as we could, and sprinted back out, hoping the leeches didn’t hitch a ride.

At 3,200 meters, the night was chilly, but the stars were absolutely stunning—like a blanket of diamonds above us.

A Descent for the books

Jet Fox Reservoir to Ferron

We woke up with the rising sun, and thankfully, its warmth made the cold morning air a bit more bearable. After packing up our gear (the usual routine), we had a quick breakfast and set off toward the highest point of Skyline Drive at 10,897 feet.

And then—the fun part—a loooong descent began. We cruised downhill for what felt like forever, and after just a few kilometers, we stopped at Ferron Reservoir. It was gorgeous—crystal-clear water, peaceful surroundings, and, best of all, no leeches. So, naturally, we jumped right in for a refreshing swim.

From there, we continued the epic downhill to Ferron. In total, we dropped 1,500 meters of elevation over more than 20 kilometers. The scenery was unreal: one minute we were in lush, green forests at a cool 25°C, and the next—bam—we were in a desert landscape, sweating in 45°C heat. The shift in terrain was like going through multiple seasons in an hour.

After all that, we had a much-needed late lunch at a supermarket, then splurged and rented a cabin for the night. We plugged in all our devices, charged every single battery, and sank into a comfy bed. It was the kind of luxury you appreciate after days of roughing it.

The best day ever


Ferron to Temple Mountain San Rafael Swell

The Harrisons (the awesome family at Fairview Lakes) had recommended going to San Rafael Swell, so we decided to take a detour. The official route would’ve taken us a bit north, but there was no way we were missing out on that stunning landscape.

We chatted with some locals and double-checked Google Maps for water sources. The catch? There were no guarantees. So, we made the executive decision to carry all the water we’d need until the next morning. In the end, we were lugging around 20 liters of water between us. Not exactly lightweight.

The route was Till's design, so, naturally, there were a few challenges. We hit a super rough section that led down into a canyon and then, of course, back up again. Which didn’t seem very appealing considering the extra weight of the water, so we decided to take a shortcut on the freeway. Not our best move. It was busy, loud, and not exactly pleasant, but to our surprise, all the drivers were incredibly respectful and gave us plenty of space.

The real fun began when we had to get off the freeway. We ended up climbing over a fence - the only option - and finally got back on track. From there, it was nothing short of incredible.

The landscape felt like something straight out of Africa—vast, savanna-like views with red sand, massive rock formations, and wide-open spaces that screamed "Western movie." We had the whole place to ourselves—just us, the land, and a couple of rattlesnakes (probably).

As the day wore on, we rolled into the sunset, and the reds of the land grew even more vibrant. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get more picturesque, a rainbow appeared in the rain clouds. It was like nature was showing off for us.

By the time we arrived at Temple Mountain Campground, it was pitch black, and once again, we had the whole place to ourselves. We set up our tent under a ribbed roof near some picnic tables, and spent the evening stargazing. The sky was insane—until a thunderstorm rolled in, complete with heavy rain, just as we were starting to drift off.

All in all, it was the best day on the bike ever.

Goblins, Sticky Clay, and Headwinds

Goblin Park to Green River

We kicked off the morning with a visit to Goblin Valley, hoping to see some quirky rock formations. The goblins are indeed a funny attraction, but honestly, with the tourists all around and compared to the jaw-dropping landscapes of San Rafael Swell the day before, Goblin Valley just wasn’t that impressive.

The rain from the night before had turned the trail into a slippery, sticky mess of clay. And, of course, I had a classic moment of grace—I slipped right into the gooey clay and ended up in a patch of thorn bushes. Luckily, I had packed tweezers (because who doesn’t?), so I spent the next 20 minutes delicately plucking thorns from my hand and arm.

The heat was brutal, and the next stretch was a soul-crushing, headwind-blasted highway slog. Every pedal stroke felt like we were pushing against a wall, and it didn’t help that we were surrounded by nothing but desert and a few scattered tumbleweeds. Tired legs, fried brains, and zero motivation made it feel like the longest stretch of our lives.

Eventually, we limped into Green River, where the supermarket became our sanctuary. We stocked up on dinner and breakfast, then found a campground that had an actual car wash—so, naturally, we washed the clay off our bikes, too. And just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, we discovered they had a laundromat. Clothes washed, bikes cleaned, and a great place to crash for the night. It wasn’t paradise, but it sure felt close after that grueling day.

Our First Proper Rest Day

Green River to Moab

We kicked off the day with what could only be described as a luxurious supermarket breakfast: protein shake, bread, peanut butter, and Greek yogurt. It wasn’t exactly pancakes and bacon, but hey, it got the job done.

Once we hit the road, the headwinds were, of course, *brutal*—the kind that makes you feel like you're cycling through molasses. For the first 40 kilometers, it was flat, featureless landscape under a blazing sun, and let’s just say Annika was *struggling*. Exhausted, overheated, and mentally checked out, we were all counting the kilometers until something interesting happened.

Thankfully, the afternoon redeemed itself as we rolled into Moab on a pristine recreational path—smooth tarmac, all downhill, and views that made everything else worth it. Just before the city, we decided to cool off with a dip in the Colorado River. Lucky for us, a local tour guide warned us about the dangerous undercurrents, so we kept our swim close to shore and didn't get swept away into the wild unknown.

In Moab, we treated ourselves to some juicy burgers for dinner, and Till made the questionable decision to order the tiniest beer I’ve ever seen—honestly, it was more of a "shot" than a drink. We tried not to laugh... too hard.

Then came the best part: Seth, the guy from Park City who’d hosted us, contacted his friend Carry, who lives in Moab, to see if we could crash at her place. Turns out, Carry was in Italy, but like the legend she is, she still let us stay at her house. So, we made our way to Carry’s place and enjoyed a glorious off-day. We slept in, cooked some delicious meals, restocked on food, got Till's leaky tire fixed, and most importantly, just chilled the heck out. It was the perfect reset after days of grinding.

Kokopelli Trail, Red Rocks and a Late Arrival

Moab to Dark Canyon Lake

After our first full rest day, we were feeling recharged and ready to tackle the next part of the route. We took it slow in the morning, enjoying a massive breakfast to fuel up, packed up our gear, and finally rolled out around 11:00 am.

The route didn’t ease us in gently—it kicked off with a steep and long climb straight out of town, heading into the La Sal Mountains. The views of the surrounding red rocks were absolutely breathtaking, but the heat was relentless, turning our legs to jelly.

Eventually, the route led us to a gnarly MTB section, the well-known Kokopelli trail, that took way more energy than we expected. But thanks to the rest day, our legs were feeling surprisingly fresh, and we ended up having a blast, even if we were dripping sweat by the end.

Water was a huge concern—there wasn’t a single source along the way. So, we asked some friendly campers if we could top off our bottles. They generously let us refill, but we knew it wouldn’t be enough for cooking and definitely not for the morning, so we pushed on to a small mountain lake I had read about, hoping there’d be a campsite, too.

As the sun set, we found ourselves riding the last 10 km in the dark. Since we were in bear territory, we sang loudly the entire way—definitely not hitting any high notes, but hoping to scare off any curious wildlife.

Finally, we made it to Dark Canyon Lake around 10:30 pm. I whipped up some dinner while Till gathered firewood. The temperature had dropped drastically, so even though there was a lake, the idea of swimming was absolutely out of the question.

We went to bed late, and after the long day, we slept like babies—cold, tired, and completely content.

Angry Kevin Costner And A Slashed Tire

Dark Canyon Lake to Bedrock

We woke up to a bright, sunny morning, ready to hit the road—but not before a little drama. The evening before, Till had spotted a house on a hill not far from our campsite, and when two men appeared on the hill, he decided to ask if we could refill our water.

The man in his mid-sixties, dressed like he'd just stepped off the set of Yellowstone—cowboy boots, a hat, and a backup sidekick trailing a few meters behind him—was not exactly friendly. In fact, he was downright furious because we’d unknowingly camped on the wrong side of the lake, which was private property. He wouldn’t even let us apologize, just told us in a booming Shakespearean accent (seriously, it was like he was auditioning for a part in Macbeth) that we had to leave immediately. With his intense glare and dramatic style, we dubbed him "Angry Kevin Costner," after the tough-as-nails character from Yellowstone. We later learned he was probably Mormon, which explained the whole vibe.

We quickly packed up, trying not to incur any more wrath, but just as we were about to leave, the man returned with another guy in his early seventies—turns out, the owner of the property. Apparently, after his henchman reported our "misdeeds," the landowner’s wife wasn’t thrilled about how we’d been treated, so she sent the two of them back with a big canister of water for us. We chatted for a bit, refilled our bottles, and headed out, relieved to be done with the situation.

The day before, I’d developed a nasty heat rash that was only getting worse and more painful. Initially, I thought it was fleas, so I went full-on detective mode, washing all my clothes at Buckeye Reservoir, hoping to find the culprit.

We briefly considered spending the night at the reservoir, as it was stunningly beautiful, but we decided it was still too early to call it a day. Big mistake. Just a few kilometers down the road, Till slashed his tire. We tried plugging it—no luck. Then we put in a new tube… which he punctured immediately. A few hours later, we were stuck in an endless loop of riding for 500 meters, then stopping to reinflate the tire, only for it to deflate again.

By the time we finally rolled into Bedrock, a very tiny village at the bottom of the mountain, we were exhausted and frustrated. We knocked on a house door, asking for water and we were lucky with a friendly gentleman, but finding a place to sleep was another challenge. Everything was private property, and we were feeling like outlaws at this point.

Eventually, we found a spot behind a fence—some bushes on a patch of land that didn’t seem to belong to anyone, but who knows. We curled up for the night, only to be serenaded by the howls of coyotes and, probably, mountain lions. It wasn’t exactly the peaceful night we’d hoped for, but at least we were still alive and well-fed.

A Hitchhike, a Bike Shop, and Two Inspiring Sisters

Bedrock to Columbine Campground via Naturita

Morning came, and Till was back at it, trying to fix his tire, but no luck. We quickly realized this was going to be a two-person job—one to bike to the nearest town for a new tire, and the other to hitchhike and meet up later.

I set off on the bike, while Till tried his hand at hitchhiking. It took a while, but eventually, Louis, a former BMX rider with a story or two, stopped to pick up Till. When they passed me, I jumped into the car as well to make things easier. Louis, being a legend, took us to Naturita, a tiny town with a surprisingly awesome bike shop called Paradox Cycles. Not only did they have the exact tire we needed, but there was also a café close by serving amazing caramel Frappuccinos—perfect fuel for our adventure. While we sipped on our drinks, the bike shop owner swapped out the tire and even tipped us off to a great campground up in the mountains.

And then came the real fun: it was all uphill from there—literally. We climbed and climbed until we reached Columbine Campground in the early evening. It was the perfect spot to wash off the day’s sweat in a small pond and gather firewood.

As we were settling in, we met Diana, 80, and Kathy, 72, two sisters who were hauling an old trailer and truck up the mountain to collect firewood for the winter. And get this—they do it eight times a year. Talk about tough! The two of them had more energy than we’d ever have at that age, and we couldn’t help but admire their determination.

With the firewood stacked and the sun setting, we settled in for a peaceful night—grateful for the adventures, the kindness of strangers, and the inspiring sisters we’d just met.

Cowboy Boots and a New Family

Columbine Campground to Delta

In the morning, Diana came over to our tent with a warm smile and announced, “Breakfast is ready!” She and Kathy had prepared hashbrowns, eggs, and fresh coffee, and we spent the morning savoring the food and listening to their incredible stories. It was the perfect start to the day—no rush, just good company and good conversation. They are a true inspiration!


But then it was time to hit the road again. We had a loooong descent to Delta, and the plan was to rent a cabin with AC because my heat rash was still killing me. The sun and heat were making it worse by the minute. When we got to the cabins, though, we learned they were no longer available. Cue my silent meltdown. I was done. Mentally, physically—done. The thought of staying out in the heat any longer felt unbearable.

We dragged ourselves to the supermarket to grab dinner and search for another camping spot when fate intervened. We met Don, a kind guy in his early 60s. I must’ve looked pretty miserable sitting by our bikes, because he immediately offered us a place to shower at his and his wife Beth’s house. I didn’t need any more convincing—I was ready to say yes before he even finished the sentence.

What followed was two of the best days we could have asked for. Don and Beth’s place felt like a slice of heaven. Beth, a former barrel racer, and Don, who did endurance riding and now still works with horses, welcomed us like we were old friends. They had a small ranch with horses and two beautiful ridgebacks who made us feel right at home.

And then, the highlight—shopping! Don took us to his favorite, authentic cowboy shop (none of that touristy nonsense). I walked out with a pair of cowboy boots, and Till got himself a proper cowboy hat. We were officially ready for the wild west!

On our last night, we shared a meal with Corey, a family friend, and just soaked in the warmth of their hospitality. Don and Beth were about to leave for a holiday in Paris, but they were so worried about us that they made Corey promise to be available in case of emergencies. We were touched by their generosity—it was one of those moments where you realize how good people can be, and we were incredibly grateful for their kindness.

We left their ranch feeling like we’d made lifelong friends and with a fresh perspective on just how wonderful strangers can be when you need them most.

The Redneck Riviera

Delta to Redneck Riviera

Saying goodbye to Don and Beth was harder than we expected. After two days of incredible hospitality, we’d grown so fond of them that there were definitely a few tears as we said goodbye. But as all good things must come to an end, we finally hit the road again.

We passed through Hotchkiss for lunch and then rolled into Paonia—a cute little hippie town where we saw our first anti-Trump and pro-Harris flags. Talk about a culture shock after all that ranch life!

I was already feeling pretty tired, and we briefly considered staying in Paonia for the night, but decided to push on a bit further to find a peaceful spot in the forest. We took on a steep climb into the mountains, but the whole area was lined with private properties, making it tricky to find a place to camp. Finally, the private property signs gave way to the national forest, and that’s one of the best things about the US: as long as there are no "no camping" signs, you can pitch your tent pretty much anywhere in a national forest.

We spotted a local on his RTV and asked if he knew a good camping spot, and he gave us a tip not far away. As we rode toward the gate he described, a massive truck came rolling down the path, and for a split second, we thought we’d misunderstood and were about to end up on someone’s private land again. But nope—two big guys in the truck gave us a wave and seemed anything but angry.

Turns out they were elk bow hunters who frequently camped here for a few days—or sometimes weeks—at a time. They were friendly and full of surprises. One of them handed me a wooden board and said, “Go to the little stream to the left and you’ll figure it out.” Intrigued, we followed his instructions, and soon enough, we found a tiny sluice in the river now the board made sense. Apparently, you could dam up the water with it and create your very own bathtub. They even had a name for it: The Redneck Riviera. Genius.

We spent the rest of the evening relaxing in our makeshift bath, before pitching our tent and enjoying another cozy night under the stars. It was one of those unexpected, magical moments that made the journey feel even more worthwhile.

A Lost Watch and Drinking Margaritas

Redneck Riviera to McClure Pass

After packing up our stuff, we started climbing further up the mountain. About 40 minutes in, it hit me—I’d left my watch down at the camp! In a moment of panic, I looked at Till, and like the true gem of a husband he is, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” Off he went, back down the mountain to search for my lost watch.

An hour later, he returned, watch in hand, and I’m not kidding when I say he earned the "Best Husband" award on the spot.

The rest of the day was beautiful—sunny skies and perfect weather. That is, until we got just 3km from the campground. Out of nowhere, the sky darkened, and boom—thunderstorms hit us from two directions, with bolts of lightning flashing every few seconds. We were literally caught in the middle of it, so there was nothing left to do but ditch the bikes and hide under our tarp in the grass for an hour while the storm raged on. Not exactly the adventure we had in mind!

When the storm finally cleared, we climbed the remaining 3km to the campground, arriving just as the last light of day disappeared. We were exhausted and starving, so we quickly set up the tent and started brainstorming dinner options when we met our neighbors—Deatra and Marc, a lovely couple from Texas.

They immediately invited us over for pizza, margaritas, and bourbon (yes, you read that right), and we spent the evening enjoying their company, laughing, and sharing stories. It was the perfect end to the day. Sometimes, the best moments on the road are the ones you never see coming!

Conquering Schofield Pass: A Day of Struggles, Storms, and Stunning Views

McClure Pass via Marble to Crested Butte Mountain

We started the day with a shared breakfast and coffee with Deatra and Marc, promising to meet again soon (preferably in Texas, as Till always wanted to go there). After saying our goodbyes, we set off towards Marble, a charming little village where we stopped for coffee and a burrito at an adorable café. The kind of place where the world slows down and everything just feels right.

From Marble, we made our way toward Crested Butte Mountain, planning to cross Schofield Pass. Now, our guidebook from the Trans Rockies Connector Trail had been pretty quiet about how brutal the pass would be, so we were in for quite a surprise. The next 21 kilometers quickly turned into a push-your-bike, carry-your-bike, and pray-for-the-end kind of day. At one point, the terrain was so rugged that we couldn’t even push the bikes—we had to carry them on our shoulders like pack mules, and throw in a couple of river crossings for good measure.

To make things even more "fun," the dark clouds ahead were getting thicker, and thunder echoed in the distance. A light drizzle added to the drama, but we managed to dodge the worst of the storm, thankfully. In the end, it was an 11km hike-a-bike and the rest was rather rocky, and very slow terrain, so you can imagine my mood.

But as all tough climbs do, it eventually ended. We crested the top, and although it was freezing cold, the view was worth every excruciating step. The storm we’d seen looming from afar had left the trails in a mess of puddles and wet mud, but it had also created a stunning scene. Rainbows stretched across the sky, the setting sun cast a golden glow on the mountaintops, and the place was completely deserted—just us, the wild, and the beauty of it all.

With frozen hands and soggy feet, we made our way down the other side to Crested Butte Mountain, arriving just as darkness took over. We found a little camp spot to set up our tent, and from there, it was a blur of putting on every dry piece of clothing we had left, crawling into our sleeping bags, and having a cozy dinner inside the tent. It was a wild day, but as the rain pattered outside and we tucked into our meal, it felt like another unforgettable adventure.

A Well-Deserved Rest

Crested Butte Mountain to Crested Butte

The night had been cold, and after a slightly restless sleep, we packed up and headed down the mountain to Crested Butte.

The town greeted us with its small-town charm—no chain stores, no franchises, just local shops, cafés, and an unmistakable mountain vibe. We could tell right away why this place was considered an outdoor sports paradise. We had earned a bit of rest, so we decided to splurge on a night at a local hostel to dry our soaked clothes, eat proper food (instead of freeze-dried backpacker meals), and recharge our electronics.

We spent the afternoon wandering through Crested Butte, exploring the shops and enjoying the relaxed atmosphere of the town. It was such a nice contrast to the rough, demanding days on the trail.

Detours, Fellow Bikepackers, and a Smoky Campfire Fail

Crested Butte to Taylor Park Reservoir

After a refreshing night at the hostel, we rolled out of town feeling fully recharged and ready to tackle the final stretch of our adventure. The original plan had us heading to Salida and then up to Denver, but Till—being the ultimate trail-running documentary enthusiast—had a dream of visiting Leadville (he’s seen every documentary on the place). Plus, we wanted to meet a friend in Boulder, so we decided to make our own detour: instead of going to Denver via Salida, we’d head to Boulder via Leadville. A slight change of course, but hey, it’s our adventure, right?

Our first stop was Taylor Park Reservoir, tucked beautifully in the mountains, surrounded by forests and dotted with the occasional RV camping. It felt like the perfect spot to soak in some nature... and then, finally, after 25 days on the road, we met our first fellow bikepackers! A group of guys heading in the opposite direction—proof that there were other wild souls out there.

As the evening rolled in, the weather took a turn for the worse. It got wet and cold, and to top it off, we realized there wasn’t any firewood to collect. The friendly camp host saved the day by selling us a bag of wood, but alas, it was a total flop. Instead of a warm crackling fire, we ended up with a cloud of smoke that refused to catch fire. So there we were, shivering in the cold, watching our firewood smolder uselessly while we huddled together, trying to make the best of it.

Summiting Cottonwood Pass and A Dinner for Champions

Taylor Park Reservoir to Buena Vista

On the menu for the day was Cottonwood Pass, which would take us to the highest point of our entire route—3,696 meters (12,127 feet) above sea level. Sounds epic, right? Well, unfortunately, my legs had other ideas and decided they were very much against the whole climbing-a-mountain thing. But I wasn’t going down without a fight! I spotted a discarded steel coffee mug by the side of the road and—because why not?—used it as a Blackroll to work out the kinks in my IT bands. Problem #1 solved.

Enter problem #2: Till had somehow lost a screw from one of his cleats (classic Till move), and, of course, didn’t have a replacement. So now, he had to continue with a loose cleat and as any cyclist knows, this doesn’t end well—especially for the knees.

Somehow, we made it to the top of Cottonwood Pass, and wow, was it worth it! The view was nothing short of spectacular—endless mountains, vast forests, and... oh look, dark clouds creeping in. We snapped a quick photo by the sign and didn’t waste any time heading downhill.

Of course, as if on cue, we got absolutely drenched by the rain about 3 kilometers before the town. Naturally, we arrived at the supermarket completely soaked, because what’s a Colorado adventure without a little rain drama? It felt like a recurring theme at this point.

Luckily, the weather improved after we grabbed some supplies, and we headed out to find a camping spot. We rolled along some gorgeous gravel roads, eventually stumbling upon the perfect site—a quiet dead-end next to a big, inviting river. We celebrated with a refreshing dip in the river, built a fire, and cracked open one of our trusty freeze-dried meals. Sadly, this one tasted like s**t so we ditched the meal and went straight to the important stuff: gummy bears and cookies for dessert. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was exactly what we needed.

Leadville 100 Chaos: What A Fail

Buena Vista to Leadville

We were headed toward Leadville, passing through the picturesque Twin Lakes, and the closer we got, the more it became painfully obvious that something was going on. Every camp spot was packed, every parking lot was bursting at the seams, and there were mountain bikers everywhere. And I mean *everywhere*. Turns out, it was the weekend of the Leadville 100—a mountain bike race that turns the town into a cyclist's dream and a non-racer's nightmare.

What should've been a smooth, easy day turned into a race against time to find somewhere to sleep. Every place was taken. Just as we were heading to the supermarket, the heavens opened up. And I mean opened. The rain hit us like a wall, and within seconds we were soaked to the bone. The forecast said it wasn’t going to stop for at least three hours, so we ducked into a small taco restaurant to wait it out.

After what felt like forever, the rain turned into a drizzle, and we decided to brave the elements again. A local had tipped us off to a camp spot just a few kilometers out of town, but either we misunderstood the directions or the universe was playing a prank on us. We ended up climbing a mountain on a rocky gravel path, only to find ourselves face-to-face with a fence and a sign that screamed "Private Property: Land Trust. Conservation Easement." Yep, not exactly inviting.

So, naturally, we had no choice but to trudge around the property through wet bushes, the rain picking up again just to remind us it was still in charge. Everything was drenched, and my ever-chivalrous husband, Till, decided he would not only carry our bikes across a river but me too so my feet wouldn’t get any colder.

On the other side of the river, we could finally see the road again, but of course, we were greeted by two very large bulldogs, barking like their lives depended on it. And, just for good measure, a guy yelled, "This is private property!!!" Now, I don’t know about you, but when you're already cold, wet, and a little bit done with the day, a situation like this can give you the rest.

After some tense moments, we inched past the barking dogs—while apologizing every step of the way, hoping we wouldn't get shot (because you never know). Then, we spent the next 20 minutes navigating one of the busiest streets we’d encountered all trip, getting drenched by the rain. But then, through the trees, we saw a glimmer of hope: a cluster of cars parked along the side of the road. Leadville 100 participants, clearly as desperate as we were, had clearly given up looking for a place and made do with what they could find. So, we pitched our tent as fast as we could, changed into the driest clothes we had left, and made our dinner.

Once again, we huddled up in our sleeping bags, half-drenched, half-exhausted, but definitely relieved to finally call it a night. Leadville might’ve been a cyclist’s dream, but for us? It was a test of patience, persistence, and finding creative ways to camp in a city that had no room for us.

A Disastrous Fire and A Stroke Of Luck

Leadville via Frisco & Dillon Reservoir to Blue River Campground

The morning after our Leadville ordeal was, well, a bit of a disaster. Everything was still wet from the day before, so we decided to get creative. We built a fire and laid our stuff out on the big stones around it to dry. But oh boy, we seriously underestimated the heat of the fire. The results were... catastrophic. Our helmets? Melted. Our shoes? Shrunk two sizes smaller. And I somehow managed to burn the chamois of my bib shorts. It was an utter mess, like a bad camping infomercial.

We squeezed our cold toes into our shrunken shoes, packed up the wreckage of our gear, and set off up the very busy road. As the traffic roared by, I was feeling pretty annoyed, but then, out of nowhere, a miracle happened. We crested a hill and were met with the sight of a 20km downhill tarmac path, made just for cyclists. It was like a dream. No cars, just smooth, beautiful road stretching downhill to the next town, Frisco.

In Frisco, we stopped at a packed brunch place, where we gorged ourselves on French toast and pancakes. Then, in a twist of fate, we found a ski shop with a little oven used to shape ski boots—and they kindly let us use it to reshape our cycling shoes. It was a small victory, but hey, our feet felt a little better.

From there, we continued to Dillon Reservoir, a beautiful lake just outside Frisco. The sun was finally shining, and we decided to have a shower. I even treated myself to a hair wash—always a luxury on this trip. But, as usual, the weather had other plans. No sooner had we finished swimming than dark clouds rolled in, and the wind picked up like a freight train. We scrambled back to our bikes, and as we started riding, the wind was so intense it almost knocked us off our bikes. We sought refuge under the roof of a shopping center just as the rain started pouring.

Once the storm passed, we thought we were in the clear, so we hit the road again. But, of course, the rain returned after about an hour. This time, we took shelter in the most glamorous of spots: a campground restroom. Classic. We would've stayed there for the night, but we were facing a small problem—Till had left our credit card at the hostel in Crested Butte, and we were out of cash.

Just as we were pondering our next move, the camp host showed up. We explained our situation, and, bless his heart, he took pity on us. Apparently, a family had paid for a spot but never showed up, so he kindly offered us their empty site for free. We happily accepted and pitched our tent in the rain-soaked campground, enjoying the peace of knowing we didn’t have to continue in the rain to find another place.

So, there we were again, cozy and more or less dry in our tent, while the rain continued to pour outside. A crazy, chaotic day, but at least it ended with a little bit of luck—because sometimes, when everything goes wrong, the universe throws a bone your way.

From Food Comas to Mountain Storms: A Day of Unexpected Twists

Blue River Campground via Ute Pass to Fraser

After breakfast, we packed up our bags and set our sights on Ute Pass—a long, quiet mountain route that would eventually lead us to Fraser on the other side. It was the kind of morning where the mountain air felt fresh, and the promise of adventure hung in the crisp breeze.

Once in Fraser, we made a pit stop at the supermarket to grab lunch. And by lunch, I mean I gorged myself. Baguette, guacamole, protein shake, cookies ... you name it. By the time I had devoured my feast, I could barely move. I had to lay down on a bench like a bloated burrito for a few minutes. But dark clouds were rolling in, so despite my food coma, we knew we had to get back on the road.

We made our way up the mountain, and of course, we got a little lost in some new development area in Winter Park. After a few wrong turns and more than a few sighs, we finally reached the top. But as always, the weather had other plans—about two kilometers from our chosen spot for the night, the rain came pouring down. Typical.

But, as quickly as it arrived, the rain stopped. By the time we got our camp set up, the clouds had cleared, and we were left with a peaceful, quiet evening. Dinner was a light snack (since I’d already eaten my weight in sandwiches earlier), and we spent the night savoring our last evening under the stars—grateful that we had made it through yet another day of unpredictable weather, bad decisions, and unexpected beauty.

Snowy Peaks, a Slo-Mo Crash, and a Giant Machete: The Unexpected End to Our Epic Journey

Fraser to Boulder: The Final Stretch

The last day of our trip was supposed to be a breeze—just 65km, a modest 1000m of climbing, and a solid 2300m descent. Easy, right? Yeah, not so much.

We started with a steady climb up Corona Pass Road, winding our way up to 3600m, where snow-capped peaks greeted us and the views were simply astonishing. The kind of scenery that made all the soreness fade away... for a moment.

Then came the descent. And by “descent”, I mean it wasn't a gentle, rolling gravel road—oh no, it was a full-on MTB trail. Perfect for a full-suspension MTB, maybe, but not for a hardtail packed with heavy bikepacking gear. The trail was a rocky, jarring mess that sent us bouncing down the mountain. And just when we thought it couldn't get worse, we reached the Devil’s Slide Trestles—a century-old wooden bridge hanging precariously above a terrifying drop. I think I said a little prayer on the other side but Till enjoyed the little thrill full on.

From there, the rocky descent continued, and then—just when we thought the worst was behind us—came my very own slow-motion crash. I hit a particularly gnarly section of rocks, and because my saddlebag was in the way, I couldn't shift my weight properly. I ended up tipping over in what I can only describe as the least dramatic fall ever—just a slow, embarrassing topple to the side. A little scratch on my knee, but nothing major.

But of course, the day had more surprises in store. As we descended further, we were faced with an unexpected climb. A stretch that should have been a mere 50m of elevation gain turned into a cruel 250m, mostly spent pushing our bikes up the impossible terrain.

Finally, we thought, "Ok, we’ve earned our descent." But instead, we found ourselves in a ski resort that was closed, prepping for winter. We weren't supposed to be there, and when we asked a worker for directions, he shot us a secretive look and whispered, "If anyone asks, we’ve never met." Alrighty then...

We managed to make it out of the ski resort without getting arrested, and headed toward Nederland, a small town near Boulder. It was here that we realized something: in cities, cyclists are treated very differently. Gone was the friendly, patient vibe we'd enjoyed the past few weeks. Instead, we were honked at, cut off, and generally not welcomed. At least on the beautiful Magnolia Road there wasn’t a lot of traffic, just the occasional dreamy ranch on the side.

We were almost there, cruising along a beautiful rec path that followed a river into town when—BOOM!—one last surprise. A half-naked guy with a massive machete stood in the middle of the bike path, staring up at the rocks like he’d just seen a ghost. We rolled up and he mumbled, "Sorry, I just saw a mountain lion." I don’t know if I was more terrified of the imaginary mountain lion or the guy with the machete, but either way, it was the perfect absurd ending to a wild adventure.

And just like that, we rolled into Boulder. 30 days, 1600km, and countless adventures later—our mountain bike journey from Salt Lake City to Boulder was complete. What a ride.

Life Is a Never-Ending Adventure

The trail had tested us, challenged us, and offered us moments of beauty and awe we’ll carry forever—jagged mountain ridgelines, alpine lakes shimmering in the morning light, and forests that felt like living, breathing things. But it wasn’t just the landscapes that made this journey unforgettable—it was the people we met along the way.

From the strangers who welcomed us into their homes to the locals who shared stories and meals, the kindness and hospitality we encountered were nothing short of extraordinary. These connections—those moments of human generosity—reminded us that, even in the vast wilderness, we are never truly alone.

The tent became our nightly refuge, the stars our constant companions, and the mountains our teachers. As we pedaled through rain, sun, exhaustion, and elation, we discovered new depths of resilience, patience, and gratitude—lessons that extended far beyond the bike.

Now, as we reflect on our adventure, our hearts full, we realize that the journey didn’t end in Boulder. It’s never just about reaching a destination; it’s about the experiences along the way—connecting with people, embracing challenges, and finding joy in the unknown.

This adventure, like so many before it, has sparked something in us—a hunger to keep exploring, to keep discovering. The road ahead is long, and the next chapter is already calling. So, for now, we’ll take a breath, reflect on the lessons learned, and look forward to whatever’s next.

Because the adventure is never really over—it’s simply waiting for us to dive back in.

Thanks for reading and thanks if you made it to the end. I know this was a long one! ;)


If you still want to know more or have questions, send us a message on Instagram @annika__vossen or @tillschenklive.