Page 112 of Shared By the Mountain Men

But wanting something and getting it were two totally different things, and I felt deep sadness while I tore down my campsite by myself. I kept looking around, waiting for Jack or the other two to randomly emerge from the trees with smiles and laughter. To announce that it was all a trick, and that I should see the look on my face.

It never happened. I was alone.

My disappointment faded as I began the hike. Today was the final day of my trek. Only sixteen miles to the trailhead marking the end of the Colorado Trail. A journey of 486 miles was coming to a close.

My determination grew as the sun came up and warmed my bones. The enormity of what I had done was sinking in. I’d never accomplished something sograndbefore. A month ago, I was devastated. I could barely get out of bed in the morning, and it was a success if I made it to lunch without crying.

Now I felt like I was in control of my life. Like I could doanything.

The terrain made for easy travel, too—it was almost entirely downhill, a gentle decline toward Denver. I lengthened my stride, making better time than I had at any point in the journey.

It felt like a victory lap.

As I descended out of the Rockies a new woman, there were signs that I was returning to civilization. Instead of seeing other serious hikers with massive backpacks, I passed day hikers carrying only water bottles. The trail was better maintained this close to the city, with cut logs marking the edges of the trail. The air grew thicker the lower I went, the oxygen filling my lungs and making me feel superhuman.

If not for the heavy pack on my back, I might have jogged the final couple of miles.

And then I rounded a corner in the trail and heard the sound of rushing water. The South Platte River roared below me, with a pedestrian bridge crossing it to a parking lot. And in front of the bridge was a big wooden map of the entire Colorado Trail, showing the journey I had made.

I paused to take a selfie in front of it, just like I had done at the identical map in Durango, where I had started the trail.

“Want us to take the photo for you?” a familiar male voice shouted.

I whipped my head around. My parents were standing on the other side of the bridge, waving like idiots.

Giggling, I ran across the bridge and threw myself into their arms. “You came all the way from Florida to see me finish?”

“We want you to know how proud we are of you,” Dad said.

“Don’t youeverdo something like this again,” my mom scolded while squeezing me tightly. “I’m proud of you, of course. But don’t ever do this again. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Love you too, Mom,” I said with a laugh. “How did you know when I would finish? Were you tracking my location?”

“Yes,” Dad said. “But your friends also told us.”

“My friends?”

“It was their idea for us to fly out,” Mom said, pointing.

Standing off to the side, behind a big white Jeep that I hadn’t noticed, were Jack, Noah, and Ash. They were watching and smiling, arms crossed over their chests like bodyguards.

“How did you…”

“Your mom called my office the first day you were in Crested Butte,” Jack explained. “She demanded to know if your injury was worse than you were letting on.”

“It’s a mother’s job to worry,” she said.

“You called twice a day,” Jack said dryly.

“I will not apologize for loving my daughter,” she replied curtly.

“Jack called us a few days ago and told us to fly out here to see you finish,” Dad went on. “We decided it was a fine idea. And here we are.”

“Just us and your friends,” Mom said.

“Yeah. My… friends.”

“She was only in town for a week,” Noah said, “but she left a lasting impression on us.”

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