THINGS WERE GOING TOO WELL.

My hiking partner and I were climbing the Abyss Lake Trail in Colorado, near Mt. Bierstadt and Mt. Evans. Seven miles into the 8.5-mile outbound leg, we were at 12,000 feet, above the treeline, walking on tricky, rocky trail.

I was moving along well, with no breathing problems, only the lightest touch of a headache which I chalked up to dry sinuses from the dry air. Once we reached the lake we’d consider whether we would complete the climb to Mt. Bierstadt at 14,000 ft. To me it felt possible, a great sign given this was my first time at this altitude.

Then my left foot slipped on a boulder.

…

I was in Colorado for two reasons; to visit my daughter Rachel and her fiancé, and to see how well I fared at higher altitudes. Reason being I’d signed up for the Sangre de Cristo 50-miler in September, and I wanted to introduce myself to its average altitude of 10,000 ft., reaching up to nearly 12,000.

I’ve run several times in Colorado. Denver is no problem. I struggled with running in Estes Park (7,500 ft) my first time, but got better with each subsequent visit. And I ran the Indian Creek 55K last year with my niece Robin (who lives there) and felt just fine. So sure, add on 15 more miles at a higher altitude? Let’s go for it!

Still, I wanted to do at least one checkout hike/run before then, so I scheduled a trip out there last month. Robin was out of town but she hooked me up with her friend Paul, who is also an experienced ultrarunner, and he was happy to accompany me. He suggested the Abyss Lake Trail, which starts around 9,000 ft. and tops out at 12,500. But with the summit of Mt. Bierstadt close to the lake, we left open the option of attempting it if I felt okay and the weather cooperated.

I wore a pack and brought my poles, just like I expect to do in September, and loaded up on water. We hit the trail on a beautiful cool morning. Didn’t need that jacket for long, though.

The path was wide and easy to follow at first, and we did a bit of running. After a while it got narrow and technical, so we switched mainly to hiking. I was grateful for Paul’s company, both for “talking shop” and because he had the trail loaded on his watch, which we had to consult when the path wasn’t clear or we had to navigate around the path due to running water.

Said water was the result of snowpack in the mountains, but also an unusual amount of summer rain. As a result, the way up was full of wildflowers and greenery that, I was told, would otherwise be dry and brown by now. I really felt blessed to be there at that moment.

As we got above the treeline, breathing fine and with no real issues, I was pondering going for the summit. It would be a challenge for sure, as I looked at the very steep climb, but it looked like the threatened clouds and rain had gone elsewhere. The scenery around us was breathtaking. Paul even spotted a bald eagle.

Then, as we navigated up a small ridge, I placed my left foot on a rock and pushed myself up, only have to my leg twist sharply as my shoe slipped off it.

…

There was no pain; I hadn’t sprained or strained anything, thank goodness. But as I looked down at my left shoe, I saw my sock instead. My foot must’ve come out of my shoe. So I reached down to slip it back on, only to find my foot had burst through the sidewall and was sticking out through the rip. A shoe that had taken me through the Burning River 100 and the Whiterock 50K was officially toast. (Yes, I should have retired them already. But here we were.)

What to do? Well, like the handyman, the trail runner’s secret weapon is duct tape. A few winds of that and all would be good to finish the hike. Except neither of us had brought any. Oops. Rubber bands? Twine? Medical tape? Nope, nope, and nope. And nobody else around who might have anything to help.

But there was one thing to try. I’d used a bungee cord to hold my folding hiking poles in place in my pack. I wound it around the shoe and tucked the hooks below the laces. It worked! And well enough that we decided to go the final 1.5 miles to the lake. The mountain summit was out, of course, but we could at least achieve our primary goal. And off we went, me now using my poles for extra support, and made the lake without trouble.

After some photos and a snack break, we headed back down. After a couple of miles the bungee was squeezing my foot uncomfortably, so I chanced removing it and relying on careful footing and the poles. And, fortunately, the shoe had just enough integrity left for us to make it back safely. We even made good time.

So I’d call the event a success. Beautiful day, nice hike, good company, and we overcame a challenge. Lesson learned; always carry some duct tape. And heck, if my shoes were going to fail, better to do so in training rather than in a race. RIP, Hoka Bondi. You were great.