Everyone deserves a medal (in the Leadville 100)

Extremely high unsung heroes. Plus: Some cool kit for my fellow amateur sleuths.

Jul 16, 2026

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I celebrated my birthday at the cabin last weekend, starting with a hike on one of my favorite loops. The forest was quiet, maybe because of the wildfire burning 30 miles to the north. But we passed several runners on one short stretch of the Continental Divide trail, a section of gently rolling forest that ends at the infamous southern route to Hope Pass.

Here are some recent views from that segment of the trail:

But the runners stared only at the ground in front of them. They were ripped like mini Dwayne Johnsons, dressed in tanks and short shorts, wearing those small feather-light caps that I suspect were originally designed for toddlers.

Their body language communicated that we were expected to move over; we were just hiking, after all. They were engaged in something serious and important: training for a legendary Colorado trail race that takes place every August.

(Two guys did slow down when they passed us, to ask, How much farther to the ghost town?)

The north trail to Hope Pass is one of the most beautiful hikes in central Colorado, cutting through a magical pine forest and high alpine meadows before opening up to sweeping views of three 14,000-foot peaks and the canyon below. Purple mountain majesties, the whole deal.

The south trail is hell. With chipmunks.

It starts out innocently enough from the top, with moderate switchbacks winding between isolated groves of pines and aspen (one of which conceals the remains of a cast-iron stove or small smelter). But below the tree line, the “trail” becomes an almost vertical chute of loose rocks.

It’s just as hard to hike down it as up, maybe worse. Your thighs and calves are already burned out from the climb and you’re taking one cramped step at a time, legs never fully extending, while trying not to slide onto your backside. I’ve watched people shuffle the entire way.

Who thought this nettle-festooned boulder pipeline qualified as a “pass”? Maybe the same joker who wrote the “shortcut” pamphlet that led the Donner Party to catastrophe? Did a careless map-maker drop “Dashed” from the name to save space?

Pro tip: You can get these views of Hope Pass on and out-and-back hike on the south trail alone. Yes, those are llamas. They work for the Leadville Trail 100 Run.

But every year, hundreds of runners tackle this trail – twice in one day! - as part of the Leadville Trail 100 Run. The race course winds a hundred miles through the Sawatch Range, from Leadville, CO, to the mining ghost town of Winfield and back. Its lowest elevation is 9,200 feet; the highest is 12,600 feet … at the top of (Dashed) Hope Pass. Participants must complete the race in less than 30 hours to earn a belt buckle (runners who come in under 25 hours get a bigger buckle) and lifetime bragging rights.

The race was founded in the early 80s, when Leadville’s mining industry had gone bust and it looked like it might take the town down with it (the Climax Molybdenum Mine has since reopened as an open-pit operation; cue murder-mystery plot point).

Forty-five brave souls took part the first year. The old Winfield cabin owners like to grumble about the early days, when runners would knock on their door in the middle of the night … asking for directions.

In 2010, the organizers sold the series to Life Time Inc., which has added more events and training camps. Out in the woods, I’ve noticed a steady increase in people prepping for the race by spending gorgeous summer weekends running up and down Hope Pass.

As an economic generator on our public lands, the Leadville 100 events sure beat mining (they also fund a nonprofit that supports local students and historic preservation). This offsets most of the annoyance caused by trainees who make the forest feel like a dispersed CrossFit camp. Do they look at the wild roses as they run by? At the hundred-plus years of mining history littering the trails and meadows? The purple mountain majesties?

The race is officially an amateur event, and there are still runners who come in their cotton Ts, rainbow hats, and tulle skirts, who carry funny and inspirational signs, who are taking on the beast to mark a turning point in their lives, or to create one through a dramatic, maybe even foolhardy, gesture. But many of the participants these days look like Olympic contenders with a brand deal in their pocket.

What the fastest runners used to look like:

If you need some inspiration, click on the photo to read The Gazette’s story about how Matt Carpenter came back from a terrible performance in 2004 to set a 2005 record that held for almost twenty years.

The incredible Ann Trason. Also a great article, linked in the photo.

What the fastest runners look like now:

Actual Olympic qualifier (and doctor) Anne Flower, left, and David Roche both set new records in 2025. Images credit: Life Time Inc.

Early in the run’s history, the Leadville 100 began requiring participants who miss mandatory cutoff times at the aid stations to drop out. We gather with our neighbors at the halfway-point turnaround in Winfield every year to cheer for the competitors who arrive minutes on either side of the 6 p.m. deadline.

I clap and yell extra loud for the runners who arrive just before the cutoff. They’ve been on the trail for 14 hours at this point, and the temptation to quit could be crushing. A van waits in the meadow, ready to ferry defeated participants back to Leadville.

There is no shame in being cut: Fewer than half of the entrants complete the course each year. So there’s no shame in dropping out, either. They’ve just run/hobbled 50 miles through Mother Nature’s obstacle course. The runners who arrive before the cutoff time must make that call for themselves. They come around the bend that leads to the aid station, their faces blank with fatigue or grimacing in pain. Some are stiff-legged, leaning on poles to stay upright.

But after a quick check-in and calorie reload, so many of them turn around and head back toward Hope Pass, its ankle-twisting torture fresh in their minds. They smile, maybe ruefully, wave, and crack jokes. Another 50 miles lie ahead. The sun is setting. They will spend hours running in the dark, mostly alone, to make it to the finish line – or to get cut at another aid station.

A couple decades ago, I took up running (briefly). One morning, as I slowed to a walk, panting and holding a stitch in my side, an older gentleman yelled at me from his veranda, “Come on, you can do it!”

I pushed myself back into a jog and made it home. I could do it, and for some reason I didn’t want to let down a random person who took a moment to cheer me on. I don’t know why it works, but it does, and I hope (Hope!) I can do it for someone else this year.

Tell me about one of the hardest voluntary challenges you’ve signed up for. Did someone cheer you on or lend a hand at a crucial moment?

Gallivanting

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