From Runner to Hiker: Finding Home on Colorado’s Trails

If you asked me what I was, I would loudly and proudly say, "I'm a runner." This moniker was hard-earned and not without the weight of years behind it. It had taken me a long time to declare "runner."

I recall my first race as a third-grader, standing at the starting line in the official football stadium in Monrovia, Liberia. Geared up with my Reebok shoes and cut-off shorts, my stomach rolled over, and the overwhelming urge to pee overwhelmed me.

A 400-meter race, one lap around that stadium, and I'd be done.

"And go"

Off we went, little girl legs on the move, lungs already puffing and longing for more air.

As I rounded the bend, the finish line in sight, an agonizing side stitch hit - the mother of all abdominal cramps. Overwhelmed by the stabbing pain, I crumpled to my knees before the finish, absolutely gobsmacked by this torturous new sensation. Being the 1980s, I lied and blamed it on an intense side cramp. A trip to the ER followed, since my mother, being a nurse, needed to rule out any tropical diseases that could have caused such strange side effects from our time living in Africa.

The diagnosis? A case of anxiety

The experience had shaken me, but an inextinguishable spark of determination continued calling me back to running. It took a few years, but I finally felt ready to lace up again and give this a try, whether it was races at school or running in my local neighborhood.

Then and there, my love for moving my body was truly born.

In high school, running became a competition. Living in a boarding school dormitory with 30 other girls as a teenager, well, you fill in the blanks about body positivity and comparison.

It was brutal.

Each morning, we'd set our alarms, seeing who would be the first person to open the armed security gate and venture outdoors to run the circuit in our Kenyan missionary boarding school. Round and round we'd go, one-upping the other, desperately trying to find validation in a place it could never be found.

But even in those runs, ones where we would compare times and lengths,

I had an inner voice tell me - this is your thing, girl

College, marriage, and the baby carriage soon came. Trucking along with my early 2000s aerobics classes, running had been tucked aside for new adventures. Step classes, the grapevine, and dipping my toe into yoga all felt good.

Then came baby 2, and a major hurdle arose - seven weeks of strict bed rest. The physical and mental toll of that immobility, combined with the overwhelming demands of breastfeeding and mothering a newborn, plunged me into postpartum depression. Finding the right medication was a guessing game, and I felt paralyzed, unable to properly care for myself let alone my babies.

My world grew dark as I withdrew, struggling to find my way out of this spiral.

However, the indomitable part of me that picked myself up after that childhood race wouldn't stay down for long. I knew I needed an outlet, a way to reclaim my strength and identity beyond "mom."

One day, my sweet husband casually asked me, "Do you think running might help?"

Not one to concede too quickly to his suggestions, I sat on that for a good long time. A chance meeting with a new friend opened the doors to Lisa Rainsberger. A legend in her own right, at that time Lisa was the last US American woman to have won the Boston Marathon. She happened to live in my hometown, Colorado Springs, and had recently trained my friend for a winning triathlon.

The Burley and my two eldest!

My little Ethiopian princess!

Still out for runs in the Burley.

A phone call and deli breakfast at Wooglins, one of Colorado College's beloved diners, and I was Lisa's newest client. For the next 3 years, I regularly ran with Lisa's weekend running club.

These people became my people

Bud, the 60-something-year-old who trodded along on every long run but managed to outrun us all, albeit slower. We had a few 20-something-year-olds who lasted a few months. Our tawdry and disheveled group of 30 and 50/60-year-olds were just a tad too slow for them.

Pam and Melody after racing the Pikes Peak Ascent

Along the way, I met Pam in the kindergarten drop-off line. Ten years my senior dropping off her last while I was boo-hooing sending my first to school, we took one look at each other's Nike shorts.

Match made in heaven

Pam and I trained and ran so many races together. Friday mornings were our sacred dates, logging miles on the Santa Fe Trail. Her ever-present advice, along with a determination to just go another mile, made me a great runner. We loved racing together.

Our final race, the Steamboat Springs marathon of 2008, holds a special place in my heart. We both had big goals. While I had a terrible race (just a reminder, socks do work in a pinch when the porta-potties are all out of toilet paper), I’ll never forget seeing Pam standing at the finish line cheering me on.

But as life goes, Pam started working more, and we added our third to the family, a beautiful little Ethiopian princess who needed a lot of extra special attention those first years. Our runs together grew less and less until one day, they just stopped.

And so did my racing. Soccer took over weekends, PTA, and school volunteering consumed weekdays.

Just like that, my days as a dedicated runner came to an end.

Soon after, we moved to Florida, where the weather is hot, hotter, and hottest, and so are people's moods. I tried to run those first months, determined to smile at every person I met along A1A. After dozens of runs coated in sweat without nary a smile back, I threw in my towel and began my yoga journey.

Two years later, we moved back to Colorado, and living in northern Colorado Springs near the Air Force Academy, I found myself on the Santa Fe Trail pushing my BOB stroller. I had a little girl who refused to sleep, and I needed nature desperately. Too hilly to run (thanks, Florida, and your flat land), I would spend hours carrying our daughter on my backpack carrier or pushing her along in the stroller. She'd nod off, and I'd cry and talk to the trees.

Running the Sante Fe Trail with my youngest daughter.

The trail that had started my journey from deep despair into a community of beautiful souls was back at it again.

This time, the Santa Fe Trail was piecing together my heart, one step at a time.

The more time I spent outdoors, the more I craved the slower pace of hiking. Getting ready for a run always required such a delicate dance for me. Gluten was strictly off-limits in the 48 hours preceding a long run, lest I suffer the consequences of tremendous gastrointestinal upheaval. Carefully packing the right hydration and snacks for each mile, along with the right clothes, running was always a feat. With hiking, I simply grabbed a water bottle and headed out, a granola bar and jacket in hand.

When COVID hit, hiking took on a whole new look. My eldest daughter introduced me to a friend who had 4 kids. We would meet up regularly during 2020, taking our kids on long, meandering hikes throughout Colorado. Determined to have some semblance of normalcy, these outdoor ventures were healing for each of us.

What began as simple hikes turned into an outdoor website

Colorado Hikes and Hops was born.

And it has spawned some of the greatest ventures. Sharing my beloved Colorado Springs with visitors and residents alike has been life-giving. Colorado has some of the most amazing hiking trails in the USA. Yes, I know I'm biased.

I come back to the journey that has brought me to this moment, precariously close to 50. The time outdoors has taught me much these past few years.

Without my running journey, there would be no hiking.

Breathing nature on a trail is one of the most life-giving things for me. Whether it's the 'ole Santa Fe Trail and her lovely stretches of miles or the Manitou Incline, moving my feet along these trails has brought me closer to me.

Hillary McBride so beautifully captures this idea in her book, The Wisdom of Your Body: Finding Healing, Wholeness, and Connection through Embodied Living.

"We heal when we can be with what we feel."

I did not know how much healing I needed until I stood in nature, felt the wind on my face, and smelled the pine in my nose. I need these sacred spaces to be with what I feel.

As a young child growing up in Africa, I never felt I belonged. I was always too much for some and not enough for others. Too North American when I lived in Africa and too African when I lived in North America. Too poor for the kids at the public school and too rich for those I interacted with in Africa.

I was a doer and a should'er, constantly keeping busy helping and peacemaking without taking moments to just breathe. Married young, I threw myself into roles called mother and wife without first learning who Melody, the person, really was.

Over the past 12 years, time in nature has afforded me space to start figuring out who that little girl really wanted to be. I've learned to say no. I've found healing in long-distance solo hiking. I crave hard elevation long-mile backpacking ventures where I have only myself to depend upon.

Running gave me the language for hiking that I didn't know I needed

The years spent on trails with others gave me confidence to tackle them alone. Knowing my body so intimately in high-stress situations gave me the tools to handle wrong turns and miles of exposed scree hiking. Running taught me that I could make a goal and accomplish it. While my race medals languish in a box somewhere deep in my closet, the lessons each of those hard-earned miles taught me stay close to my chest.

"So embodiment is a coming home, a remembering of our wholeness, and a reunion with the fullness of ourselves."

- Hillary McBride

It took years of labored breathing, sweating, gut-wrenching pain alongside a quiet rebuilding to come home. For me, when I walk the Colorado trails, I see wholeness in the clapping sound of aspen leaves in the fall, the whoosh of wind over the scrub oak alongside the trail. Looking over at birds singing in trees and marmots following me along miles of trail,

How Distance Running Led to Distance Hiking