Flip-Flops on Scree: A Lesson in Grace, Glucose, and Grit
A couple of years ago, I hiked up to Ice Lake Basin in the San Juan Mountain Range but not without a screaming fit.
I had trained in Chicago to prepare for the extreme incline: treadmill sessions, long walks, building endurance. But I underestimated one thing - elevation. The trailhead for Ice Lake sits around 9,000 feet above sea level. For context, Chicago is about 600 feet. That’s an 8,400-foot difference before the hike even begins.
Denver is called the Mile High City because it’s at least 5,280 feet up. At high altitudes, the air is thinner and oxygen levels are lower. Athletes often train at elevation to boost their red blood cell count and stamina so they can perform even better at sea level. But unless you’ve experienced it firsthand, it’s hard to explain how altitude affects you. It’s also really hard to prepare for your response unless you prepare in the region where you’re hiking. It’s invisible-but it absolutely messes with your body…and your head.
At the trailhead, there was no staffed ranger station, just one solo ranger whose job was to confirm that every hiker had enough water to make it up and back safely. Even the dogs were carrying water. That’s how serious it was because so many tourists made critical mistakes before. She also casually mentioned a lone moose on the trail, one that had been relocated to this region due to violent behavior. (Spoiler: I ended up relating to this loose moose more than I’d like to admit.)
The hike started immediately with a steep incline. Not even a quarter mile in, I was complaining.
“When does it level out?” I asked, fully knowing the answer.
The trail climbs nearly 3,000 feet in just four miles. The only way is up.
I had to stop constantly. Before we even hit the one-mile mark, I was spiraling:
What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I do this?
This is stupid.
I’m not a real hiker.
And, what the hell is she wearing?
Oh yes, she; a woman who passed by wearing yoga pants, flip-flops, and a crop top. No gear. No water. Nothing. I completely lost it.
And to make matters worse, we had just entered a section of the trail where the forest had burned. The trees were blackened and stripped bare. The air was still. Quiet. This was where I completely came undone.
I genuinely thought I might throw up. My body felt like it was quitting on me. And my mind wasn’t far behind. So I stopped and decided I wanted to descend.
“I’m not cut out to be here like all these fitness bitches,” I snapped, venom spilling everywhere.
In that moment, I had built a whole story around that woman in flip-flops, that she was better than me, fitter than me, more capable. That if I were really good enough, I wouldn’t need hiking boots and snacks and gear. I’d just need a cute outfit and some attitude.
Later, I realized maybe she had done this trail before. Maybe she lived in the area and was already acclimated. Maybe she wasn’t even planning to go all the way up. Who knows?
What I needed wasn’t to compare myself. What I needed was grace.
And also, glucose.
I slammed one of my sugar chews, and within five minutes I felt immediate relief. My body wasn’t broken, it was doing what it could under pressure. I wasn’t weak, I was depleted and this is common.
And suddenly, the symbolism wasn’t lost on me: I’d fallen apart in a forest that had already burned. And yet, there I was, still walking. Still climbing. Still trying. Something about that stuck with me. It still does.
That moment taught me the power of asking: What do I need right now?
That question changed everything. Not just on that trail, but in how I move through life.
My hike. My pace. My journey. That’s what matters not anyone else’s outfit or ease with their walk. We never know someone else’s starting point. We only know our own. And while grit and perseverance get us far, so does tending to our needs along the way.
Near the summit, the trail turned to loose scree brutal and unstable. But this time I didn’t panic. I paused. I breathed. I fueled up. And I reminded myself: this is just biology and, I’ve done this before... Regroup and keep going. I’m so glad I didn’t turn around.
Also, flip-flops on scree? No bueno. She never made it up to the basin.
