Ruth Stodghill, Peak to Peak.  I am a meticulous planner at heart, but last weekend, I learned that sometimes in life, the wildest adventures happen when we make no plans at all.

It all started when my running buddy Giena told me she wanted us to go to Bear and Blue Lakes in the San Isabel National Forest for our long Sunday run.

Usually, I plan where we do our running, but this time, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Why not?”

I didn’t care how many miles we ran. I didn’t care where. I just craved a change from our regular routine, the same way a starving man craves a turkey dinner with all the fixins. I was hungry for it.

So, our adventure began at 4:55 a.m., when I hopped into my trusty Durango to pick up Giena. I yawned as I pulled out of my driveway - every ounce of me wanted to go back to bed. So, I decided to slam a bottle of juice to wake myself up. No, not apple juice. My juice is a pre-workout concoction that bodybuilders swear helps them perform better. Basically, it’s a bunch of B vitamins and caffeine. No steroids - nothing illegal. I hoped that the jolt of caffeine would put some pep in my step as Giena and I headed toward the mountains to begin our running adventure.

There was only one problem. I had used the juice just once previously - and on that occasion, I developed, shall we say, tummy troubles. Surely though, that was just a coincidence? Hoping so, I crossed my fingers, chugged my juice, and picked Giena up in the inky darkness of the pre-dawn hours.

As I drove us towards the mountains, Giena and I chatted away merrily. And then, I felt it. A rumble deep in the depths of my stomach that warned of impending doom. I tried to ignore it - we would be at our destination soon enough, and I knew there were outhouses I could use if the situation grew dire. I continued merrily along my way - for about five more minutes. Then I felt the rumble re-occur - except this time, the thunder was followed by lightning. I was in trouble, and I needed a safe harbor in the storm. Luckily, the Bosque de Oso Wildlife Area was just around the next bend in the highway - and hurrah! It has a potty! I apologized to Giena as I pulled a sharp left that sent my Durango spinning like something out of a “Fast and Furious” movie and hurtled toward my only hope of salvation.

I managed to get to the loo in time. Sheepishly, I returned to Giena and the Durango when I was finished. I mumbled, by way of explanation, “I drank the juice this morning.” She’d been there when I’d used the pre-workout fuel before - and witnessed the horrible aftermath. She understood. In the sisterhood of runners, some things don’t need a lengthy discussion.

And so, our adventure was off and running.

In the golden light of a new dawn, Giena and I arrived at our starting point and parked at the entrance to the San Isabel National Forest. We excitedly began our journey - but after just a few minutes of jogging up the dirt road toward Blue Lake, our lungs and legs were screaming in protest. It’s hard to convince one’s body to run for more than a few steps when one is attempting to run at elevations in excess of 9,000 feet, unless one is being chased by a hoard of hungry mountain lions, and we were not.

Giena and I are training for the Ascent, a wicked race in which the fools who participate are forced to run to the summit of Pikes Peak. To be numb to the pain and agony we would encounter on the day of the Ascent, Giena and I needed to expose ourselves to as much pain and agony prior as is humanly possible. So we pushed on, panting and wheezing as we gasped for oxygen.

As we slowly climbed our way toward the lakes, we were amazed by the natural beauty around us - violet, magenta and lemony-yellow flowers lined our pathway. A brook babbled to our left, punctuated every mile or so by a beaver dam or short waterfall. Ahead of us, the peaks of the Sangre de Cristos loomed closer and closer, beckoning for us to reach them. When we paused to look behind us, the Spanish Peaks rose like solemn guardians, protecting the valley in which we were venturing.

“Sure beats running on the treadmill,” I thought to myself.

Four miles in, and we came to the natural wonder known as Blue Lake. Without any clear plan, we decided to push on to Bear Lake and explore any wonders we might find waiting for us there.

As we continued to climb in elevation, every once in a while we could see the road we had just travelled along, winding its way down through the valley below us like a thin silver ribbon cutting through an ocean of green.

After what felt like an eternity of climbing, we finally reached the high-alpine beauty that is Bear Lake. At the western edge of the campground, we discovered a trail heading off to the northwest - Indian Trail. I’ve always wanted to explore this trail - but never had the opportunity. Now, a sign posted at the trailhead informed us that 5.6 miles in, the path was closed - at that point, it crossed into the Spring Creek Fire burn scar, and was no longer safe. I was disappointed to have missed my opportunity to run the length of the entire trail when I had the chance.

In the midst of my melancholy, Giena asked - “Wanna run up the trail a bit anyway?”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “Why not?” Let the adventure continue.

We slowly trotted our way along the path, this time climbing even higher toward the summits of the Sangre to Cristos, tantalizingly close now on our left. To our right, a dozer line cut its way through a meadow, another reminder of the fire that had so recently threatened the beauty of this place.

Eventually the trail meandered into the heart of a deep forest; we found ourselves enveloped in a cocoon of trees, swallowed in a never-ending procession of pines that stretched up toward the sun and then masked it from view.

While we wanted to push forward, discover new sylvan mysteries, Giena and I knew that we were about as far as we should dare our tired bodies to go. Vowing to return and explore more of the trail another day, we began to retrace our steps.

Back at the meadow, we noticed something that had escaped our attention before - another trail, this one heading up a hillside in the direction of the Spanish Peaks. An evil glint in my eye, I turned to Giena and said, “Hey, wanna chase this trail? Just to the top of the hill?”

She shrugged and said, “Why not?” And our adventure took a new twist.

Although we were now pushing 11,000 feet of elevation, both Giena and I felt a new surge of energy course through us as we scrambled up the mountainside. Everything around us seemed transformed in the alpine light - the sky was bluer, the mountains wilder, the clouds so close we could almost touch them.

Then, we crested the summit, and I about lost my mind.

In front of me, the Spanish Peaks rose to a whole other level of glory than anything I’ve ever seen before. The Cuchara valley lay before us, nestled far below. To my left, I could see the Sangre de Cristo range continuing on and on into infinity, with La Veta glinting at their feet. In the distance, the plains of eastern Colorado swept half way to Kansas.

Giena and I danced from one side of the ridge to the other, enthralled by the views both in front of us and behind. I felt like Cinderella - I didn’t want to drag myself away from the ball, but I knew if we didn’t head back into cell phone range soon, our husbands would send out a search party.

So, finally, we turned our backs on the wonderous sites and scenes of the dizzying heights and headed back down the trail toward the distant valley floor below. I felt so grateful - grateful to live in a state full of mountains and dirt roads and trails I can explore. Grateful to have two legs and countless good friends to drag me away from my usual routines now and then. Grateful for a reminder from the universe that life isn’t about chasing a destination but enjoying the journey.

And grateful for well-placed bathrooms.