Sunny Stroeer DNFs the Pfiffner Traverse

The pale gray dawn feels like blinding brightness to my tired eyes. I reach up to my forehead to switch off my headlamp, the headlamp that has been keeping me company through this past night and the night before.

I have been on trail for forty-three hours; today marks my second sunrise without sleep. I haven’t stopped moving since I left the trailhead the day before yesterday and yet I have been able to cover just 56 miles. I am on the Rocky Mountain’s most varied and beautiful endurance challenge, the obscure Pfiffner Traverse.

If this is the first time you are hearing about the Pfiffner, don’t worry—you are in good company. Few people other than a handful of hardy thru hikers know of its existence; even fewer have attempted to complete the traverse in a single push. Yet I am convinced that this 76-mile crown jewel of the Colorado Rockies has the potential of being ultra running’s next great test piece, nestled in difficulty squarely between the Grand Canyon’s marquee Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim and the superhuman peak-bagger’s linkup that is Nolan’s 14.

The Pfiffner Traverse is a mountain runner’s dream: miles of smooth, gentle singletrack that flow through high mountain meadows and across infrequently traveled passes along the Continental Divide’s alpine beauty.

It’s easy to access yet remote in character; it is high up, and it is a serious endeavor, which is exactly what makes it so alluring. 76 miles with almost 57,000 feet of vertical change. The northern and southern termini of the route, Milner and Berthoud Passes, respectively, are easily accessed by car but sit at 10,600 and 11,300 feet respectively.

The traverse meanders along the Continental Divide, crossing thirteen major passes and dipping below 10,000 feet only twice. The real kicker is this: complementing the Pfiffner’s many too-good-to-be-true miles, over 40 percent of the traverse is off-trail; plus there isn’t a single paved road access point, and only one drivable dirt road, on the entire 76 mile stretch.

A lot of the off-trail terrain is straight forward: contour along a lake shore above treeline, identify the obvious pass in front of you, pick your way up a tundra slope to gain the highpoint. Other sections are devious, heavily vegetated and without obvious way points. Rare is the moment where the Pfiffner allows you to switch off your brain and proceed on autopilot. Sounds hard and amazing?  That’s what I thought, too.

I first read about the Pfiffner Traverse while skimming through Gerry Roach’s classic Indian Peaks climbing guidebook. The description sounded promising but vague: “There are many variations to this complicated project and any attempt requires your creativity” the book states. “Any traverse on or near the divide is a significant undertaking that is not done very often.” Roach’s suggested time for the full traverse is one to two weeks.

Andrew Skurka, prolific endurance adventurer and champion of the 2016 Indian Creek 50 Miler and 2016 Silverheels 100 Miler, published a detailed guide book to the Pfiffner Traverse called [?] and when was it published. At the time, I was knee deep in training for the 2018 Ouray 100, and looking for interesting routes that would let me log big miles at altitude.

The Pfiffner fit the bill. I bought Skurka’s hot-off-the-press digital guidebook bundle and got to planning. It all sounded like a great idea.

That was three weeks ago. Right now, nothing is sounding like a great idea. I am forty-three hours into my second attempt on this beast of a mountain run (my first attempt earlier this month ended prematurely due to thunderstorms). I am tired, I am sore, I am cold and I still have twenty miles to go.

Yet I can’t help my big smile.

The long night—my second on course—is over and the sun is finally rising, bathing the peaks of the Continental Divide in an otherworldly light. I have run many a beautiful course in my life as an ultra athlete, yet the Pfiffner is in a class of its own. It is so stunning, so remote and so beyond compare that it almost doesn’t matter how much suffering the route involves. I simply feel an overwhelming amount of gratitude to be able to travel through these mountains, maybe not speedily but at least safely.

When I first attempted the Pfiffner I never expected to fall in love. I expected a beautiful, high route that would challenge me to the core, and that is exactly what it turned out to be, but it was so much more.

Even as I was aborting my initial attempt on the route earlier this month, limping along on sore joints above treeline and scared by thunderstorms in close proximity, I wasn’t demoralized by the difficulty of the route or my failure to complete the mission. Instead, I was filled with wonder and amazement that such an incredible stretch of beautiful and utterly wild backcountry could exist so close to the hustle and bustle of the Denver metro area, and I was brimming with desire to return.

That’s what brought me here, today, to my second sunrise on my second attempt on the route. I shouldn’t be here; my A race for the summer, the mega-tough Ouray 100 Mile Endurance race, is only a week away. I should be tapering. But I also know this: mountain running, for me, is not about how fast I can go or about winning races. Mountain running is about discovering new places, finding out what I am capable of, and finding happiness in the most unlikely situations.

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