Words and Photos by Tina Haver Currin @tinacurrin
I was working as a Park Ranger at Colorado's Fourth of July Trailhead, a busy portal into the Indian Peaks Wilderness and the southern terminus of the L.A. Freeway, when the call came in for an injured hiker. A 31-year-old man from Boulder County had fallen to his death on Arikaree Peak, a 13,164-foot summit on the spine of the Continental Divide, about two-thirds of the way along the route.
The complicated maze that encompasses the L.A. Freeway, with the nubbin of Arikaree Peak in the background
As rescuers scrambled to reach him, the calls kept coming. That month, a stranded runner was pulled off the Divide, and two more bodies were hauled from the cliffs below. Three days later, ultrarunner Anton Krupicka bounded over Arikaree himself, linking 24 summits and nearly 20,000 feet of vertical in just over 13 hours. That same afternoon, a helicopter plucked a hiker from the crest of Mount Toll, another Freeway peak.
The North Ridge of Mt. Toll
The contrast was stark. Rescuers on one side of the ridge, pulling bodies from couloirs. Athletes on the other, chasing speed. That's the Freeway in a nutshell: risk and glory sharing the same skyline, separated by a coin flip's worth of luck. And then there was me—radio and badge in one hand, topo map and trail shoes in the other—trying to decide which side I was on. Soon, I’d step onto the Freeway myself, aiming to become the first woman to complete it unsupported.
The route began as a daydream. In the 1950s, Karl Pfiffner imagined tracing the Continental Divide from Longs Peak to the Arapahos without ever dropping off its serrated crest. Half a century later, Buzz Burrell turned the vision into reality in a two-day push, linking the highest points of Rocky Mountain National Park and the Indian Peaks by tagging every summit in between.
Burrell would help popularize “Fastest Known Times,” co-founding the website with Peter Bakwin, who took an unsuccessful shot at the Freeway in 2017. Since then, the route’s reputation has only grown. When legendary ultrarunner Kilian Jornet announced his plan to race 67 of America’s highest peaks, he chose to begin with the L.A. Freeway (“all my friends say it is so cool.”) If that isn’t a nod to its standing as one of the country’s premier high-altitude endurance tests, I don’t know what is.
On paper, the Freeway is just 35 miles. In reality, it’s a gauntlet: 24 peaks, nearly 20,000 feet of climbing, mandatory fifth-class moves, miles of exposure, and only one reliable water source. The vast majority of the route is above treeline, where weather can turn in minutes. Perhaps two dozen people have finished it. For everyone else, the L.A. Freeway hangs above Boulder as a jagged silhouette etched against the sky—the obvious route in the clouds, perpetually out of reach.
The distinct flat top and notch of Longs Peak—the route’s starting line—looking very far away at daybreak
I moved to Colorado in late 2023 with the misplaced confidence of a thru hiker. I'd just finished the Continental Divide Trail, the final leg of my Triple Crown, and assumed endurance on one landscape could be ported wholesale to another. After 11,000 miles following North America’s most prominent ridgelines, what was 35 more?
But hiking trails and scrambling exposed peaks are different sports entirely. Where the CDT taught patience and persistence, the high country demanded precision and judgment.
The author and her husband, Grayson, celebrating their Triple Crown. Photo: Ilana Panich-Linsman
I bought Gerry Roach’s Colorado Fourteeners and soon became fixated on his so-called Radical Slam: a seven-peak linkup (Meeker, Longs, Pagoda, Storm, Mt. Lady Washington, Battle, Estes Cone) capped with fifty pushups. My first Colorado summer, 2024, I set the unsupported women’s FKT. I wasn’t fast; I was simply the first to record it.
For a moment, that felt like it might be enough. But satisfaction is slippery. By 2025, the Freeway had lodged itself in my brain. Not as the next logical step, but as the question I couldn't stop asking: What happens when you attempt the hardest thing within your technical reach? Where most people take years to prepare, I gave it three months.
The author on her first scout, exploring the complicated third-class traverse between Algonquin and Paiute Peaks
During the week, I worked the southern reaches of the route, cautioning hikers against the very audacities I planned for my days off. I spent seven weekends on reconnaissance and countless hours pestering loved ones for advice. I knew water would be the primary crux, with a dozen fifth-class sections adding to the technical challenge.
Instead of my usual fast-and-light style, I hauled an overnight kit and eight pounds of water on each scout: typically 15 miles with 6,000 to 8,000 feet of gain. Gradually, I added food—another ten pounds—and climbed with it strapped to my back. I carried it all in an Aero 28, a hybrid between an ultralight running vest and a full-on hiking pack. My scouts revealed a few unmarked water sources. Everything hinged on these tiny pools holding through late summer.
Searching for a snack on Longs Peak. Photo: Jon Krakauer
But every solution spawned new problems. More water made the twenty thousand feet ahead feel taller; bulky food made me clumsy on exposed granite. Yet with less, would hunger or dehydration cloud my judgment? And the gear—how much to carry, how much to leave behind? Each item felt like a wager between prudence and speed. The mountains offered no easy answers.
I'd also spent weeks agonizing over my start time: step off at midnight and gamble with verglas on Longs Peak, burning first light on mellow tundra? Or push off in the afternoon and stagger through endless grass and rock at night? I memorized every technical section and weighed every bailout (of which there were few.)
The 5.4 Cables Route on Longs Peak, which is often wet and traversed in the dark
The last ten miles are the real crucible—a serrated mess of mandatory fifth-class moves, no shortcuts, on legs already beaten into jelly. I chose to start at midnight. If everything went perfectly, I'd hit that final stretch as the sun cracked the horizon on day two.
On August 17, 2025, after scribbling a few goodbye letters, I stepped into a blur of granite. The opening segment unfolded smoothly. Granite on Longs Peak was wet, not frozen, and the Pagoda West Ridge bypass came easily in the dark. Chiefs Head, Alice, and Tanima melted together in pre-dawn monotony. My headlamp carved a tiny circle of light. The hours passed in strange quiet as I scrambled wet rock in the dark.
Longs Peak and Mt. Meeker at daybreak
Then came my first real test. I'd been looking forward to a small pool I'd noted from previous scouts, counting on it as my first water source. But when I reached the familiar depression in the tundra, I found only a hollow of damp moss. My stomach dropped. Nine hours in, and my entire fueling strategy had just evaporated.
The much-anticipated pool
In the FKT world, this distinction matters. "Supported" means crew assistance—friends passing food or water, pacing sections, stashing burritos in the bushes. "Self-supported" allows caches at trailheads or public water sources. "Unsupported" is ruthlessly simple: no crew, no stashes, no help. You carry everything, find your own water, and fix whatever breaks.
Most people tackle the Freeway self-supported, leaving food, water, and camping gear at the few developed passes along the Divide. Going unsupported, I'd faced a stark choice: haul pounds of water up thousands of vertical feet, or gamble on natural sources. I'd chosen to gamble, and I’d just lost my first bet.
The unplanned detour to Frigid Lake dumped me off the Divide and down a thousand feet of loose, crumbly scree. Nearly two hours slipped away, along with my cushion of time and some of my optimism. At least the lake lived up to its name. I paused for a few peaceful minutes to watch icebergs drift across the alpine water before slogging back up to the ridge.
Frigid Lake, as viewed from the Continental Divide. Note the diminutive size of the icebergs
Frigid Lake as viewed from its shores
By the time I reached the tricky third-class traverse between Algonquin and Paiute, the sun was sinking. I’d hoped to pass this section in daylight to reach a known bivy spot. Instead, I was scrambling blind, twenty hours in, with no sleep. Sloppy moves became reckless ones.
The complex remaining miles stretch out at dusk
Eventually, I found a patch of grass with steep drop-offs on either side, barely wide enough to roll out a two-inch foam pad. Ninety minutes of sleep—hopefully, I wouldn’t roll—and then I’d move again. But thirty minutes after I packed up, lightning began splitting the sky with enough voltage to power a city or kill one idiot climber. I huddled on the lowest perch I could find, shivering, counting the seconds between strikes until they finally abated. Then I started climbing again.
The night dissolved into a sequence of granite puzzles. Peak after peak passed in a haze of scrambling and route-finding—some easy, some terrifying, all blending together in the strange democracy of exhaustion. By dawn, I'd reached the Kasparov Traverse beneath the towering bulk of Apache, a section that had haunted my scouts. The sun broke as I fumbled through moves I'd practiced in daylight, finding the obvious line only after cliffing out twice.
One of many no-fall zones along the route
Then, water! My first drink in many hours, and the last until the finish. I sank onto a rock for ten minutes, letting the collapse of my fueling plan settle with me. Even hydrated, I could barely choke down a Rice Krispy Treat—the last solid food I’d touch for eight hours. Small hallucinations flickered in the repeating granite. Faces stared back, as if advising me to take up a normal hobby.
The final traverse to North and South Arapahoe dragged on like a fever dream. I moved with deliberate care, narrating each move aloud. I was acutely aware that a single mistake—even this close to the end—could make the whole enterprise collapse. This was wilderness in its purest form: indifferent, unforgiving, and somehow worth every calculated risk I'd taken to be there. Or so I told myself, now that the hard part was over.
Descending South Arapahoe on a previous scout
After more than thirty miles of rock labyrinths and route-finding, I suddenly found myself on actual trail! Orange blazes materialized like beacons, pulling me back to reality, or something approximating it. I followed them down until asphalt appeared under my shoes and my friend Jon stood by his car with pizza and drinks. It was the most beautiful sight in Colorado.
I was the first woman to complete the L.A. Freeway unsupported. Soon, I’d be back at the trailhead helping hikers and taking rescue calls, but now I understood exactly how thin the margin is between the person who makes the call and the person it’s made about. Risk and glory share the same skyline, divided only by judgment, luck, and just enough stubbornness to see it through.
Love and many thanks to Grayson Currin, Dan Stone, Bill Briggs, and the good folks at Hyperlite for their support. Thanks to Steph Abegg for her invaluable online beta. Thanks most of all to Jon Krakauer, a constant source of guidance throughout this project.
