Words & Photos by Zach Reynolds
Every state has hidden spots, but Colorado’s seem like gems tucked into its craggy folds — numerous, mystical, and quietly beautiful. Having spent most of my life here, I had strong familiarity with the areas around me. Or at least I thought I did. Colorado has 44 federally designated wilderness areas totaling over one-and-a-half million acres, and somehow Lost Creek Wilderness — tucked into the Front Range between Pikes Peak and Highway 285 — had escaped my notice.
I’d heard of it, but in a state overflowing with things to do, I’d never given it much thought. That changed when I found a midweek window for a solo overnight backpack adventure. Lost Creek in July seemed perfect.
After a scenic foothills drive, I set off on a warm afternoon with a pack pushing 45 pounds. From the trailhead below Tarryall Reservoir, a buff path followed a thin, lush stream into a steep valley. The mosquitos were so numerous that the one place on my pant leg that I’d missed with spray looked like a mini concert venue. But then the trail left the creek and climbed steadily through dry pine forest, well-maintained but unrelenting.
A break in the trees after gaining the rounded ridge offered a glimpse northwest — and a dark curtain of weather moving in. I’d packed for it, but hoped I wouldn’t need it. A quarter-mile later it was just like a movie scene: a flash, a clap, and immediate rain. I spotted the trail’s first boulder thirty yards ahead and sprinted for it. Rain gear came out fast, thankfully packed on top.
The fat wind-driven drops cooled off my hiker’s heat as I pressed into the lee side of the rock, angling myself to keep runoff from soaking my legs. My pack barely fit underneath. For thirty minutes, I waited it out. By the time I resumed hiking, my hands were frozen stiff, but the forest, washed and still, glowed with fresh color.
With several trails leading to the peak that I’d set out to explore, I’d chosen this route for convenience, though it meant grinding up 3,700 vertical feet in roughly five miles. As the climb dragged on, I questioned my choice. The forest didn’t match the dramatic images I’d seen of Lost Creek, and when I finally broke treeline, I wondered if I’d made a mistake.
But then I crested the ridgetop, and stepped into another world.
Rolling green meadows stretched like fairways, interrupted by towering stacks of orange and brown granite. Shapes emerged everywhere in the massive ribs of rock — buildings, pyramids, blobs, spires — scattered across the landscape as if in a giant’s garden. It felt impossible. I slowed, turning as I went, trying to take it in.
The late afternoon light bathed the rocks in a warm glow, though the sky had mostly blocked up with clouds. I crossed a shallow valley, half searching for a campsite, half lost in wonder of the place. When the rain returned, it made the decision for me, and I found a grassy, partly-sheltered spot between towering rock walls to throw up my tent as wind pushed in another hard shower. After cooking and eating dinner inside my tent, I lay back on my bag and sleep came without warning.
Birdsong woke me, and peeking through the zippered door, I caught the evening sun firing on the rock walls across the valley. I quickly scrambled uphill toward Bison Peak.
The light was magical, and the weather, now still and beautiful, was like a living painting of Colorado’s most brilliant scenes. Valley vistas and rich sunset colors that changed by the minute, otherworldly rock shapes, distant ranges, and glowing, petite alpine flowers became the highlight of my day. When I returned to the tent at dark, I drug my sleeping pad and bag onto the soft grass outside and watched the milky way spin around the night sky as the beginning of the Perseids meteors streaked among the thousands of visible stars.
After a sunrise hike to watch the flat dawn colors rise over the eastern plains and a subsequent return to the sleeping bag, exuberant voices eventually pulled me back awake. It struck me then — I hadn’t seen another person since the trailhead. After breakfast, and headed for the summit, I met four women from the Denver Botanic Gardens, there searching for rare flowers. Their excitement earlier suddenly made sense.
We chatted about the ancient geology, and continued along, slowly exploring as we went. I lost them somewhere in the maze of massive, gravity-defying stacks of plates and boulder assemblages on the way to the 12,432-foot summit.
I spent the rest of the day slowly exploring, drifting between meadow and stone. As someone prone to pareidolia, I couldn’t help but see faces in the formations — echoes of ancient elders. It wasn’t hard to imagine how the native Ute people gathered in this place long ago.
And still, I’d only seen a fraction of Lost Creek.
After a lifetime of circling this unforgettable wilderness on Colorado byways, I’d finally stepped inside. Driving home that evening, I found myself wondering how many other places like this are still out there in this incredible state — quiet, overlooked, waiting for discovery.
I doubt I’ll ever be done searching.
