It was supposed to be a simple ride on my e-bike. Just a short, post-school jaunt through the woods on a crisp Halloween afternoon. I had plenty of time to spare before meeting friends for drinks, and the fall weather was too perfect to pass up. But that simple ride quickly turned into quite the pickle, and not the fun, playful pickleball kind of pickle. Something far more harrowing—an experience that would make my heart race long after the adrenaline had worn off.
It all began innocently enough. I’d just passed a buffalo herd along I-70, then veered off toward a trailhead I’d never noticed before called Beaverbrook. A cursory glance at the map upon entering showed a loop trail, but I didn’t look closely, to be honest. Definitely not close enough to notice it was a hiker only trail. I threw on my headphones, cranked up The Talking Heads, and let the cool air sweep away the stress of the day.
As I nimbly navigated the trail on my trusted steed, Ophelia, I couldn’t believe my luck at finding such a treasure! The beautifully groomed trail kept going… and going… and going. Mostly downhill, I soon realized. Why is it going so far out?
“I completely trusted a stranger’s words and kept going.”
I came upon a hiker and stopped to confirm it was a loop trail. With complete confidence, he says, “Oh yeah, in about .8 miles you’ll be at the creek, then curve around and it’s up, up from there. Enjoy!”
The guy didn’t look at me funny, didn’t ask why I was on a bike. He just wished me well and sent me on my way. I completely trusted a stranger’s words and kept going.
Big mistake.
The trail became steeper with stairs and extremely technical terrain that made me wonder if I should keep going. But I had come so far downhill (maybe 3 or 4 miles) and if I made it past this, then certainly the trail would open up and I’d just have the climb to do. No big deal on an e-bike. But then I arrived at the creek.
To keep on the trail, I had to lift 50-pound Ophelia up and over boulders, through icy creek waters, across downed trees and enormous roots. But I persevered because every now and again I was able to ride a flat stretch for a bit until the next grueling obstacle.
I became exhausted fast.
Checking the time, I noticed my phone was only at 5 percent power from all my music streaming. The sun was going down fast, so I dialed my friend to let her know I was going to be late.
No cell service.
When I got to the last big-ass boulder, I said NO. Enough is enough. I dismounted my bike and scouted ahead to see if the trail continued over it. Much to my dismay, the trail that followed was straight uphill. The kind of uphill you walk on your tippy toes and your calf muscles scream. Definitely NOT bike friendly.
I had to make a decision. Either go back the extremely exhausting way I just came from, or hike out the trail that the random hiker said was just “up, up, up” and certainly the end of this dreadful loop. I would retrieve my bike tomorrow, I thought.
I leaned Ophelia on the side of the trail and tenderly covered her with a few fallen branches to give her some privacy. With the power on my phone at 5 percent, I hoofed it up that hill as fast as my short little legs would go. Heart pounding, sweat dripping, calves burning. There was no trailhead at the top, but there was a small bar of cell service. I texted my friends of my situation and dropped a pin of where I was. As I was about to access a trail map, my phone completely died.
I have a tendency to talk aloud to myself. “Okay, Sandy, your friends know your situation. People know where you are. You have legs and some water—you’re going to be okay. Just get moving. You got this!” Then, night descended rapidly like a murder of crows on a rotting carcass. Fortunately, I had worn proper layers, my one good decision of the day.
I walked Frankenstein-like in the growing darkness, hoping against hope that the trail would lead me to a trailhead. Denver lights taunted in the distance. But there was no moon—just pitch black. The sounds of wildlife filled the air, the wind whispered through the trees, and every footstep seemed like it echoed 10 times louder in the silence. Halloween had turned eerie as I scrambled across icy creek overpasses and tried not to trip over roots and rocks I couldn’t see.
All of a sudden, over a ridge I was awkwardly scrambling, I saw bright lights! Yes, someone has come to save me! Hallelujah!
“Hello?” I call in a desperate voice. “Are you looking for me?”
“Hey, should we be?” the deep voices shout back.
“Oh. Um, yeah, I kind of got myself into a tricky situation and have been hiking forever with no light and took the wrong trail, and, I just need to get out… ” I began to tear up after hiking full blast on adrenaline.
A trio of young men emerged. They had been out “night running” with a dog named Chico. Seeing my exhaustion, they offered water, snacks and a headlamp. “It’s about 1.8 miles to the trailhead. We’ll be back soon, but you should be fine,” one of them said.
“Do you have cell service?” I asked, but they didn’t.
I gratefully accepted their provisions and felt alive again. I hopped back onto the trail with a new fervor—hiking and singing in the beautiful evening knowing I was going to be okay!
Until the headlamp died.
Soon after, I lost the trail.
“CHICO!!” I yelled into the black. “Guys? Anyone there?” Only the owls and my echo replied.
I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face at this point, and by some grace of God, I did find the trail. I sat on a rock and practiced my meditative breathing. I also did some praying, even though I’m not religious. I just had to wait for Chico and the men to come back from their evening jog. Ironically, they were jovially jogging for health and wellness and I was a sweating mess of panic and desperation, having undergone a different type of unwelcome exercise: 6 miles of uphill hiking, two while hauling/pushing a 50-pound bike, and four in the pitch dark.
Minutes ticked by. Bushes rustled. Foxes screamed. It was a Halloween night indeed. After about 45 minutes, I heard voices in the far distance. My ears perked up. “Chico? Guys?” I hollered into the night.
The voices, alive in conversation, became closer and closer. I saw Chico first, then the joggers’ headlamps bopped around the corner. I sighed loudly in relief. They came toward my voice and immediately recognized something had gone awry considering I was still on the trail—and in the dark.
These gentlemen, very deserving of the moniker, kindly gave me layers, gloves, and power chews. They walked to match my aching turtle pace. A hand was always offered when the trail became treacherous.
For the last mile, my fear and panic was replaced with laughter and warmth. I learned that Gabriel likes to dance and Stephen had a wedding he was attending that Saturday in Evergreen. Stephen and Nate were friends from North Carolina who moved to Colorado within a year of each other. All three were engineers who met at Lockheed Martin where they work. I am eternally grateful to these young men.
As the trailhead neared, my body began to feel the heaviness of the last five hours. Around the final turn, red and blue emergency lights reflected off the rocks. Rangers, EMS, and my friends awaited my return.
The deep voice of an officer boomed, “Are you Sandy Hoban?” I nodded, barely able to speak, and in that moment, tears started flowing—relief, exhaustion and disbelief all at once. My friends rushed to me, arms wide open, and I collapsed into their embrace.
But there, at the end of the trail, were my three strangers—my saviors. I thanked them again and hugged each of them sincerely. They had given me more than just physical help—they had given me hope.
I took many lessons from this humbling experience on All Hallow’s Eve. Of course the importance of preparedness, but also something deeper. I had found an inner strength I didn’t know I had. And though I never wanted to be in that situation again, I knew that if I ever was, I could make it out. And last, depending on the kindness of strangers can roll in either direction. You just have to trust your gut.
