This Colorado Region Is Called the 'Switzerland of America'—and I Explored It on an Epic 5-day Hike

Yahoo

14-06-2025

I was crouching in the shelter of a boulder, 12,000 feet up in Colorado's San Juan Mountains, as wind and rain whipped around me. Two fighter jets whizzed by, the roar of their engines cutting through the sound of thunder. Pellets of ice began to fall from the sky.
'Once the hail comes, it means it's almost over,' said John Vipiana, one of my hiking companions, who was kneeling beside me. I wasn't sure if he meant the storm, or our lives. I decided not to ask.
The two of us had walked ahead of the rest of our group of nine hikers and two guides, and were now alone. I looked up from under the hood of my rain jacket and made out the shapes of brightly colored backpacks moving down the hill toward us. John was right—in a few minutes, the hail let up, and we were reunited with everyone, laughing in disbelief at how wild the weather had turned in the first few miles of our multiday trek.
As we continued our descent, the sky turned a brilliant blue. Someone asked where we were. Our lead guide, Patrick Ormond, who had moved to the front of the pack, called out over his shoulder: 'Paradise Basin.'
Thinking about the emerald lake we'd passed just before the storm, and looking out at the field of wildflowers and the grove of spruce and fir trees ahead of us, I had to agree.
The San Juans are younger than many other ranges in the Rocky Mountain system—younger being a relative term when you're speaking about a difference of 25 to 30 million years. Over millennia, continental plates collided, volcanoes erupted and collapsed on themselves, and calderas formed. This up-and-down motion created a spine of steep, jagged mountains that run through southwestern Colorado.
The area is now home to many of the state's 'fourteeners,' or mountains over 14,000 feet, as well as deep, bowl-shaped valleys carved by ancient glaciers. The combination of high peaks and scooped-out ravines makes the San Juans a hardcore backcountry ski destination and, in summer, a sublime place to hike.
An avid backpacker, I wanted to experience a side of Colorado that few travelers do. So last August, I flew to Ouray—a common launching point for adventures in the region—to embark on a 35-mile hut-to-hut traverse run by San Juan Mountain Guides, a local tour operator that has been organizing hiking, skiing, and climbing trips since 1986."Our lead guide called out the name of this place: 'Paradise Basin.' Thinking about the emerald lake we'd just passed, and looking out at the field of wildflowers and the grove of spruce and fir trees ahead of us, I had to agree."In the Alps, you can trek all day with a light pack, arrive at a comfortable chalet, sit down to a home-cooked meal, sleep in a real bed, then wake up and do it all again. This kind of hut-to-hut hiking is rare in the United States, but over the past decade, a handful of European-style modern huts have opened in the San Juans.
Two years ago, Nate Disser, the owner of San Juan Mountain Guides, and Patrick, who is the company's head guide, got the idea to link up three huts to create an epic, five-day guided hike. They decided to name it the Million Dollar Trek, a reference to the cinematic—and slightly terrifying— Million Dollar Highway, which winds 25 miles through the mountains between Ouray and Silverton. Some say the road is named for the staggering views, while others claim it's because it reportedly took $1 million to build each mile.
After the hail, we continued walking through intermittent rain. Our motley crew was a mix of experienced adventurers and regular folks searching for an active vacation.
John and his wife, Ann Fitzmaurice, who live in Oregon, were easygoing and gregarious—and also intimidatingly fit. They were traveling with their friend Dave Gooder, a lawyer from Virginia. Three middle-aged brothers, Jim, Mike, and Ed Styslinger, had come from Texas. Kelley Johnson and her 10-year-old son, Chase, hailed from Boulder, Colorado. Chase impressed us all with his stamina, good spirits, and ease around grown-ups. I came in with solid trekking experience and a couple of half marathons under my belt.
Our two guides, however, were on an entirely different level. With his handlebar mustache and long ponytail, Patrick had the rangy, tanned look of someone who spends a lot of time in the mountains. A national collegiate rowing champion, he has led expeditions to Argentina's Mount Aconcagua, the highest mountain outside of Asia.
Steven Van Sickle—similarly strong, and always in a close-fitting beanie—has guided mountaineering and ski trips to some of the most legendary peaks in China and India. Both have also summited Mount McKinley (also known as Denali), in Alaska, and are licensed by the International Federation of Mountain Guides Associations, the world's most respected guiding organization.
Early in the afternoon, we reached a welcome sight: a wood-and-stone structure with smoke curling from the chimney. Stepping inside the warmth of the Opus Hut, I exhaled deeply. Opus sits at 11,600 feet, on an old mining claim, and has creature comforts a miner could only have dreamed of: running water and electricity, of course, as well as meals like mushroom-barley soup with olive-oil croutons or coconut chicken curry, plus beer, wine, and cocktails.
After devouring a charcuterie plate, I hightailed it for the cedar sauna, which was set on the edge of a hill. As the steam hissed and swirled, I leaned back on the wooden bench and watched the afternoon light shift, my thoughts drifting like the clouds.
Over the next few days, our group fell into a routine as we made our way from one hut to the next. Fueled by hearty breakfasts—egg polenta bites at one stop, chocolate-chip pancakes at another—we would set off early to tackle between six and nine miles, gaining as much as 3,000 feet of elevation. At almost every turn, it seemed, we came upon something astonishing. Some sights were large—a herd of 30 elk thundering down a slope; a turquoise lake where white-tailed ptarmigans flew overhead. Others were small, like a fragment of elk spine, picked clean by an unknown scavenger, or clusters of spectacular flowers, including columbine, paintbrush, and larkspur."As the steam from the sauna hissed and swirled, I leaned back on the wooden bench and watched the afternoon light shift, my thoughts drifting like the clouds."We occasionally passed other hikers, including, on a particularly aggressive climb, a man in Wranglers and a cowboy hat, who was not out of breath in the slightest, casually walking with his Australian cattle dog. One day, we crossed the saddle of Imogene Pass—at 13,114 feet the highest in the San Juans. Along the way, Patrick or Steven would toss out bits of history and facts about the flora and fauna.
Mostly, we just soaked it all in, and at each night's hut, we'd gather around the fire and swap stories. A few of us realized we had stayed at Ouray's Western Hotel & Spa—a recently restored boardinghouse from 1891 with a terrific bar and restaurant—the night before our trip and would be returning there after the trek.
After Opus, we spent two nights at Red Mountain Alpine Lodge, which allowed some of us to do a long day hike and others to rest. In contrast to the cloistered design at Opus, Red Mountain had a contemporary feel, with an A-frame structure, a large, open-plan living area, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a communal dining table. There were private rooms downstairs, while upstairs, a lofted sleeping space had individual beds with privacy curtains.
At night, I played Monopoly or Jenga with Kelley and Chase, who won every time. Ann and John would break out their cribbage set. Someone would pick up a guitar. Beers would be cracked, cards shuffled. By 9 o'clock, the fire would burn low, and everyone would peel off to bed. I winced with the effort of getting back up on my feet, but was exhilarated by what lay ahead the next day.
By the time we reached Mount Hayden Backcountry Lodge, our final destination, we felt like one big, happy family, albeit an exhausted one. I'd exchanged numbers with Ann and John, promising I'd reach out if I was ever in Oregon, and talked to Kelley about bringing some of my friends to her family's resort in Belize. Dave offered to send me suggestions for hikes in Europe I might like.
On our last morning, we said our goodbyes to Kelley and Chase, who were heading home early for the school week. The athletic effort was starting to add up, and I was grateful that the final, five-mile trek to Crystal Lake (where a van would then shuttle us back to Ouray) was mostly downhill.
About an hour into the hike, we rested for a few minutes on the side of the trail. Steven pointed behind us to Mount Sneffels, a fourteener named after Snæfellsjökull, the glacier-topped volcano in Iceland where the characters in Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth begin their descent into the subterranean world.
I stared at the massive form of Sneffels. The summit was slightly obscured by clouds, but its slopes revealed streaks of clover-green grass. Then, in a moment none of us could have scripted, the arc of a rainbow materialized. Standing there, 12,000 feet up, I felt as if over the past five days we'd entered some alternate world, one where strangers embarked on a physical feat that tested us completely—and came out the other side as friends.
Four-night trips with San Juan Mountain Guides from $2,299.
A version of this story first appeared in the July 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline "A Walk in the Clouds."
Read the original article on Travel & Leisure