Wheels Falling Off The Wagon

Most of the hikes my Zpacks Duplex Tent had seen prior to the CDT were trips taken with Molly. So the first time I unfurled it on the CDT, set it up, and peered through to the other side, there was a twinge of pain knowing I’d be sleeping in it alone for the next few months. In my post, Colorado (Part 2), I describe pain as being one of three types: physical, intellectual, or emotional; and how coping with one or two of these simultaneously is doable, but if all three are present, it can break somebody.

There are a lot of differences between the PCT and the CDT as trails, but there are also differences in my own life circumstances and my emotional and intellectual head-space from when I hiked the PCT three years ago. At that point in my life I had no ties to where I lived and no intention or desire to return to my previous life. It wasn’t escapism to hike the PCT as much as making space for a major change in the course of my life, and using something that had been a lifelong goal to create that space. Even on the hardest days on the PCT I would often ask myself, “Would you rather be back in your previous life?” And the answer was invariably a resounding “No!”

The CDT is different. It wasn’t exhilaration and glee I felt as I wandered off the highway into the New Mexico desert, but the sense of embarking on a dreaded chore that would feel really good to just get done. From the beginning I had every desire and intention to return to my previous life, and to reconstruct it to be as close as possible to what it had previously been. That yearning gave rise to a constant, low-grade emotional/psychological pain buzzing in the background from day one. As described in Good Riddance New Mexico, on day two I was lost, off trail, and desperately in search water, my finger on the trigger of my InReach SOS button. Unrelenting wind, endless, trail-less cow pasture, a dearth of natural water sources, uninspiring landscape, sadly decaying and impoverished trail towns, punctuated and bookended by visits from Molly, where glimpses of my previous life bittersweetly reminded me of the torment of the trail - this describes most of New Mexico.

Immediately after seeing Molly in Abiquiu, all of the aforementioned struggles were compounded by the addition of snow and about 20 lbs of gear added to my pack. Heading North into Colorado, after waiting out a snow and lightning storm for eight days, the snow got deeper, the wind harsher, the elevation higher, the terrain more treacherous, and an intense isolation set in. I saw no other CDT hikers from Wolf Creek Pass to Salida. From Salida to Twin Lakes I saw one other hiker the first day, and no one after that. From Twin Lakes to Breckenridge I saw no other hikers until the last day when I met Resdog. Finally, on the approach into Grand Lake and once in town a few more hikers started coming out of the woodwork, but at that point my state of mind was so frazzled that if anyone asked how the hike was going, or reminded me of my former life by innocuously asking where I was from, the wheels would fall off the wagon and I’d struggle to not have a break-down right there on the trail in front of strangers making small talk.

As I approached Berthoud Pass on highway 40, about an hour’s drive from Denver, I ran into a guy in black stretch pants charging uphill despite the rain with his obedient dog loosely leashed. He saw me kicking about like a robin scratching for a worm and asked if I was looking for the trail, indicating with his hand where it was.

“No,” I said, “I’m looking for a place to camp. But it’s always good to know where the trail is.”

“It’s going to be windy up here,” he said. “It would probably be better to camp lower.”

“Is there any place to camp lower?” I asked.

“No, I guess not,” he confessed. “It’s not flat all the way down to the highway.”

“Is there water?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s why I’m camping up here.”

He asked about the route the CDT takes from Berthoud Pass, over Flora Peak, over James Peak, and into Indian Peaks Wilderness. I mentioned that I was exhausted and considering just skipping that section and hitching up to Grand Lake.

“That’s beautiful country!” black stretch pants exclaimed. “It would be a shame to miss it!”

I looked him square in the eye and told him “I don’t care.” The trail, the conditions, the uncertainty, the ambiguity, the weather, the isolation - it had broken me. I had no interest in seeing any more beauty, or standing on top of any more peaks, or walking any more ridge-lines while getting blasted with wind or threatened by lightning, all in the vacuum of abject loneliness. At this juncture I was one mile from the highway, so of course there were day hikers. But around three miles from any road, which is at least 90% of the CDT, everyone disappears.

Being close to the highway and not far from Denver, I had cell service and decided to give Molly a call. She had been aware of and watched my deterioration as the trail wore on. Until that point she had been a reliable cheerleader, always telling me I could do it, reminding me of my goals, my preparation, my proven skills and abilities. Selflessly, she never indulged her own desire to have her partner back, and was always supportive of my plan to finish the trail. But that night she deftly sensed that the trifecta tidal wave of pain had overwhelmed and buried me to a depth from which no cheerleading could buoy. Tearfully, I pled with her to help me formulate a plan.

We decided I needed to get off the trail for a while and reset. Only with a clear head could I reevaluate my overall goal and decide to change course or not. I could hitch from Berthoud Pass to Denver, then maybe take a bus or a train or a plane to San Diego. Maybe I’d go to Salt Lake first and get my car from my parents’ house. Better let them know what’s going on. I texted and a few minutes later my Dad responded that I was only a six or seven hour drive from Salt Lake and they could come pick me up. That would be great, I responded. But not until Saturday, he said. It was then Tuesday night. Not a problem, I thought. In a little over two days I could hike to Grand Lake, and with that the plan was set. A huge burden came tumbling off my shoulders and I began to see a sliver of daylight through all the darkness.

I opened the GAIA and Guthook apps on my phone to plan out the next few days of hiking. Flora Peak and James Peak are each over 13,000 ft and I could bag both in one day, leaving an easy ridge-walk, followed by an easier descent to Grand Lake - or so I thought.

The peaks were about as expected, though I really had to hustle to get over James to beat the lightning in the forecast. The ten-mile ridge-walk turned out to be a trail-less traverse over talus covered by shrubs. Constantly tripping, rolling my ankles, and trying to figure out where I was supposed to be going slowed my progress. Finally, I arrived at Devil’s Thumb Pass where I met Exxon, the first CDT hiker I’d seen since before Breckenridge. He informed me of a severe blow-down event that had rendered several miles of the trail “impassable” according to the forest service. He’d heard of one CDT hiker who made it through, and I had seen a post from Resdog indicating that he made it through. We decided to tackle it together in the morning.

As far as trail destruction, it was the worst I’ve ever seen. It was like a tornado came through, tore up every tree in the forest, and threw them down into a huge, chaotic mess of limbs, trunks, roots, and earth. Some parts were so thick with debris they truly were impassable. In other places one could climb over multiple logs stacked in different directions, balance on one, lean on another, while stepping over a third, trying not to slip, trip or fall, then jump down into an abyss of branches and hope to not be impaled by anything. After about two hours Exxon and I finally made it to some forest that was still standing and were able to navigate back to the trail.

Camping and hiking with another thru-hiker provided a much-needed respite from the isolation that gave me what I needed to get to Grand Lake. But inside I was still raw and hollowed out. I called Molly as Exxon and I walked into town and we agreed that the previous plan was still the best action to take.

I’m writing this from my parents’ house in Salt Lake where no lightning threatens, the only wind is mild and warm, and the path to food security doesn’t require wading through a completely destroyed forest. In the next few days I’ll take a road trip to visit Snake Charmer, my sister Tracy, and then down to San Diego to be with Molly. During all this I’ll be monitoring my own physical, psychological, and emotional state, evaluating my desire to be on trail and measuring that against my overall values and objectives. Ultimately, I’ll need to decide if my original goal still aligns with those things, or if it’s time to change course.