Project Eveningland

7/26/2023 Wednesday

Yesterday, on the drive to Gunnison, Dad marveled at the views. We can see snow, he pointed out, but we’re roasting in the sun. That’s the magic of altitude. I mean science. That’s the science of altitude.

It’s about a 45 minute drive from Gunnison to the point at which I planned to pick up the trail. We got caught in a lane closure (road resurfacing). It was a long lane closure. Miles of it. The workers at either end couldn’t use radios to communicate—too much distance and mountains between.

There was a trail angel at the trailhead. Dad made a beeline to him and a woman hiker in maybe her 30s (Julia, from Germany) and chatted them up while I unloaded my stuff. I wanted a farewell with my dad more than idle chitchat with a stranger. Though, on the other hand, the trail angel did have tiny bags of the kind of popcorn I like.

I set off under the warm sun and blue sky. The tread was soft and even. I felt glad to be out walking again. It was a revelation after what seemed like weeks of adverse conditions on the AT.

It took me about two weeks to flip from the AT to the Colorado Trail. It was planes and automobiles, but I like to imagine that the following happened. That day I sheltered from the 1000 year storm in the William O’Brien shelter in Harriman State Park (in NY), a portal opened. The rock that forms the back wall of the shelter suddenly had an ancient door with a brass handle set into it. I opened the door, walked through, and stepped into the sunshine of the Cochetopa Hills in southern Colorado. But such fancies don’t distract from the help I had from friends and family—it was no small feat, gettin’ from there to here. I didn’t see Dad drive off in my Prius—he’ll fly home tomorrow.

In the first mile I passed two northbound CDT hikers (going the opposite direction from me—I’m now going SoBo). CDT hikers by this point (over 1200 miles in I think) are more or less by definition “ultras.” I asked one about the water sources ahead and he said they were fine and opined that CT hikers are too picky about water. His performance was very snooty—much respect. I pointed out that the people he’s running into have just gotten through a very dry section. I remember tearing up with joy in 2020 when I found a water cache among the cow patties.

Today was all dirt-road walking with a liberal amount of cow shit. I felt very fast doing 20 miles in less’n 10 hours. The path was exposed most of the day. I got plenty of sun.

The heat stayed manageable, though, because of isolated storms that began early afternoon and lurked for the rest of the day. I watched the little storms move around me in the enormous open sky. A great drama unfolded. Huge sweeping masses moved through the blue heavens, grumbling as they collided in the distance. I caught some rain at lunch and once or twice in the afternoon. It was heartening: 1) it lasted only minutes each time; 2) I knew the wet parts of me would dry quickly in the sun and dry air which was never far.

I saw prairie dogs and squirrels scampering. Grasshoppers (I think) clacked loudly through the air at my approach. The sage that borders the trail has nothing on the ferns of the mid Atlantic states, but aspens strike me as the rhododendrons of the American west: generously bringing green and shade where and when there’s little to be had.

Now, about those water sources. The first I passed without stopping because I’d just started with two full liters. The second source came six miles or so later. At first I thought it was raining on the large puddle across the trail. Nope, it was just ten billion bugs swarming over the water. I found an inlet with some clear flow and managed to collect close to two liters. The third water source was something else altogether.

It’s at this point that I ran into Julia, the German from this morning, in an area with a few boondockers (people with fancy AWD vans who camp on BLM lands). She was doing something with an empty water bottle which I couldn’t discern. She said, with despair, that there wasn’t good water for six miles. I reassured her that there were several water sources in the next few miles and she said something about not wanting to drink cow water. I moved on, unsure what I could do to help.

I reached a water source a mile and a tenth later. A cow had died in it. A while ago. It’s just a bleach-white pelvis and a few other bones now. There’s a pile of dirt mixed with fur. It still smells bad but more like mildewy leather than death. Also there were another 10,000,000,000 bugs swarming around the stagnant water. I found a light flow between two puddles (above the corpse!) and managed to collect a reasonably clear liter in my dirty water bag. I walked with it in my dirty bag for maybe a mile and then decided that dead cow water was a bridge too far, even for me.

I stopped to snack beneath a scraggly ponderosa. The ground here—here as in everywhere within a 30 mile radius—is covered in cow shit, mostly dessicated. When you think about it, all dirt is just old poop. I considered camping there but it seemed too marginal and too early in the day. I resumed walking at 4:30.

There was a beautiful spring among tall reeds and bright green grasses three miles later. It was clearer and with a stronger flow than it had any right to. I was startled by another hiker who approached me from the south while I was filtering. He said his name was Sunshine and began chattering away at me at once. Oh, boy, we got another talker. He had already been to the spring once, but had “come back for seconds” after camping just ahead with a young couple. He prefers company, he says. He asked how far I was going and after I said, “I’m not sure,” he launched into a dense description of his plans. A GIF of Liz Lemon played in my head. Nope. Shut it down.

After he’d gathered water, Sunshine stood and waited expectantly for me to go ahead of him—so we could chat away the distance back to his tent. I gestured that he should go first. He didn’t.

Next I did something dickish. I wanted to politely wish him well but it just came out weird. I said, “well, good sir, I wish you a very fine evening.” Fancy words for “buzz off.” Did not disguise sentiment. Oof, well there goes my chance to make a good first impression on Sunshine! Alas! I tried to wave in a friendly way to him and the couple when I passed their sites.

I couldn’t find a place to camp. The other hikers had marginal spots and there weren’t any other sites nearby. The trail entered a shady thicket of mature aspen and began ascending a gentle hill. The only flat open spots were the “water bar” drainage features along the road which struck me as unwise places to sleep. I’ve already had enough “rain stories” for this trip. Eventually I found a tiny, tilted site near an old barbed wire gate. I had to put my pack beneath my sleep pad to try to level it out.

I can’t believe I did a 20 on my first day back! I didn’t mean to. It was all about finding a campsite.

There’ll be much more water tomorrow. The flies were absolutely terrible today. They landed and bit at any pause in my hiking, on any parcel of skin not covered in DEET.