Project Eveningland

8/1/2023 Tuesday

The storms last night were terrifying. I woke at various points to lightning, thunder, rain, and hail. I felt deeply what I was: all alone on a vast tundra shielded by two aluminum poles and some polyester fabric.

On the other hand, I was protected, and I did fall back asleep in short order after each time thunder woke me. It’s not nothing to sleep at 12700 feet and remain (mostly) dry, warm, and comfortable—I’d say materials science deserves most of the credit there, with a heavy assist from waterfowl. I got chilled early morning during some of the most intense weather. I could avoid ever camping above treeline, if only I were an ultra-ultra who could do 40 miles at a stretch. And also I should still look 25.

It was still raining in the morning when I woke up. Since I’m on the tundra, and also feeling lazy as shit, I just ate in my tent leaning outside it so no crumbs would fall inside.

Where do you dig a cat hole on a tundra? I guess any spot is as good as the next, provided it’s far enough from trail. You have to look around first to make sure no one is in sight, but, gosh, if you can’t see anyone anywhere, you’ve got a good 1-2 hours without being disturbed.

I hiked up and down on grassy and gravely slopes all morning and early afternoon. I again felt grateful for the way this particular trail seeks the lowest passes through the mountains. Unlike certain other trails I know of.

The landscape is soaked from wet weather. All streams are flowing, and many more besides those listed in the app.

The wildflowers flourish, mostly yellow and white but in every single color. I love the orangish red of Indian paintbrush, the delicate bluish violet of monkshood (I think), the stately white and purple of columbine. It’s all there, for miles.

I’ve been eating while walking during these sections. Any time absent foul weather feels too valuable.

I reached a jeep road 4.5 miles in to my day, which marked the end of segment 23 (thank the gods!) and the beginning of 24. It took 12 miles of walking total to get back to trees. I was so delighted to see forest ahead!

Near the end of the grassy and spectacular tundra walk, another hiker around my age, going north, marveled at the sights. He’d just reached the top of an impressive set of switchbacks leading out of a deep mountain valley. He was stunned. Is it really like this for the next 60 miles? Yes, I told him, but there is weather to contend with. Speaking of, here comes said weather just as I am heading down.

The clouds got less and less friendly. The usual I guess. I felt so relieved not to be walking into it for once. The switchbacks were an impressive feat! I talked individually with all four members of a family headed in the opposite direction I was—two teen boys, a dad, and a very dreamy mother, far behind. The Seussian excess of the switchbacks had separated them, though they could all still see one another. They were in awe of the scenery. Wait until you get to the top, I told them. Really? asked the dad. “Makes this look like a pile of shit,” I said. That family of backpackers seemed a bit green. They were headed above treeline at 2PM. They are going to have a real adventure up there I expect! They’ll live.

When the switchbacks ended there was a beautiful flowing creek and an old mine tunnel! Just an exploratory shaft I’d guess. Basically a 40 foot hallway blasted into the orange and pink rock. I had to go in!

Then followed miles of descent with some nice tread but also gravelly stuff and some delicate moments around huge rock. One spring—flowing into the currently massive creek—was almost bloody with minerals.

The rain returned and got heavy enough that I wanted to stop. I wished for a “shelter pine” (thick enough needles that the space near the trunk never gets wet from rain). I saw about half a dozen tents set up in the only available spots. I finally found an OK site at 400.7–precisely ten miles from the side trail to my resupply point or, in all likelihood, exit point. About half the trees are dead from beetle kill. Tonight I’ve exchanged the danger of lightning and wind for the danger of tree falls. I did my best to mitigate the risk, and it’s not windy.

I went nuts today with my satcom, which I should have earlier, since I paid for a month with unlimited messages. There’s just something about a satellite communicator that makes a stern male voice say, in my head, it’s a tool, not a toy. Sounds like a distinction without a difference to me! I needed even just a little company from my loved ones. It buoyed me through the last of that tundra walk.

While I was filtering water from a creek near my site, Tater and two ultra-types (I now call them “mileage people” to their faces) came by. They were super friendly. How is it that Tater always has someone different with him? I wouldn’t want that for myself, but it is interesting. Let me take a crack at describing Tater. Late 20s, reddish blond hair and thin mustache. Works in the medical field and hails from Bakersfield California. He has sort of a goofy, gawky grin. When I first met him (in Roan Mountain TN, in April 2021) he struck me as having it all figured out. At the time we were both 400 miles into hiking the AT. It was, if memory serves, his first long backpacking trip and it was going fabulously. He had found his groove, his people, his True North. I, on the other hand, was grievously injured and confronting the inglorious end of my first attempt—I was trying to find the strength to face it. I stayed at the hostel and cooled my heels while I waited for my reliable father to pick me up.

Lots of people in that hostel in Tennessee were kind to me, but only one or two really wanted to connect. Who wants to sit down on the couch next to a tragedy, anyway? Tater—or Baked Potato, as we called him then—was one of two. He has the same empathy Ben has, which is to say that it seems to come naturally, flows in apparently abundant supply, and reads obviously to others (much to Ben’s chagrin—I don’t know Tater well enough to say how he feels about it). Ben and Tater are both rendered all-around magnetic by it (definitely for Ben, maybe for Tater). They can’t help it, and it’s fascinating to me because although I too hold vast reservoirs of kindness, it just flows differently out of me. Thank the gods people are so varied.

Back then I looked on Tater with admiration. I still do. By-the-by, the other person with whom I connected at that hostel said something to me that had a positive impact: “I have a feeling you’ll be back before the end” (I might have zhushed up that wording a bit). I have my own set of things I say to people who are dealing with trail difficulties. I told a man getting off the CT last year (we sat next to each other outside a shop at Copper Mountain) that the people and places of Colorado would be waiting to welcome him back, when he is ready. Tina, at Quarter Way Inn, told Wedge and me that she had several versions of “the talk” which she gives to people who are having a hard time. I wanted to hear them all.

Anyway, back to 2023. Tater, standing there by my campsite with the two ultra-types, marveled that I remembered him so well. We exchanged contact info, and I learned his real name, Ben. He and the friendly ultras moved on, headed for a small pond with good camping three miles ahead.