Project Eveningland

8/2/2023 Wednesday

I woke after a peaceful sleep in the narrow valley. I could hear the creek rushing nearby. No winds came in the night to shift the dead trees. I had been thinking of something my dentist and friend in Pittsburgh once said to me about why they crown teeth that have been treated with a root canal: a tooth that no longer lives is like a dead tree in the forest—it might stand a hundred years, or it might crack in the wind tomorrow.

I have ten miles to walk today to the historical Molas Pass Campground. My journey has reached its end. I’m going home.

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.

7/31/2023 Monday

It wouldn’t have mattered if I had wanted to get up at 3AM this morning to avoid weather. The rains came and went right through the night and morning. By 8AM it was still cloudy and gray and spritzing. I waited an extra hour to leave, to honor my promise from yesterday not to leave the tent until the sun shone directly on it. Ahead lay 22 miles of above-treeline walking, to include at least one night of above-treeline sleeping (tonight). I plan to do only 10-12 miles today because I’m just beat.

7/30/2023 Sunday

Four days ago, I proceeded onto the Colorado Trail with supreme confidence. I’d already hiked nearly 600 miles on this trail in 2020 and 2022, with many more miles of alpine foot travel besides. But everybody gets spanked now and again by the mountains, and today was my day.

7/29/2023 Saturday

The morning cool was perfectly comfortable at my 12K elevation campsite near Willow Creek. I got an actual, honest-to-goodness, voluntary early start. I spent my pleasant morning in a valley full of massive mountains surrounded by valleys full of other massive mountains. It’s just endless. Totally endless.

7/28/2023 Friday

Today was such a varied adventure, with an opportunity to develop my storm dodging skills.

7/27/2023 Thursday

I hadn’t realized that this was a disliked part of the CT. Commenters in the navigation app, and other hikers on trail today, suggest that what comes after mile 340 is much better. I’m not there yet but today’s walk certainly marked a transition in the landscape.

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.

There’s this weird instinct that I get after about three weeks into any long hike. It’s a nesting instinct. I start thinking about all the changes I want to make to our house. It becomes a way to cope with homesickness—I walk the trail and dwell pleasantly on all the changes Benny and I might make to our little sanctuary on my return. But the instinct has become a bit painful now that I’m temporarily home.