I’m not cold overnight, rather toasty and comfortable. The Gila gurgles to me all night and stars appear in a crystal clear sky. I am so glad I came.
Most CDT hikers leave the Gila on the short connector behind me about a half mile or so. It’s hard work going in and out of the water and walking through sand.
I want a bit more, though will take the next much longer connector out. My shoes are stiff and a bit frozen, so it takes some doing getting my feet inside them.
I make tea to warm up, but it’s not too bad out. Still I put on an extra shirt and a coat as it will be a while before the sun reaches me.
What a beautiful, unique place this is! Funny that I walked a long section in water on the Florida Trail in February, and now I have countless crossings ahead of me as I follow the Gila to its source.
The first plunge in is cold, but shallow and I skip across quickly, sliding only minimally on the slimy rocks. Further on, I meet patches of snow and ice tucked into shady areas. A blue heron startles from its fishing spot and takes flight with a ratchety cackle.
When the sun clears the cliffs, I get some of its warmth on my face. My feet are blocks of ice and I shuffle along trying to regain feeling.
A note in the map app points out a rock scramble ahead, but I pass by somehow without taking it. That might be because I hit a flooded, braided mess from busy beavers. It’s all confusing here as I bash through dried shrubs which wack and cling at me.
Today I lose the trail over and over. It’s clear as can be with cairns, then disappears behind a blowdown or flood or rock. It’s fairly obvious how one needs to navigate in here. You don’t walk up the river, rather you use the flood plains and cross when the land runs out into vertical rock.
I’m amazed what lives in here – magnificent trees creating gorgeous benches for camping and myriad creatures by the looks of scat on trail. I startle two black headed ducks and black hawks whistle at me from high above.
At the next bend, the sun lights up an entire wall of towers, like Gaudí drip castles marching up the side of the cliff. The crossings are tiring me out, but to get to see this wondrous natural art show makes it all worth it.
A series of falls stair step towards me and now I will have a bit of a rock scramble, using my hands to hoist myself up. The sun is starting to warm me up and the thick pine smell helping my mood.
The river gurgles, burbles, splashes and hisses, but when it’s silent, that is not good. It means it’s been dammed and my crossing will be a deep one.
I look about for anywhere else to go but the dam itself is a bit inaccessible. “OK, Blissful. Go for it!”
I’m not swimming, but my feet skim the bottom as the water reaches my waist. The water is clear to the bottom and the beaver’s dinner swim around in it.
At least it’s short, but I’m wet up to my belly button. Fortunately the sun is out and I’m moving. But my energy is flagging. It’s a lovely place, but I’ve cracked 40 crossings in six miles of curly cued river. I’m ready for a change.
At crossing 43, I meet the sign sending me just three miles up to the High Route. I filter water to carry unsure if there will be any sources, then head up on steep zigzags.
Let me tell you, three miles up is a long way. The shift in movement is relaxing, but it’s up into rolling grasslands dotted with ponderosa and goes on forever. Even when I reach the main trail and take a break, I wonder if I made the right choice.
I traded another 6+ miles of river walking with, what I’m told, are even more beaver dams and more lost trails for 11 miles of rolling woodland. I move ok, but it’s exhausting work.
So I practice my speech and try to commit to memory one more section, sucking air when I ascend since I’m now at 7,700 feet. It passes the time and I move steadily, taking a break for lunch and water near a stream still running.
The sky begins to cloud over, more like a gray veil than individual clouds. The wind picks up icy cold. Here it is, the weather that was predicted.
At this point, I begin a very steep descent right back down to the Gila. There’s water, of course, and good camping, so I make it my goal to end this long day.
Not a soul is here when I arrive, though I’m not too surprised considering the cold. I gather water, set the tent, put on every single bit of clothing, then eat dinner as an obscured sun makes every effort to throw some heat my way.
It’s not yet dark and I’m cuddled in. The Gila quietly singing me a lullaby.
