I’m warm all night, but the tent fills with moisture – even my quilt is sopping wet on top. Fortunately, it doesn’t penetrate and I stay dry. Thinking I’m helping the situation, I open my door, but that only makes the moisture freeze solid.
As you can imagine, I’m slow to get up, unsure how to manage the situation. I could wait for the sun, but that might take hours to reach me past the trees.
I fuss around inside, eating, taping my toes and getting dressed. While I do, the residents accompany the routine – a pack of coyotes yip and howl, an owl hoots, turkeys gobble and a woodpecker finds just the right hollow spot to hammer.
There’s really no choice but to pack and start moving. It’s absolutely freezing stuffing the tent, bits of ice come off in shavings. The quilt feels heavy, but I know I’ll dry them soon enough. The sky is crystal clear and the sun should be hot.
But the worst is yet to come. My sneakers are frozen solid. There was no way to avoid getting them wet yesterday and they never fully dried. My socks are solid too, and I bend them to fit on my feet. Ice cold.
Getting my feet in the shoes is a trick. I open them up as far as they’ll go and coax them into shape, then carefully stuff my feet in. The heel does not want to go, but finally pops in. They do not feel good, painfully cold, but once I move, I warm up quickly.
I walk about a half mile or so and find Joey next to a deep run off. He knew everything would get wet, so didn’t bother with a tent. He holds up a bottle of greenish water and tells me the run off didn’t filter so well.
I move along at a good clip, following seasonal rivers of run off and carefully crossing so as not to get any icier. I come to one of the beautiful iron Arizona Trail gates and think maybe I can hang things here, but it’s far too muddy. Ahead is a tree that’s dry beneath and I pull out the wet gear.
As I hang the tent on branches, I notice something inside that looks like moth balls. Could it be toilet paper? No, it’s a snowball! All the ice squished together inside while the tent was packed away.
I release it and give the tent a few twists to catch the sun. It doesn’t take long for everything to get crispy dry. I pack it away and step back on trail right into epic mud.
Is this some kind of April Fool’s prank? The mud is sticky and slippery, adhering to my shoes and picking up grass along the way. The added weight plus the difficulty of simply stepping through is unbelievably frustrating.
And it’s not as if I can just step off trail. There is rocky with deep grass hiding cactus. It’s often just as flooded as the trail itself. My sticks accumulate mud which weighs them down and I constantly bang them to release a mud puck.
This is torture and I absolutely hate it. It’s not as though there’s anything making all this work worth it. The landscape is grass, trees, sky and clouds on repeat – no variation, no views. Well, some variation in fire damaged trees.
It’s getting warm now with the sun brilliant and I plod along, cursing, whining, crying. Someone has put a cow’s skull on a log as a kind of greeter and that’s just about how I feel right now, dead.
I slog on mad at the trail, mad at the mud, mad at nature. When I pass a giant tank, frogs sing loudly. Shorebirds take off as one in silver flight.
The fact is I’m too early. Some hikers went home and plan to return in a few weeks when it’s all dried up. That’s not exactly convenient for me. So I press on, heavy sneakers and tears. This awfulness is doing me in and I’m losing my mind. I am nowhere near the bad ass I think I am. Suppose I can’t walk out of here?
I come to Foot in Tree Tank where I’d planned to filter more water. There’s a grassy bit in shade. Trees and the derp blue sky are reflected in its muddy surface. One frog clicks away on the far shore. It’s a lovely place to sit down and take a pause from the mud.
I filter a half liter, then use it to backflush my filter watching brown water course out. When I filter again, it moves fast and clear.
Joey walks by and I tell him I can barely stand it. He agrees this id oppressive but has little advice then to keep moving and bit by bit, it will be behind me.
As he shuffles on and I pack up I realize no one’s going to get me out of here but me on my own two legs.
That’s when I decide to play a game. You can do anything for just one hour. So I set my alarm and decide I will move through whatever is here for that 60 minute span, then sit down and have a snack.
The clock ticks down as I throw on my pack and push back into it. A feeling of control takes over. I certainly can’t control the path but I have power over me – as I step into a particularly awful section that slows my step to a crawl and fills my shoe with another sole.
I spend much of that hour praying for rocks.
It’s funny how I experience the stages of grief. You know, anger, sadness, fear, bargaining, etc. All feelings at once in a jumble of totally out of control. A plan, even if I absolutely hate it, keeps me going when that is exactly what I have to do.
I hit a dry patch and can move normally. “One hundred feet of joy!” I say, singing Alfred Burt’s ‘Joy, joy, joy!’ It doesn’t last long, but enough to get a groove in my movement through charred trees, over blowdowns and through a swampy area, complimenting myself on good technique keeping my shoes dry and not become frozen solid again.
My first break I sit on a piece of pumice next to charred and exfoliated trunks. I think of the trials on this hike, this 40 days in the desert. I thought they’d be more psychological than physical.
I set the timer again and remember to rejoice, not worry and ask for help. I seem to be getting a few more feet of joy with horribleness mixed in. My pace quickens and I begin to develop a kind of skill for avoiding the worst of it. The funny thing about this game is that it focuses me down to this hour – not tonight’s camping, not to tomorrow’s town, not to the end. When my mind begins to question if this wet bog of a trail continues all the way to Utah, I risk panicking instead of making the step I’m taking the priority.
Truth is, I never ever have to do this again, and knowing that helps.
The day is absolutely gorgeous, clear, deep blue sky up here at 7,500 feet, a few clouds perfectly created like a child’s drawing and a cool breeze. When I take my break, I realize just how lovely it is.
The trouble is, it’s too far to walk. I always have to think about ‘getting there,’ and it spoils some of the enjoyment. It’s definitely dryer as I fly along through forests on a pine needle carpet. Maybe it stays this way for a while?
No such luck. On my third hour, the trail is a stream with snowdrifts to crawl over. I leave muddy footprints before plunging back into a soupy stickiness. I follow what looks to be a trail and suddenly hear, “Blissful!”
It’s Snack way back at an intersection I missed. Yes, this mud can make a person lose their mind. K haven’t seen her all day and she tells me she walks the road instead. It mostly parallels the trail and, while still muddy, is wide enough to offer options. Smart girl!
I sit down and tell her I’ve been breaking every hour, then start to cry. It isn’t even pretty! She laughs, not at me, but with me and absurdity of our being there. Funny, it helps.
We both want to camp beyond the next water. I take the trail and she, the road. I have a few bits to negotiate, but mostly I move well coming to an enormous meadow almost like Tuolumne in Yosemite without the mountains.
Water is rushing in a stream and I sit to collect it, plus add some to my noodles to soak for dinner. The road is much further and she arrives as I pack up. I tell her I’d like to make 20 miles today so tomorrow is manageable and she promises to look for my tent.
What happens next can only be explained by the mysterious surprises that await us – the trail becomes beautiful. All the running water and large trees reminds me of Scotland, I’m certainly damp and muddy enough for it.
The trail heads up a small canyon with a lovely creek stair stepping down. This wood is gnarly with lichen-covered rock. Marsh marigolds and spring beauty carpet the forest floor. I do hit water and mud, but also feet-of-joy and sing them out when they come.
As the terrain begins to slant down, I hear frogs clicking in a tank. I’d love to hear that all night. I hop across more creeks and just as the trail turns, I see to my right a flat grassy area with two creeks feeding around a small island, one which has three waterfalls.
I set in grass and organize dinner. I wash my muddy feet in ice cold rushing water and watch the clouds turn pink beyond tall ponderosa.
Was it worth it for this? The point would have been made in an hour rather an entire day, but I got here in the end, a place full of natural sound and fresh, cold air and a million stars. My reward, a surprise awaiting my tired, battered body.
And perhaps just enough to help me get through whatever trials await me tomorrow.
One Response
Good work! Yes, you are early to do these passages, but can get thru it!
For shoe/socks that are wet in freezing temps, put them in some kind of water-proof bag, put them under your knees on top of you pad. They won’t dry but they won’t freeze.