After a few tricky crossings of Lyell Creek, we camped in a lovely spot above it. The sunset was a beautiful end to the day, as was my bandana bath. Perfect last night on the PCT.
Morning was all downhill or level through beautiful meadows with mountains in the distance, the Lyell Fork a bright blue reflecting the sky. I finished the PCT at Toulumne Meadows, 10 days before turning 71.
Meeting Liz and Sheila at the grill, we had hamburgers and ice cream and switched to tourist mode to see the sights in Yosemite Valley for two more days before RockStar headed home, and my cuz took me to the airport in Reno.
With the PCT and the AT completed I turned my focus to the CDT.
Chapter 35 August 2012
Continental Divide Trail—Colorado
Grapevine planned to walk about 2/3 of this hike with me, her husband David providing us both with trail support. But while in Canada with their Godsons, Grapevine’s recurring plantar fasciitis flared so that she could barely hobble. They both said they’d committed to the Colorado trip and knew I’d planned it with David’s support. So they drove all the way from Washington to support me even though Grapevine couldn’t hike, a gift of true friendship.
Wheew (PCT 2008 trail name) in 2012, known as Chosen, was to join me right after Wolf Creek Pass for the rest of the trip, though she’d been warned I was slow and said she would walk behind me like a puppy dog because I had the GPS. I planned to leave my car in Buena Vista with Carol, the secretary at the local Episcopal Church. I would walk to the car from Cumbres Pass where I’d left the trail in the spring.
Sleeping with a Sheepherder
David drove for two hours to drop me off at Cumbres Pass at 7:00 am. The green valley I remembered from the spring, surprisingly, was still green with a few flowers remaining in the middle of August.
I was now 71. But my slow pace up the trail wasn’t entirely due to age. A significant problem was the altitude.
I live at sea level. My spring hike through New Mexico helped acclimate me to altitude, but then I was home at sea level for more than a month. I finished the PCT going over 11,000-foot Donahue Pass. Then I was home for two more weeks. I started at Cumbres Pass in Colorado at 10,000 feet and soon was at 12,000. My red blood cells had whiplash.
Chugging along very slowly, taking many rest stops, I walked just below or above timberline on my entry into the San Juan's. Each step brought an unfolding of more beauty. I was nervous climbing up Summit Peak between two storm cells, but I had no rain or lightning in my immediate vicinity. Trail tread disappeared going over Summit Peak and down to Dipping Lake, but there were enough cairns to quickly find my way.
Descending to the first of the lakes, I saw a big flock of sheep surrounding it. The Sheepherder on horseback was going out with four dogs to bring the sheep closer to his large tent. He was a Mexican, originally from Chihuahua, and spoke only a few words of English. My Spanish was from high school more than 50 years ago. With a few words and a lot of arm waving, we managed a little conversation.
He didn’t think the lake water good enough for me, offering to fill my water bladder from a stream, he took my water bladder and galloped off. Before riding away, he invited me to stay in his big tent. I looked at all the sheep poop around my planned site near the lakes and hoped the area by his tent would be better.
After reaching his tent, I sat on a large rock resting and eating my dinner, watching the sheepherder come over the hill with a few hundred sheep and six energetic sheep dogs. I’d planned to set up my tent, but with six large, inquisitive, unruly dogs jumping all over, I was afraid if a large dog jumped on my tent like they jumped on me, even by accident, the tent would be toast on the first night of a multiday trip.
Milling sheep covering the area meant I had not avoided the sheep poop. There were no trees for food-bag hanging, I was quite tired, and another thunderstorm was approaching.
So I slept with the sheepherder, Grigo. More precisely, I stayed with the sheepherder in his heavy canvas tent. In the square tent, his sleeping bag was stretched along one wall. There was a small wood stove vented through a hole in the tent wall, and a chest which held his belongings. There was just room enough for my sleeping bag to fit beside his.
Grigo was proud to say he’d worked in Durango for four years before sheepherding and asked the same questions of me that others ask when they meet a long-distance hiker. Where was I from? Where was I going? Why didn't I carry a gun? Between his few words of English and my few words of Spanish we had a limited conversation. I was amazed I could remember enough Spanish to tell him I was 71 years old and a grandmother. He was properly impressed I was on the trail. It rained hard in the night, with much thunder and lightning, and I was grateful for the shelter of his sturdier tent.
Yes, as he gestured to me to come into his sleeping bag, I think he would have liked more intimate female companionship. I was neither shocked nor offended. Sheepherding is a lonely occupation. But he was a gentleman when deflected with “no comprendo” or just no, although I thought I comprendo-ed accurately. The next morning I gave him a few bucks for his hospitality to encourage him to help other hikers. It had been a unique experience.
Lightning Russian Roulette
After mid-morning snack at Dipping Lake, I headed back up to 12,000 feet. The Continental Divide Trail is often right on the Divide, above timberline most places in the San Juans. The biggest danger was afternoon thunderstorms.
By the end of the morning, there was a black sky to the south, with lots of lightning and thunder. I put on rain gear and pack cover and dived into a scrubby high-altitude spruce thicket just as lightning cracked nearby, and the storm hit. Huddled in my meager shelter, I watched the ground turn white with hail for miles around.
I was lucky it hit while I had even a bit of shelter as the next three or four miles was all above timberline. Sitting for a good hour, I listened to the thunder and counted the seconds between strike and thunder to judge the distance of the lightning. I had no desire to leave my tiny sheltered spot while lightning cracked, and thunder boomed. While watching the storm slacken, a covey of ptarmigan waddled by me only a few feet away. (Ptarmigan are medium-sized chicken-like game birds.) Unfortunately, my camera was inaccessibly buried under layers of rain protection.
Eventually the storm diminished, and I sloshed up the trail through ice and water, wind and cold. My highest point of the day was 12,300 feet. I did make one wrong move in spite of warnings in the Wolf book and on Ley maps. I followed nice big cairns and obvious trail, once again finding the dominant trail wasn’t the CDT. Thanks to my GPS, I didn’t go far before realizing my mistake.
In the morning, the sky was blue and clear, the ground still cold from hail. My playground for the day was between 11,000 and a bit above 12,000 feet. I dried my tent and sleeping bag at mid-morning snackbreak, ready for the next night. And I enjoyed walking by Blue Lake, white pearly everlasting on its banks, a bright contrast to bright blue water. Lunch was by another lake with mountains for backdrop.
The afternoon of the next day, black clouds congregated to the south, and thunder echoed over the valleys. I was pretty nervous on the climb up to 12,150 feet, but blue sky continued over me. I stopped to get water about a mile from my destination, and just as I was finished, a thunderstorm hit. Once again I threw on the rain gear and dove under a tree, this time a bigger one in a grove. And I sat watching the rain and counted the lightning to thunder intervals: 4-5 seconds.
I had no problem with diving under cover and waiting out the storms. The problem was: there wasn’t always cover to dive under. I’d been very lucky so far, but it felt like playing Russian Roulette. And I knew it could get worse as some of this year’s hike would rise to 13,000 feet. I’d hoped the pattern of afternoon storms would lessen towards the end of August, but that appeared to have been wishful thinking.
When the sun came out, and the sky was blue, I walked my last mile and camped in some trees near a bubbling creek just below timberline on the Middle Fork of the C
onejos River. The view from my tent was spectacular, green tundra-like high country and mountain cliffs. I was in camp in time to take a Ziploc bath and wash socks and underwear. I hoped they would dry hung on the outside of my pack before the next day’s thunderstorm. As I stretched out preparing to sleep, a lovely doe stood on the stream bank staring at me as I took her picture from my tent. I drifted to sleep listening to coyotes.
Walking with a Dual Focus
An ominous start to the day was waking up to big, black clouds stretched over picturesque mountains at the head of the valley. I needed to keep my eye on the clouds as well as the scenery.
The scenery was gorgeous: three high mountain valleys that reminded me of the Napeequa in solitude grandeur, only higher in altitude, a few lakes scattered around the high country and a variety of streams and forks of the Conejos, all easy to step across. On a high traverse, meadows were filled with bright-blue gentians, and a hawk or eagle flew above me.
I didn't go uphill with any speed, and I was tired before I thought I should be. Must be getting old.
Patches of blue sky over me were encouraging. Though gray clouds hung over one pass, I kept out-walking them, aware if lightning hit me I would roll a few hundred feet on the steep hillside before I stopped. But no lightning hit me. In fact, as I walked, I only had six drops of rain all day. But when I put up my tent for the night at the Adams Fork of the Conejos, a quick hailstorm hit, and I dove into the tent to wait out the storm in comfort.
I walked long high traverses above timberline from 11,300 feet to 12,700 feet, cloudy and gray all day, with intermittent light rain, great views sometimes obscured by rain clouds, and fog. I was too concerned about possible lightning to take more than two brief breaks to eat a trail bar and to change batteries on the GPS.
My dual focus changed from watching scenery and the weather to watching the trail threaten to disappear in the grass and gray clouds threaten lightning. I was slightly misplaced three times, but with the GPS I was always found again, or I should say, the trail was found again. I always knew where I was. My goal to reach trees before the day's thunderstorms began meant going almost all the way to Elwood Pass. It seemed almost a crime to rush in such beautiful scenery. Finally reaching the shelter of big trees, I collapsed for lunch at 2:30 and an old lady’s well-deserved rest.
After lunch I discovered I was within a couple blocks of the road. So I meandered over to the road between showers and road-walked to Elwood Pass, arriving as Kathy and David drove up. What great friends to find me in the middle of nowhere with my food drop. David cooked my dinner on the tailgate. More thunderstorms were coming, so I threw up my tent, and my support team departed. Reclining in my tent, cozy and warm, I read about the next day's trail while three storm cells, one with hail, passed by.
With blue skies and only a few puffy high clouds, the next day was more pleasant. I had more time to view my surroundings, and flowers entertained my eyes: low growing yellow daisies, penstemon, yarrow, western fringed gentian, fairy trumpets, paintbrush, mountain avens, bistort and white daisies. I loved the flowers’ bright colors, red, blue, yellow, white, and purple. There was wildlife, too: two elk, four deer, a martin, a pair of falcons with beautiful under feathers, numerous chipmunks, and squirrels.
The elevation was lower and the trail gentler. I had a lazy afternoon arriving ahead of schedule at my destination. Usually a pretty clean backpacker, the weather and water sources had not been cooperative, and I really needed a shower. I lose interest in being clean in proportion to decreasing temperature. Oh well. I cut and cleaned my fingernails.
Coming into Wolf Creek Pass, I traversed around the head of a valley and climbed up another ridge of mountains overlooking the ski area. I know the Continental Divide Trail should be on the Divide when possible, but it seemed a bit silly when there was a more direct way through the valley without all that climbing.
I met Kathy and David at the pass and soon had a shower, clean clothes, and a happy tummy. (David cooked delicious a dinner.)
On my zero day, in a break in the weather, Kathy went out for a bike ride as biking didn’t irritate her plantar fasciitis. I mended my pants and duct taped small holes in my rain gear. We drove to a store for cheese, and David made chocolate chip cookies to top off the day. Eating is what zero days are for.
I was a little concerned I’d been having symptoms related to high altitude. I didn’t have headache or nausea, more common symptoms, but I had fatigue and a cough, and I was noticing shortness of breath when resting. I hoped my body would make more little red blood cells soon to cope with the altitude.
Opinionated Hikers
Chosen, whom I’d met on the PCT in 2008, showed up to hike with me from Wolf Creek Pass. Even leaving the pass in clouds and wetness, she was impressed with the trail, saying it might be her new favorite trail. Passing a trail maintenance crew hauling rocks to improve the trail, we thanked them profusely and took their pictures. Without such people there would be no trail.
A lovely little tarn, Rock Lake, would have been a good spot for lunch but for the rain. At a short break in the wetness, we settled for sitting on a log, our break cut even shorter by more raindrops. I had a good time with someone to talk to until Chosen told me she didn’t like to talk while hiking. OK, I could live with that. Since she was able to go much faster than I could, I told her to go ahead, and I would meet her at Archuleta Lake, our destination for the night.
Hikers and a group on horseback passed me, and at our campsite there were more hikers than I’d seen all the way from Cumbress Pass. After dinner and chores, Chosen and I talked for a while with two other hikers until another group said we were too loud. Geesh. It wasn't even 7:00. Oh well, we stopped socializing and went to our individual tents, which we would have done in 10 minutes or so anyway, as it was getting cold.
In the morning Chosen hiked on ahead, saying we would meet at Piedra Pass. I only saw her once from a distance, but we both liked solo hiking. The trail went up and down a thousand feet, twice, with a few more ups and downs added for good measure. I crawled like a slug at every uphill.
The inevitable thunderstorms were around, but never over me. Most of the day had some sun, and the views were incredible as we walked on the actual Divide, mountain ranges around us in all directions. Our two hiker friends from the previous night caught up with me on the last climb, and we all camped at Piedra Pass, enjoying the high country.
Chosen had been too busy prior to the hike to actually look through my hike plan and was surprised to learn it called for hiking off the CDT down Squaw Creek for our next food drop. Since she could cover ground far more quickly than I could, she decided to go ahead and hitch back to her car, either moving it farther ahead or heading for Minnesota. She wanted to get back home, pick up her doggie, and head to Florida to be with her daughter, who was battling cancer. They were both in my prayers.
As for me, I continued hiking at the pace I could hike, glad I was still walking. The scenery continued to be fantastic. The San Juan Mountains are jewels on the CDT, tracing a horseshoe-shaped curve in southern Colorado. Some thru hikers bypass them due to snow in the early summer, but that’s like missing a main event. The only mars to the scenery were the stands of dead trees, decimated by bark beetles, dry and dead reminders of how beautiful they too had once been.
Our hiker friends from Archuleta Lake passed, and I knew I wouldn’t see them again before I left the trail for my resupply. While walking on a mostly open ridgeline, it started to rain and hail, and I dove under a tree and ate an early dinner. Simply hydrating food instead of having to cook it on a stove meant it was ready to eat any time at least an hour after adding water. The short storm quickly spent itself, and I reached Cherokee Lake after other hikers had left. More threatening clouds convinced me that stopping would be good, so I quickly threw up the tent and beat the rain.
In the morning, bugling elk stirred me to walk on steep hills far above timberline. I had trouble going uphill, just didn't feel right, tir
ed and panting more than normal. Discouraged, I wondered if I should be hiking at high altitude.
After lunch, an older hiker passed me going the opposite direction, complaining about rocky trail. He complained about New Mexico, the water, the route, and more. I’d enjoyed New Mexico and told him my route; he’d stuck to the official one. I had mixed and matched official and Wolf routes and had a good time. He looked askance at me and said that was a different world than he’d experienced. Scathingly, he said his pack was heavy because the lightweight gear he’d started with didn't hold up for him. He didn't seem to be having a good time.
Even when I was discouraged, I was having more fun than he was. I had to laugh at how opinionated hikers are. Chosen certainly had her strong opinions about how to hike and what food to eat. So did I. So did this elderly gentleman. We just didn't hold the same strong opinions.
Going over the last 12,350-foot mark, I moved better. Better because it was after lunch? Better after laughing at myself and hiker opinions? Better after an attitude adjustment? Getting stronger? Who knew? But I liked moving better.
The older hiker had it right about the trail, though. It was very rocky, and my feet complained. The trail was also quite eroded, and I sometimes walked in knee-high ditches. Without maintenance, in another 20 years, they would be shoulder deep ditches. Pushing through overgrown willows added to the fun. At Squaw Pass I couldn’t find the trail at first, and it started to rain. Umbrella and pack cover fended off the rain, but my shorts and feet were soaked by foliage and bogs. It almost made me think I was in Vermont. Avoiding high, thick, wet grass, I pitched the tent, had dinner, and was serenaded by lovelorn elk all night and in the morning, too.
Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76 Page 31
