From Sangre de Cristos

From Sangre de Cristos:
Dates: 7/2-a.m. 7/6
Section Mileage: 124m
VL Mileage: 1617m

The mountain town of Red River confused me. I felt out of place, lost. Tourists looked at me with disgusted looks, a much different friendly greeting than just a ridge over where Indios and Mexican treated me friendlier. At the P.O. I found out my food package, which contained maps as well, did not get sent. Ironically, in isolated areas, far away from people I felt aware and 'at home,' not lost, finding my way through land undefined by man. But here I was in a small mountain town out of place, feeling un-welcomed, with no maps for my next section, lost, where it should have been easy to be comfortable in its structured surroundings in the confines of man. I walked quickly around town looking for area maps specific to my section I was to hike. There was none. Red River is geared for the tourist who doesn't leave the car or if they do they fall into some type of amusement park.

Maybe I am too wild, too savage...

I was disturbed. People blatantly disregarded 'going farther.' Perplexed at this demeanor of ease, I worked at trying to find my way. All day I tried to piece it together using resources and such. In the end Brett Tucker came through via email with Northern New Mexico Loop Section maps. After printing them off I found an expensive room at a cheap motel.

Early the next morning, dark clouds came. Rain sprinkled. And I decided to forego Wheeler Peak and its above timberline hiking to lessen my exposure to thunderous storms and lightning. Up the East Fork Red River trail, then crossed over into the Sawmill Creek drainage, and I was on the crest at a saddled addled with a large sloping meadow. An Taos Indian Reservation sign forbid me from going any farther. I went on in anyways through barbed fence line.

I traveled furtively through aging logging roads, swiftly moving along the contours of the crest. I had heard some horror stories about the Taos, how if they found you on their land they would put you on the ground with guns drawn to your head questioning you. I heeded the warnings by moving through their land leaving no trace of my existence. I made the illegal 14m walk in under 5 hours.

I was in land unfamiliar to me, very much so. I followed the maps closely but felt in the true splendor of methodically wandering, point in mind, driven. Soggy trail meandered along a low divide. Elk skittered in small herds through the forests. The afternoon brought the typical thunderstorms. However, by now I had begun to figure out the rhythm and trend of bombardment of the violent storms. Unlike most high country thunderheads, which usually move west to east in the Sierras and most of the Rockies, these storms were coming in from the north and moving south, which only made them linger more in the high country of the Sangres.

I huddled under a few large spruce while the drops became bigger. Within minutes hail fell sporadically. Then white, solid marbles pummeled the land around me. I slunk further under the spruce canopy near the base. It didn't matter; the hail persisted in violence. Aspen leaves waved side to side in the air from being flicked off sprigs and branches. The green, translucent leaves were pockmarked from the hail. The hail filled the ruts in the road. The temperature turned to a burly cold, when only an hour ago I sweated in 85 degree weather.

I left the safety of the tree, for I was too cold. I shivered, then hyped myself up to run. I scrambled down the road in 1 1/2 inches of hail on the ground. All that fell in 15 minutes. Immediately, I recognized my fleeing of the tree as a stupid idea. I found another large tree and waited out the storm for 45 minutes more.

Later, I went up Cerro Vista. At the apex, some 11,000ft, the skies opened up in another fury. Only a mile or so from the road I came from, I dashed down the mountain, descending wildly. Again, I picked my feet up into a trot and ran to lower elevations. A few miles later, the storm stopped. Cold and wet, I hiked down the trail somewhat despondent. A trucked pulled up side of me. A Mexican family from Santa Fe made a curious and friendly conversation. They offered me a beer, food, and a campsite. I politely refused, with my re-supply being so close for the next morning. Once again, only a few ridge lines from each other, the people changed. And I realized the most friendly people were the less affluent, the working class.

Sipapu Ski and Summer Resort had my package and maps for the next section. Earlier in January, I understood that I would be potentially trespassing into private property. What I didn't foresee would be that I would have to cross into Forest Service land, public land, illegally. The Jarosa and Tres Lagunas fires had closed the whole Santa Fe NF and Pecos Wilderness. I could either skip the section completely, road walk around, or go through. With the fires diminishing recently due to the wet monsoons and lower temperatures, plus with the forest being so expansive, I believed I could go through undetected but most importantly safe.

I stealthily hiked up into the Pecos. I even went cross country to avoid popular trailheads, for at these trailheads I saw yellow warning flagging signifying NO ENTRY! But as I scaled up the hills towards the 12,000ft Santa Barbara Divide I became more exposed, to the environment and to aircraft. My plan was to wait for a window towards the late afternoon, hit the Skyline Trail and head on the eastern portion of the divide of the Pecos Basin. I could not take the Skyline Trail westward towards and eventually into Santa Fe. Too much fire personnel was there and from my perch that I stood on the Divide I could see small billows of smoke from the Jarosa Fire. My clear line of safety and undetectablility was towards the east.

Again, I moved swiftly through land illegally. Nevertheless, I slowed at moments, even stopped, when I would get the attention of multiple herds of elk. Throughout my time on the Santa Barbara Divide I observed some 500 elk, grazing and lulling around on the alpine grasses. Thunderheads horseshoed around me and left me with a window. I had startling views of tumultuous cumulonimbus clouds towering over the eastern and Western horizons. Purple electric lightning strikes glittered in the sky, thunderous booms mechanically churned in the basin all around me. I jumped when the claps and peals were quick and simultaneous. I camped in the a small, dense forest on Cebolla Mountain. The wind howled and, at one point, blew a tent stake out of the ground. My tarp whipped and flapped. A long night persisted, the thunder and flashes of lightning making it hard for me to sleep. I wanted the night to end.

I was getting tired. My legs cramped and stiffened. With water non-existent, I slurped up rainwater from small pools on porous rocks in the grass. The day slowed to a crawl. I transected old burn areas littered with fallen trees, excruciatingly hard work. I toiled overly hard and all I could think of was the small town of Pecos. After 32 miles or so, I ended my day on a closed forest road. This night a light breeze whittled though giant ponderosas lulling me to sleep. I dreamt of a tired black wolf, alone and achy, hungry and desperate. The wind breathed to spark my fire.

I made Pecos the next morning. Again, undetected and safe. And free, the vagabond in me felt free.

From Taos Plateau

From Taos Plateau:
Dates: 6/28-a.m. 7/1
Section Mileage: 98m
VL Mileage: 1493m

Back on the CDT, I headed south along a new section of trail. I was going to follow, and loosely follow, the Northern New Mexico Loop created by Brett Tucker, who also created the GET. I had gotten dropped off at Cumbres Pass from a sweet old German lady. She vibed with positivity and told me she moved from Germany to Chama when her husband died so she could be on 'Chama Time.' Coupled with this social interaction and the rest I had at the motel, my legs felt great, everything did actually.

The day went on uneventfully. However, things changed when, within 2 hours of each other, 4 Ride the Divide mountain bike racers trundled pass me. Friendly and exhausted, the managed the best they could with amiable chit-chat. Each of them wondered what the hell I was doing out there! I haven't seen much thru-hikers since the AZT, well only 2, and besides Lint and SOL the only other people who I can relate to on my adventure has been the long-distance mountain bike racers. So, when they passed me I wanted to go with them. I wanted to talk for long hours with them. The last rider, with a long, slow drawl from the South, said he just went over the 2,000m mark. I told him, "Me too!!" He chuckled at this coincidence and pedaled onward.

Though the sky was bleak and gray, from the crest of the Tusas Mountains I could see across the Taos Plateau and the Rio Grande Valley all the way to the Sangre de Cristos. With verve, I moved swiftly, determined.

In the morning, I woke up with another bout of diarrhea. Unexplainable to me, I backtracked the last few days of meals, interactions, and water sources. I had no other choice but to hike on. My stomach growled and grumbled more than the cumulonimbus clouds hovering overhead. Thundered boomed over the Cruces Basin as it thundered in my gut. My mood shifted to a mighty doom. All kinds of dark notions entered my head. Water sources all around me seemed to be dried up, as well. At the Rio de San Antonio I tanked up on 6L of murky, brown water and loitered in the shade of a willow. 

I felt a bit better after my rest, but my plan was to walk another 14m to the highway and potentially go to a clinic.

Down a winding river road I went and ran into some horsemen and horsewomen. Heeler dogs and cattle ran around the trailers causing a minor chaos. A young cowboy handled 3 horses by their reins and kept them under control with stout arms. Another cowboy, this one older, sat on his horse drinking a Coors Light. His beer gut hung over the saddle horn. I admired him surreptitiously. The gals trotted their horses waiting on the boys. 

As I passed them I blurted: "They got you workin' on a Saturday!?"

The young cowboy yelled out: "Hey!! We got an extra horse! You should come along!"

There was nothing more at that moment that I wanted to do other than ride along with them Indios on horseback, fighting the wind, shooting the shit, drinking crappy beer and getting fat. 

My stomach rumbled as I laughed, and I thought I was going to lose a fart. I walked on.

I ditched the dirt road and went cross country. I ambled over grassland to a pine saddle between 2 pointed, volcanic cerros. I eyed San Antonio Mountain, a broad, saddle-humped mountain that loomed over the empty expanse of the Taos Plateau. At the highway, my stomach felt much better. And with the 5L I had left of the dirty water I decided to make a go of the bare plateau, not knowing how far my next water source. I knew the Rio Grande was out there somewhere; I just didn't know how far.

Isolation. Desolation. Exposed. All words that should be used in their most superlative to describe the Taos Plateau. Volcanic cones dotted the stark expanse. Their dark, tree-lined tops signified elevation change. If not for the trees' dark color everything would blend into one. The sky was constantly darkened from the marching of ominous clouds. They log-jammed against each other as they hit the high peaks of the Sangres. Thundered echoed violently in the empty plain, for their was nothing to catch the frightening claps. Rain pattered in large drops, the air turned cool, and the wind howled. I trodded along in pinyon pine forests which only made the wind seem sinister. I brazenly walked among the forests feeling the wind push against me. The rain came down harder and I walked on in defiance. I leaned into the wind and pushed; I was going to fight. 

Out of the forests, my head ringed with the loud whirr of wind. The trees were no longer able to catch and harmonize such devilish gusts. My new role as vagabond was windcatcher. Every gust and gale went through me. The rain bounced off the bare expanse in the East, in front of me, causing clouds to erupt from the ground. I was swimming in a clouded fishbowl. I kept my eyes on the ground, hunkered my shoulders, and drove, drove with defiance. I kept an occasional bearing on a directional beeline to the northern flanks of Cerro de la Olla. From there I knew Sheep Crossing of the Rio Grande was not far off.

I couldn't make the coverage of the pinyons on the flanks of Cerro de la Olla. The train of clouds kept moving in crashing into one another. Ominous as they were, and predictable, I set up my tarp on bare, loamy knoll totally exposed to all the elements. I laid down, nearly 40m of the land conquered by my feet, and listened to the wind, as well as my stomach. One and the same. I felt lonely.

The morning went smooth. Around the flank of Cerro de la Olla, through thickets of sage, and some jeep track, I finally hit Sheep Crossing. From the rim I looked down in the gorge at the Rio Grande. I still had 2L left and I guzzled one of them right then and there. I scrambled down the ramshackle trail sliding down loose scree. At the banks of the Rio Grande I thought: "This ain't no Colorado River!" And plunged right on in. The cool waters rejuvenated my feet and legs. I carefully picked my way across, then scaled the other side along shoddy trail.

I decided to by-pass the Latir Peaks because of the sensitivity and ill-confidence in my stomach. I walked though the skirts of the town of Cerro, then Cuesta until I found a dirt road cut-off to the Forest Road of Cabresto Creek. Cars and trucks rumbled slowly by, all filled with campers. Because of the rain the dust from the road did not plume up. I could see face of all the people. Most with smiles, but all waved me. A wave of energy welled up inside of me. I really regretted not going into the Latirs but suddenly walking along this busy creek road filled with tourists and campers I felt like I was in the right place. I waved back at each car excitedly. Some cars stopped and asked me if I was okay. One lady even stopped and asked me if I lost a bongo drum. "No," I told her. She laughed and drove on but not before I could see the mysterious bongo drum in the back seat of her car. 

I climbed up the dirt road until the saddle of Sawmill Mountain. From there I could see the Latir Peaks getting pounded by monsoonal weather. Now, I was really glad I was not up there. 

From South San Juans

From South San Juans:
Dates: 6/25-a.m. 6/27
Section Mileage: 64.5m
VL Mileage: 1395m

I hiked out of Pagosa Springs, a much different experience than the one I had last year when I was in this small town while on a brief break from the CDT. I had tried to hitch out back up to Wolf Creek Pass. But after 4hrs and no ride I turned tail back to town. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise, not getting that ride. I met Addi, a trail angel, who swooped all of us hikers back to the trailhead. So, as I walked out of town my mouth still watered from the dinner she made the previous evening.

I chose to hike up Mill Creek Road. The West Fork Fire Complex had shut down the highway so going up this pleasant creek valley, then hitting the Little Blanco trail which would then intersect the CDT, was my only way out. 

About 3m in I ran into 2 blonde mutts, brother and sister pups. They were out wandering in a pasture and barked loudly as they ran toward me. Friendly that they were, immediately they began following me. I tried to shoo them away. They were scared and hungry. I vowed not to feed them and continued walking along ignoring them.

They worked in tandem as they hunted for rodent morsels. If they found a creek they would plummet their under-carriage right into the cool waters. Occasionally, they would trot alongside me nudging their damp, cool nose against my leg. In the shade as I sat they curled up next to me; I knew they wouldn't leave me.

For 12m this went on. I wasn't aggressive in trying to get them off of me either. I just didn't want to deal with it. I figured at some point, especially if they realized they were not getting any food with me, they would leave me.

The road was filled with traffic. Suddenly, a string of cars came barreling down the dirt road. Dust clouds kicked up smothering my vision. The last car turned out to be Addi and friends returning from a day hike. They gave me fresh fruit, a soda, and carted the pups off of me. Strangely enough, Addi had pulled up just at the right time, for I was about to name the pups.

After chatting hikers up at the trailhead, I got back down to business. After a short but steep climb to Quartz Ridge I was awarded with sweeping views of jagged, large peaks nestled on the Continental Divide, the Rio Blanco drainage plunged thousands of feet below me to the south, and to the north smoke. The complex bloomed up into the atmosphere with billowing smoke, clouds towered thousands of feet into the sky. The sky turned dark while looking north. From my perch I could see how large the fire.

After trekking about 6m above treeline in alpine grasses and granite gardens, I attained the Continental Divide. Patches of snowfields littered the crest like piles of white, dingy linens, wildflowers still showed their cheery color though they were coiled up in preparation of a chilly night. Maybe it was the thin air but I had an emotional moment while gazing at the red sun rays shining off the craggy peaks. The scene was beautifully gloomy yet inspiring. I basked in the splendor of alpenglow. With the light diminishing I skittered down the Adams Fork drainage and found camp where I could hear the cascading creek. 

 

Excited and up early, I broke camp and hiked trail with the eastern horizon a fiery peach. I moved swiftly spending most of my day at 12,000ft. Only briefly would I hit elevations of 11,500ft. I marveled at the rocky scene all around me. Vistas were long and vast, deep and profound. I could see about a hundred miles in any direction at any given time.

Towards the late afternoon, a headache persisted. I became sluggish and felt a general sense of malaise. My legs felt fine but I felt like I had the onset of a flu. I drank more and more water which only made me nauseous. I realized that I needed to get lower in elevation. I began taking measures for altitude sickness.

At dinner, the sky turned black with the sun completely enveloped by wildfire smoke. At 12,000ft having no sun to warm you up plus a chilly wind, I began to shiver. I needed about 5 more miles to get to a reasonable lower elevation. I plodded on. Mountain pine bark beetles kept pelting me as they leaped and flew from the pygmy alpine pines. Clouds of mosquitoes hovered around my head. At 7pm and 32m, all between 11,500-12,500ft, I laid down on a windy saddle and snuggled up in my sleeping bag. Dozing off, with the periodic whirr of a mosquito being non-distracting, I thought of my day. I was confused, my head boomed with pain. I thought that climbing up 6,000ft the previous day didn't help anything either. I did things normally, went about my day as usual, but I forgot to add into account the high, thin altitude. But my brain could not completely wrap itself around that notion.

Sluggishly I awoke and staggered 7.5m to Cumbres Pass. From there I hitched a quick ride into New Mexico. At the Chama Post Office, still feeling like crap, I realized even more so that I was stricken with altitude sickness. I walked to a motel and slept the day away on a dark, cool room. 

I had been moving too fast. I needed something to slow me down anyways...