All Along the Continental Divide Trail

Rain drops started to trickle down. I couldn’t tell the direction from the storm; everything was dark all around me. I reached for my phone to check the time: 1:31am. The temperature started dropping and a chill came over me. Why was I hiking at this late, pushing my body beyond its limit all for a challenge that ultimately means nothing? What did I have to prove other than I walked a ridiculous number of miles in 24 hours; it really wasn’t even impressive over a course of time (I think). I was closing in on 50 miles, it was cold and my legs were starting to shake – a weakness came over me and tears began to fall down my cheek into the whiskers of my mustache. I was all alone in the great divide basin surrounded by sagebrush and nothing. I began talking to myself, saying “we are almost there just push on a little further.” Rain began to pick up and my headlight got dimmer, letting me know it was about to die. I checked my maps to see how far away I was from my goal – just a quarter mile away. Yet when I checked before which I thought was surely a mile ago, I was a third of a mile away. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Time began to slow down and the motivation to carry on was drifting through the fog around me. I was nearly there. My hands were so cold and the ground was so hard, it took everything I had to push the tent stakes into the ground. My headlamp finally died. Pulling out the vestibules took multiple tries. I nearly decided to just cowboy camp in the rain. I was thinking “It isn’t falling too hard, it’ll stop in 10 minutes just like all the storms on this trail,” it didn’t. The rain had already soaked through my jacket. The 5 minutes it probably took to set up my campsite felt like eternity. I tried to eat something but could only put down some gummy worms and a spoonful of Nutella. Once I was inside and set up, I laid down, and wanted to fall into a deep sleep. Instead, I started shaking uncontrollably for a good portion of the night until my mind faded and I woke to another storm passing by in the morning.

The trail wasn’t the same after that. I had to hitch hike into town the next day, which was a cyber truck. I almost didn’t even stick out my thumb when he drove by but he was a kind man with a gentle soul who gave me words I needed to hear after a long night. I spent a week battling sickness and fatigue in Rawlins, WY. An existing back injury from right before the trail came back even worse than before. I had to take some time off trail longer than expected. The Greyhound brought me to my cousin’s place in Denver where I bunkered down for another week. Here I rested and got down on myself because I wasn’t out there, following the continental divide with my friends through the rest of Wyoming and Northern Colorado. I knew I would have to skip a portion of the trail with winter around the corner.

I got back on the trail and climbed up to Gray’s Peak, standing at 14,275 feet tall, the highest point of the CDT. I didn’t feel good. It took me all day. I used my tent to blanket me for an hour while a hailstorm came over the ridge. It was the way down that got me. I took a shorter route to get back down in the valley. My legs weren’t up for it. Looking back at it now, it wasn’t my best idea to hike a 14er first day back. It was slow moving but I made it down. The next three days I found easier routes and could only hike 14 or so miles. I couldn’t sleep and I had little to no appetite. The elevation was not helping either; oxygen felt scarce. My body couldn’t keep up with the trail and my mind was beginning to do the same. The early nights forcing down cold soaked rice and beans and protein bars just to get some calories began to take a toll on me. I had already pushed my body enough, was I taking it too far?

The days of pushing 25+ miles, enjoying the alpenglow, listening to Lord of the Rings soundtrack as I hike another mountain pass felt distant. The slow-moving on trail shifted my conversations with Jesus. I started asking for things rather than just enjoying His company. I was contemplating my time on the trail and whether or not I will be able to finish. I started to become content with the fact that might not happen. There was nothing I could do. My body tapped out at a certain mileage that wasn’t sustainable to completing this hike. I stared at the fire for hours that night. There I was surrounded by the glory of Colorado’s massive landscape. The sunset was piercing through the pines. Anyone would have been grateful to be there and all I could think about was the 4 miles to the highway the next day – if I’ll be able to even make it.

Once you finish a thru hike and you come home to friends and family you always get the worst possible question (no offense to y’all reading this. Love you), “How was your hike?” I dread having to answer it, “it was great!” like every day was sunshine and rainbows. Thru hikers get used to the fact that rain will occur and when most people stay inside, there we are hiking another marathon in the desert. Or, that we spent over a month wondering if a grizzly will show up to our camp while we are sleeping at night. Sure, the experience was great, it is why I am out there in the first place but much of my time on the continental divide was a struggle. The physical and mental challenge of 100+ mile food carries will wear you out, trust me. Not to mention being a few days in and learning you already ate most of your food is no fun and even after hiking thousands of miles I can’t get the food thing dialed in. The lack of water on trail, afternoon thunderstorms, winter approaching, getting cold at night, no hot food (trust me, I love cold soaking), and the list goes on. I battled my inner self when I had doubts. I pushed through physical endeavors I didn’t even know I was capable of. I followed moonlight in the wee hours of the night and oh boy did I ever sleep in the strangest places. If we aren’t pushing ourselves out of our comfort zone, then I don’t think we are doing it right. I came out west to seek a challenge and a landscape full of beauty far beyond my comprehension. I came out west to spend time with Jesus in the wilderness and explore the wonders of creation. At times I felt I was doing those things and some not. The true journey is staying on the course.

I wouldn’t have made it to the border of Mexico if it wasn’t for the people along the way. I ended up at Trail Days in Leadville, fully ready to call it quits on the trail, but I was surrounded by the love of thru hikers. They boosted my spirits and shared their own struggles. I learned I wasn’t alone in this. Flood hiked at my pace after I reunited with him all the way until Salida. I regained some strength and I don’t know if I could have pushed on by myself without someone to share the struggle with. Weather was terrible and held us up for a few days where I rested even more something I desperately needed. Day by day I felt stronger. I even made it through the San Juans with Flood and Triple T, struggling along the way but enjoying the hell out of it. The final days of New Mexico came near. Corn joined up with our group. I hadn’t seen him since Rawlins, where I was at my lowest. Seeing a friend on the trail after a month is always an unforgettable reunion. The band was back together, and we slowly made our way to the border, fires almost every night, a stone just for warming your tortilla, everything was good. Sometimes I look for a bigger meaning when I leave for 5+ months to hike across the country, but when I look back at the time spent, it is the little memories I keep. There’s a simplicity of life, and at times we just have to remember the beauty being.

 

 

June 23rd, 2024 – Glacier National Park 

 

November 10th, 2024 – Southern Terminus

 

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Comments 3

  • Dani : Jan 4th

    Appreciate you and your hike

    Reply
  • Lauren Goodwin : Jan 4th

    Griffin- your story is emotional, heartfelt and raw. Thank you for forming into words the struggles as well as your blessings- I will never ask you again “how was your hike?”

    Reply
  • Hot Feet : Jan 13th

    I think there’s something peaceful about accepting that you might have to get off trail, especially after all the big miles we did on the AT. It’s a tough mental battle that’s hard for people to understand unless they’ve experienced a thru hike. But to accept that but finish anyway? That’s just magical. Big congrats & miss ya dude.

    Reply

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