A Song of Fire & (Not Enough) Ice: CDT Days 32-43

On our final leg in New Mexico we experienced the full range of high desert landscapes and general mayhem, seeing the last tree cholla without knowing it was the last, and getting a preview of Colorado in the form of postholing, aspens, columbine, and lots of blow-downs. The trail–and the universe–had some surprises in store, and we saw our trail family shrink by two as friends ended their hikes unexpectedly. Fasten your seatbelt for a long and bumpy ride! 

Day 32 — Meet Me At the Oasis 

We woke from our dusty, wind-blown sleep and set out at sunrise, knowing a day of exposed hiking and long water carries was in store. The trail would take us back up to the rim of this huge canyon, rolling up and down its edges in bright sun. We had read about a trail magic site that would stay open until Memorial Day, just a couple of days away, and we crossed our fingers the reports were right. With no natural water available and all previously noted caches empty, we rationed our water and took breaks in any shade we could find. 

A couple of hikers had added comments about the trail magic tent to the wrong junction on FarOut, so when we arrived there to see absolutely nobody and nothing, we felt panic–if the magic wasn’t over the next ridge, we’d be SOL and would have to hitch into a town just to get water. Fortunately, we found the aptly named Oasis: a huge tent full of treats and kind people, despite the wind trying to blow it all down. Volunteers from a seniors hiking group in Albuquerque offered us cold pop, and brought over a bowl of freshly washed grapes without even asking.

When the shell shock had worn off, they showed us the menu of donated meals: pasta with chicken, spaghetti bolognese, meatball sandwiches…. We both chose the sandwich. We were served two each, and they were gone in under five minutes. We learned that Second Wind had been there just half an hour before us, and hadn’t stayed long. We snacked on candy and chips, and downed can after can of pop. They would be closing this oasis down in a couple of days, so we were encouraged to eat and take as much as we wanted. After forty minutes or so Little Bird and Mogul appeared, and we caught up with them a while before setting out. 

The trail took us up high on the mesa again, and an hour later we had a long view of the trail behind and below us–and no hikers in sight. We wondered if LB and Mogul had decided to take advantage of the two cots at the Oasis, or were just taking an extra long break.

Our goals for this evening were to stop hiking at a reasonable time and to camp somewhere more beautiful and comfortable than we’d managed the last couple of nights. We contemplated stopping in a protected wash, but trundled on as the trail rose into less and less hospitable land for camping–and started to get nervous that it would be miles more before we could find a good, flat spot.

Suddenly we found ourselves on a high ridge and found a spot where we could camp in sand instead of dirt, tucked into a nook protected by trees from the westerly wind, facing a deep, green canyon. Just across the trail we found a sheltered rocky outcropping, like our own personal ampitheater to watch the sunrise. The undulations of sandstone offered living room comforts–lumbar support, and even cup holders. Second Wind managed to get a text through letting us know he was camped just four miles ahead. We slept like very outdoorsy babies. 

Day 33 — When Choose Your Own Adventure Goes Wrong

We woke with about 23 miles left to Cuba, NM, and we could feel the magnet pull of town. The wind was high and rough again, stealing my hat from my head multiple times. We spent the morning on sandstone mesas, and got water at Jones Canyon Spring, which was surrounded by wild roses.

As we approached a section of trail with yet another steep climb to an exposed mesa, we looked at the map and started scheming. Wouldn’t this adjacent forest road do just as well, covering the same miles from a lower point, and reconnecting to the trail before the last stretch into Cuba? The CDT is all about choosing your own path, and this seemed like a great time to make our own alternate. Alas, it wasn’t so easy. 

Our journey started well enough with a walk through pasture and greetings from some especially inquisitive cattle. We reached a gate that didn’t say no trespassing, just “no cutting firewood,” and we closed it firmly behind us. This was all BLM land as far as we could tell–which means the public may use it even if it is leased to a rancher. But we hadn’t looked closely enough at every inch of the map. We saw a white truck parked ahead and hoped to slip by, but its owner was operating a front loader and when he saw us he headed straight for us. When he reached to undo his seatbelt I thought for a second he was reaching for a firearm. He was kind but firm, not mentioning anything about the land (his lease?) we were currently on, but warning that we wouldn’t be able to continue: private land lay ahead, and the road we were following had no public right of way. Sure enough, a close look at the map revealed a tiny square of private land surrounded by public lands, and in New Mexico there is no right of way to cross such an “island.” There was nothing we could do but backtrack and then follow dirt roads that weren’t on any of our maps out to the main road and on into Cuba. 

As we left public land we reflected on how we’d been seeing such a curated swath of New Mexico via the trail: right outside the public land boundary were multiple piles of beer bottles and trash, and someone had strung up a dead fox onto the sign post, as if by warning. We got out to the very busy highway and found it unwalkable, with barely any shoulder and semis doing speeds you’d expect on a freeway. We had already hiked 18 miles in our failed attempt to forge our own path. I barely had my thumb out before a college student was swerving over to pick us up. 

Our kind driver was a soft-spoken young man studying biology at UNM, in hopes of being a conservationist. He was a hiker but didn’t seem familiar with thru hiking, and asked lots of questions. He struck us as a bit of a romantic–he talked about America having no patience with vagabonds–and we told him he’d find many compatriots on any of the big trails. Maybe he’ll do a long hike after college, he said.

When we told him we’d like to be dropped just up the road in Cuba, he questioned our choice. “It’s pretty seedy, and not much there except McDonald’s. Is there somewhere else I can take you?” We explained that the trail goes right through Cuba and that it would suit us fine. Oh how I wish we had listened. 

We checked into the Del Prado, the one little bright spot in Cuba, it turned out. The motel has recently been rehabbed by an earnest young man from Maryland, Nathan. In addition to brand new beds and fixtures he offers free laundry for guests, and there’s a huge hiker box in the lobby. It was good we chose a comfy place to rest–and little did I know how much I was going to need it. We met up with Second Wind for dinner at Cuban Cafe, planning to eat at the highly rated El Bruno’s cafe the next day when the rest of our crew made it to town. 

Day 34 — Zero Day Error: Don’t Order Ceviche in the Desert

After a middling breakfast at the Cuban Cafe with Mogul and Little Bird, who met us there from trail, we set out to do some resupply. Folks in the town seemed sullen, and when we dared to step into gas stations to shop for snacks we were treated like vagrants. I later heard that many fellow hikers had stuck to McDonald’s for their entire Cuba stay, and I’m sorry to say I think they made the right choice. Nobody seemed to want us around. 

A sickly smell hung over the town, like a wet dish rag left out too long in summer. It didn’t seem like it had a natural source, but perhaps emanated from nearby industry. Most yards and porches hosted piles of junk, and even the tourist info center had a huge sign reading “PRIVATE PROPERTY / KEEP OUT.” 

Nevertheless, dear reader, we tried to stay positive, kept smiling at strangers, and looked forward to what would surely redeem our time here: dinner at the best restaurant in town, sister restaurant to an Albuquerque place. The guy at the Oasis had said, “I would eat there even if it were in Albuquerque,” meaning even when he had lots of good choices. While I waited for dinner time to arrive I spent an hour once again mending my AppGearCo sun hoodie, which had formed new holes next to the ones I’d sewn up in Grants. 

We passed our time in the Del Prado courtyard discussing the Los Indios fire, which had been started by a lightning strike the Sunday prior, and now threatened the trail ahead. Eventually the CDTC would close the trail, making it impossible for us to reach the Ghost Ranch alternate—more about that later. 

Our group of five arrived for dinner and all looked promising: a festively decorated patio area, a menu of well-described New Mexican home cooking, and lots of patrons. Second Wind and I both made a fatal error, trusting too much in the upscale vibe. We ordered the shrimp ceviche. We raved about how good everything tasted, tipped well, and went on our way, looking forward to setting out on trail again in the morning, once the post office opened and we could get our box. 

It was not to be. By 11pm I was violently ill, drinking down some of the Pedialyte we always buy in town just to get enough liquid back into my stomach so I could keep throwing up until all of the bad food was gone, an impossibility. After the ceviche I had eaten a large serving of spicy green chile stew, which made it all that much more… fun. 

Day 35 — Sick Day 

I was up all night, and still couldn’t hold down water by noon. Nathan kindly let us extend our stay, even though it meant saying no to some other would-be guests. I texted Second Wind in hopes that perhaps my illness was an anomaly triggered by cross-contamination and allergy, but no—he had also spent the night turning his guts inside out, and was worse off than I: “I have never felt so bad,” he said. By late afternoon it was clear he needed medical attention, and Mogul arranged for the wonderful Nathan to give them a ride to the nearby urgent care facility where Second Wind received two liters of fluid by IV. He also stepped on a scale, and learned to his shock that he had lost twenty pounds since starting his hike six weeks ago. No wonder the food poisoning hit him so hard—he had nothing left in reserve. 

Saint took advantage of my sick day to catch up on some reading and fetch our boxes from the post office. We had ordered a Zpacks front water bottle holder for him and Alpine Fit Bushwhacking Leggings for me, a size down from the old ones I left at home. I was excited, but too queasy to try them on.

I drifted in and out of sleep in a terrible paradox: my hungry muscles kept making me dream about food, but I would be so grossed out by the food in my dreams I kept waking up to heave again. I watched old episodes of The Price is Right and Family Feud, trying to stay just on this side of sleep. Would I ever feel like eating again, let alone hiking? Mogul brought saltines, and Saint went out to McDonald’s to get me a huge cup of ice to chew on. Everyone but Second Wind and I got dinner at McDonald’s, no longer willing to chance anything local. Finally I was able to start eating crackers, and get some sleep.

Day 36 — Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying 

The next morning I could keep simple foods down, and while I was still very week—and would have gladly snapped my fingers to spend a couple more days in bed at home—I couldn’t stomach the idea of another day (or meal) in Cuba. We decided we would head out, and stop as soon as I needed to. If I were going to keep feeling bad, at least I could be in some beautiful wilderness. 

As we prepared to leave town, Second Wind shared some serious news: the food poisoning had hit him very hard, and he was too weak and concerned about his fast weight loss to continue on the trail. Unless he started to feel miraculously stronger, he would rest another day before making his way to Albuquerque to rent a car and drive home to Virginia. We were so sorry to see him go—he is a thoughtful, funny, and determined person, the kind of guy everyone wants to have in their corner. Second Wind, I promise to always drink a liter at every water source, and I will never forget how you took care of me when I needed it. May our paths cross again.

We walked the road out of town and took the Eureka Mesa road to get to the forest more quickly. Along the way a kind person had opened their yard to hikers, offering a cooler of water and Gatorade and a shady spot to sit. We ate our cold soak rice ramen and I was delighted to notice the sickly smell of town was no longer around us.

Soon we were back in the woods, and crossing a stream. The trail started up the tree-topped mountain with almost comically gentle switchbacks, at least half under tree cover. I delighted in the conifers and the sudden increase in birds and insects and tried not to stress about how slowly I was walking. By 3:40 I was ready to stop for the day. We paused to consider a sandy ridge with a view but thought it might be too windy; just a tenth of a mile onward we found a cozy spot among the trees and made camp. Or rather, Saint made camp while I lay on my Tyvek under a tree and sipped on Pedialyte Sport fruit punch. While in town I had painted my nails neon pink, and Mogul had joked that I would get buzzed by hummingbirds. He was right! 

Soon Mogul ambled by and shared that Second Wind had made a final decision and booked his rental car, sending Mogul to continue on alone. (They met on the AT and have hiked thousands of miles together.) He decided to hike on a bit before camping, thinking he might catch Hoolen and Little Bird, who had taken off much earlier. Around dinner time, Mellow showed up, and sat with us while we all ate. She is a fellow Michigan alumna and has her own gear company, Symbiosis. She has designed an ultralight pack “for people with boobs,” and I hope to try it out soon. It was super cool to meet another woman in her forties out here—there aren’t many of us. 

We tucked ourselves into bed before the sun had even set, and Saint reassured me that we could hike as little as I liked tomorrow as well. 

Day 37 — Water, Water Everywhere

The next day of hiking felt like nothing short of a miracle. As Little Bird guessed when we met up again, I was finally in my element: tall trees, real soil, and water everywhere.

It was the best ecosystem I could imagine for a day of feeling weak and woozy—even when I’m feeling fine, I’d rather walk through flooded trail all day than be too hot or have to carry more than two liters of water. (It’s not you, desert, it’s me.)  

Once we made it six miles to San Gregorio Reservoir, which looked more like a large pond, there was ample natural water in the form of seasonal creeks, and as we proceeded into higher altitudes, snow runoff. Many of these sources were not on FarOut, no doubt because of their impermanence, so it was hard to guess when we might lose access to water. Still feeling weak, I took lots of breaks and was careful not to leave any creek without asking myself if it wasn’t time to camp nearby. In this stop-and-go way we made it ten miles for the day, camping under trees in a hill above a wide, swampy meadow with a soggy creek at its nadir. Later our friend Energizer showed us his hilarious video of an elk chasing a coyote (starts about 7:00) at the same spot where we camped hours later. 

Day 38 — Rerouted to Ranger Magic 

By now all speculation about the Los Indios fire had resolved: the fire had reached the trail itself, and as a result the CDT was closed just beyond Highway 95. Hikers were advised to walk 31 miles on a busy paved road to reach Ghost Ranch and follow the Ghost Ranch alternate to the official trail. Mogul was half a day ahead of us, and sent messages about the wonderful rangers at the Coyote Ranger Station, just a couple of miles into the extra road walk, who arranged a ride to Ghost Ranch for him. We also learned on FarOut that the ranger station was allowing CDT hikers to camp on their grounds. We had 19 miles to hike to reach the station, thankfully mostly under tree cover on this very hot day. We passed the base camp for the fire response team, continued climbing, and then caught our first glimpses of smoke to the north. 

We reached the road and started toward the Coyote station, noting gratefully the temporary signs warning of many pedestrians on the road. Just before the ranger station we saw the staging area for the fire response team—and huge plumes of smoke beyond. 

The ranger station was about to close when we arrived. Eric explained where we could camp, and let us use the restrooms and water fountain, and shared that a shuttle would arrive at 7am to take any interested hikers to Ghost Ranch. Outside we met Early Bird, Sara, and Mark, all of whom said they planned to walk the road. Soon a truck with state-of-the art port-a-johns arrived. After dinner we met head ranger Mark Sando who shared he will be retiring this summer. It turned out all of these special services were his idea—he had seen a hiker on her phone worrying about where she would camp in light of the long road walk, and he asked questions about how the rangers could help. The shuttle van was provided by a local church, with Mark paying for the gas.

He also explained the fire to us, and shared that all was going well: the area had been long overdue for a prescribed burn, so the mitigation crew wasn’t fighting it but making sure it stayed contained. He was happy that it had cleared out all the extra fuel on the ground and hadn’t reached the canopy—some blackened bark was the only harm that would come to most of the trees. He also warned us the smoke would settle into the area around the ranger station overnight, so we tied the fly down tight before hitting the hay. 

Day 39 — Ghost Ranch Zero 

We woke early, hearing the other hikers packing up pre-dawn to tackle the road walk before the road got too hot and busy. We promised to watch for them on the shuttle ride in case the road conditions changed their minds. The wonderful Thelma and Ron showed up just before seven. Thelma had worked in the forest service for 42 years and had run Coyote station by the end of her career. They told us about their ten grandchildren, one of whom was celebrating kindergarten graduation in Albuquerque later in the day. On our way into Ghost Ranch they told us about movies filmed there, including City Slickers and Oppenheimer. 

Usually many hikers skip Ghost Ranch unless they need to send a resupply box but following the fire closure nearly everyone is passing through. The property was gifted to the Presbyterian church in the 1950s and since then has operated as a retreat center with a summer camp feel. We decided to stay the night, taking a full zero day. In addition to the generous meals in the dining hall we bought ice cream sandwiches and diet Dr. Peppers from the shop, grabbed some treats from the ample hiker box,  and visited their tiny but well-curated anthropology and paleontology museums.

Mostly we sat and stared at the mesas, relaxing as rain yet again came to New Mexico while we weren’t on trail. 

Day 40 — Line-Hopping and Backtracking 

We hung around Ghost Ranch to take advantage of the huge breakfast, and then dilly-dallied a while so I could publish my previous post—I hadn’t felt up to writing in Cuba. As we made our way to the edge of GR property on their well-groomed trails and saw the sign for Campo Santo, Georgia O’Keeffe’s hideaway in the cliffs, we crossed paths with day hikers who had started early and gave cheerful greetings on their way back to the ranch.

As we crossed into national forest—and into the heart of a box canyon—a couple of local guys with a dog asked if we were doing the CDT. They then offered us the helpful tip that there was a very steep climb after the next arroyo. Yup, it’s right here on the map, guys!

We regretted our late start as we scrambled up out of the box canyon and onto the mesa under clear skies, in about 85F heat. In another three miles we were done with the steepest part of the climb, and rolled out onto a grassy, scrubby field before descending slightly to pines and aspen. The Ghost Ranch alternate brought us to a cow tank after about seven miles, but we didn’t like the looks of it—the cows were standing and pooping in it.

We had seen a note in the FarOut comments about taking a forest road about a mile to cross up to the official CDT route where there would be a nearby creek. As we approached the cow pen we saw that this suggestion is now a blazed CDT route. We rejoined the red line, not seen since we had to leave the trail where it was closed at Highway 96 before the ranger station.

The stream at the junction point was dry, but a quick 0.3-mile walk “backwards” on the official route brought us to an idyllic babbling brook with irises, marsh marigold, and wild celery. Tall pines and aspens shielded a perfect campsite just off trail with views of a high ridge to the north and rocky outcroppings to the south, putting us into a protected mini canyon on pine needles and duff. Why backtrack and try for a couple more miles when we could simply stay for a luxurious evening and leave here in the morning with only what water we would need to the next stream?

As we made dinner, two more hikers came “backwards” as we had done for water: Boomerang and Crush. They declined to camp there, thinking it would be a cold morning. (It was, but it was worth it.)

Day 41 — Campground Blues 

We set out for yet another day of near-constant ascent which would include some long water carries. We decided we would make it our goal to reach a lakeside campground in the Carson National Forest, which also had a “faucet” noted. Some pre-Memorial Day comments said the water wasn’t turned on yet; worst case we’d get water from the lake. 

Saint started reporting general soreness in his core muscles, and we both felt constantly hungry. Hiker Hunger had truly set in. We vowed to work hard on our food plan during our upcoming days off, once we finished New Mexico: Saint in particular needs more calories and more protein than we’ve been managing to carry. By the afternoon our good moods had worn off, and the climbing continued. The final six miles to the campground were grueling, but we knew that good things were in store.

Alas, no. Once again the CDT sent us an extra dose of challenge. As we got close to the alleged faucet and campground we walked through several dispersed (free!) campsites and met an older hippie couple, Flower and Rocker, who have been living in their converted school bus for twelve years. They explained that the faucet was not merely “not turned on” but had been broken the summer before and that attempts to fix it had failed. They offered us bottled water, and said we should stop short of the official campground because the host was a “stickler.”

We took a bottle each, and decided to press on—we needed more water than we were willing to take from them so we headed for the campground icon on the map, right by the lake. We met Mogul on the way, and found Early Bird already camped across from the lake. We settled in to make dinner, enjoying rest after a tough day. 

Just as the sun was setting, as if timed on purpose to make us suffer, the camp host came by in his truck and told us we all had to leave, or hike back half a mile to his campground where we could pay $28 to have no water. The icon on our map was wrong. He was scolding and flippant, and quite rude to Early Bird, who was half asleep and is not a native English speaker. Despite years of comments in FarOut saying CDT hikers have been allowed to camp here, the little Napoleon would not be persuaded. We scrambled to hike half a mile to another poop-filled, lumpy field, with a nice view of the lake where we had pinned all our hopes. 

Day 42 — Remembering Otter 

The day was beautiful, and the trail gentle though still mostly up. Our destination: Lower Lagunitas campground, where a recent comment had said Ron would be offering trail magic as late as tomorrow. Ice cream sandwiches were mentioned. Unfortunately he had moved on by the time we arrived, but no matter. We had one more day to the Colorado border and to the town of Chama, NM.

It was also the campground where in 2015 CDT hiker Otter lost his life, after being trapped by a snowstorm and running out of food. His final thoughtful act was to scratch a warning on the outside of the privy door before shutting himself inside: DO NOT OPEN / DEAD CDT HIKER INSIDE / CALL COPS. In the nine years since this happened, the forest service has only slicked a thin coat of brown paint over the scratches. We camped in quiet and calm on soft needles, and reflected on how lucky we are to be safe and sound. 

Day 43 — Hellos and Goodbyes 

Soon after setting out from camp we were again on a high ridge with glorious views. We stumbled upon Crush, Boomerang, and Firecracker as they took a breakfast break. In another fifteen minutes we ran into Mogul, who was switching back and forth between the official trail and a forest road with a kinder slope. He got serious, and told us we were the first to know: he would be getting off trail at Chama. His knees were in constant pain despite round-the-clock ibuprofen, and he realized that it was starting to cause damage to other joints. He has a new grandson at home to meet, and looks forward to trying again someday after he gets his knees replaced. We were once again losing a family member, but it was the obvious right choice—he had been hobbling and slowing for a while. 

The final ten miles of New Mexico were nutso: lots of blowdowns in deep, dark woods, and then a hosta-filled marsh without any blazing or visible trail. We arrived to the border, which is befittingly marked with a tumble-down sign to which NM and CO license plates have been nailed. Early Bird was there, planning to wait for others and hitch to Chama in the morning, and took our picture. We headed on into Colorado,  noting that the three miles from the border to Cumbres Pass were better groomed than any trail we had seen in New Mexico. 

Local outfitter and thru hiker Tumbleweed picked us up at the pass, and we headed to Chama for a barbecue dinner, the perfect start to a week of R&R before we brave the snowy San Juans. Before we left Chama for Santa Fe, we had a farewell steak dinner for Mogul, and attended the Chama Days rodeo—more about all that next time, when we recap New Mexico and reflect on what the desert taught us!