CDT: bees and the worst day on trail
Day 87 – riddle me this
“Trail daze. What do J do?” are my notes from that day. I have no idea who or what J is and why I was wondering about it/them, I had no intention of going to trail daze.
Day 88 – …but beautiful
By now, I am no longer sure if Mugwort is ahead or behind me, I lost him somewhere (read previous post here) and I have been enjoying the vast, impressive mountains in solitude. A tiny hiker figure is moving up the mountains in the distance. I do know tat is not him, I squint my eyes but cannot figure out who it is.
“I remember you,” JM says with a heavy French accent when I catch up to him.
I smile. “We met before. How are you?”
“This is hard”, he points at the peaks around us.
“But so beautiful”, I grin before setting off, running across the ridge. JM is great but I don’t wanna talk today.
Day 89 – Can I come feed the bees?
“Some things are worth the weight”, he says and places the jar of spun honey in my hands. His honey, from the bees down the driveway that I’ve just fed.
Earlier that day
The trailhead is filled with cars. I have no idea which is Gary’s, I should have asked but I didn’t. While walking down the switchbacks, I notice there’s a chair behind one truck. A man sitting in it, sipping coffee and a dog beside him.
Gary is a trail angel. But if he wasn’t a trail angel, he’d just be an angel. His eyes are smiling. His words are thoughtful, wise, soft.
We’re chatting while he drives down to Pagosa Springs, where he follows me around Walmart with a cart that I’m loading it with tortillas, peaches, salad, cookie butter, instant beans and candy. Later he sits outside the Laundromat reading a copy of Sapiens while my dirty clothes are spinning in soapy water. “Did you know all owls sound different?”, he says. “They can tell each other apart and know exactly when someone is new. I read a book about them.”
“Can I come feed the bees?”
“If we do that, you’re staying”
“Deal”, I reply and smile.
The landscape surrounding Pagosa already resembles the desert. New Mexico is so close and I crave the dry, warmth with every cell of my body. The cold has been exhausting, waiting for me, lingering in the shadows at sunset and only the mid morning sun rays can scare it off.
“Do you drink?”, Gary asks.
“No”
“So we can’t stop by my favourite bar.”, more a statement than a question. I love the respect for sobriety that I have experienced in the US.
“Oh no, I’d love to” and I mean it. I don’t enjoy alcohol, but I enjoy people enjoying themselves.
“I bet 10 minutes after we get there, someone will call my wife. It’s a small town.” He chuckles while we enter the dive bar on Main Street. Gary greets the bartender by name and the brunette woman tells him about her hunting season. The walls are covered in license plates from all over. Music is playing, the tv is on, a bartender is making bloody Mary’s. It’s wonderful, I’ve forgotten how much fun the real world can be.
On the way home, Gary stops the car and points at a hill covered in forest. “Do you see my house?” He points ahead but there’s nothing but trees. “Uhm, no?” “Exactly! That’s how I want it to be”, he says grinning.
Hidden paradise
Up a steep drive way, there’s the house he built himself. Plus a greenhouse, made with special plastic sheets from the Netherlands, he tells me proudly. And a little cabin that’s his pottery studio. Further down are the bee hives. It’s unpretentious and beautiful. He loves this place, he didn’t built a house, he created a home.
The hives and the garden are each surrounded by electric fences. “Bears”, he explains.
We step inside the living room to meet his wife Hazel and their two grand daughters, dark straight hair and dark eyes. Bubbly personalities, they bring their toys and question me about some movie I haven’t watched.
The interior is a mix of terracotta tiles, wooden beams and artisanal artwork. Every detail makes it feel welcoming and cozy. I can’t believe I just get to stay here, hang out with these people. Eat food at this table.
I don’t like to dwell on the past. But at times I need to remind myself how miserable my life used to be. How lost and alone I used to feel, all the time. I didn’t know kindness like this.
Gary and I go to feed the bees with sugar water. In a calm voice he explains me how to open up the hive, place the jars, close them. “When the shell of the queens hardens, she leaves and has a good time with the male bees. From all hives around, she collects the sperm and then returns to the hive. The workers have prepared cells, the queen checks if they’re big or small and depending on it, she puts a fertilised or unfertilised egg into it. She makes a decision, is she a sentient being?”
Gary used to do beekeeping for a living and even teach at universities. His knowledge is deep and I can tell he enjoys answering my questions. I enjoy learning. Later, we harvest chilis and bell peppers from his green house for dinner. Grilled salmon, salad, rice, corn and filled chilis. I’ve missed real food, eaten at a table.
Day 90 – mi casa es su casa
My plan wasn’t even to stay the night and now we’re drinking coffee in the living room, no rush, as if all clocks had gone out of battery. I won’t have an early start on trail today. Does it matter? There’s a good chance I’ll never be here again drinking coffee with Hazel and Gary. The CDT is also just a trail.
Eventually I scribble a message in their hiker book, get my photo taken, hug hazel and the girls, lift my pack in the truck. While we drive, Gary talks about job opportunities, “You’d easily find something. You could stay in the guest room, Hazel would love that”
I can’t tell if he’s serious. For a moment I allow my imagination to run wild. There’s a part of me that wants to say yes. What’s waiting for me in Europe? Not much.
Day 91 – a shimmering surprise
At 3 am I climb out of my tent to tighten the guy lines, I notice something shimmering on my tent: Snow.
Winter isn’t coming, it’s here.
When I wake up a few hours later, the wind has been pushing on my tent, rain has leaked in. I have been warned not to camp up around Montezuma Peak by some hunters. A small puddle has formed next to my head. I groan and start stuffing my wet stuff into my backpack. Time to get going.
These days I wear my micro fleece and rain jacket for the first few hours before it gets warmer. The morning air in the San Juans is crisp and chilly. But today there’s no sun to warm up my stiff muscles. Instead it starts raining, first a drizzle, then a steady drum. I pull my hood up. After a few hours I feel water running down my back. It doesn’t help that my cheap rain jacket has so many tears by now, I gave up putting tape on it. The trail is exposed the whole way through, a sharp wind chills me to the core.

three moose under the “window”- as they call the gap in the mountains. This was actually north of Pagosa Springs.
CDT low route vs hypothermia
How long can I walk like this before I get hypothermia? How do I know I have hypothermia? There’s nothing else I can do; my base layers have to stay dry in my backpack. After 10 miles, I spot a different trail down in the valley, which is, according to my map, reconnecting later to the CDT. Just yesterday I had decided against the low route / green line at Elwood Pass.
I ponder my options. There’s a good chance it’s a few degrees warmer down there. It’s certainly less exposed and has trees I can camp between if necessary.
“Ugh”, I groan again. I hate bailing off the CDT though. Another gust of wind and rain blowing in my faces make the decision for me: I bushwhack down into the valley. Shortly after, it stops raining. The faint trail passes a canvas tent. “Hunters”, I guess but it looks empty. For a second I consider staying and drying my things, but it will get wet again anyways and I still have a long way to go today. Down here, I feel slightly less cold, I feel like I can keep hiking.
The rain resumes, turning the trail into a mudslide. I groan for a third time when suddenly two creatures emerge from the woods: Hunters.
For a moment I just stare at them. Somehow the weather made me forget that there are people out here. I think they said something to me but I didn’t hear. “How are you?” One of the men repeats.
everything ends – including hard days
“Uhmmm, I’m okay and you?”, I am too exhausted and wet and cold to pretend.
“Good!” the first man says enthusiastically.
“Good!” the other one replies, equally light-hearted.
I don’t know if they’re truly this cheery coming down the mudslide that I’m trying to go up or if they’re just wildly amused by my appearance. My hair is standing in all directions from under my hood, my bare legs are covered in scratches and mud, there’s dirt on my face and I’m stomping through the forest like an angry troll.
Suddenly I can’t help but smile too. This IS ridiculous. I should set up my tent somewhere and try to get warm and dry instead of shivering out here.
“A few more miles” I tell myself. The trail reconnects to the CDT. “I’ll get water and then look for a campsite”, I think. But something interrupts my quest: like a curtain lifting, the blue sky emerges – fragile and hesitant at first, but soon bold and vast. The clouds begin to tear apart, the gray gloom dissolving into streaks of pale light.
The sun breaks through, its golden warmth spilling over the rugged mountains and my face, a gentle caress after hours of rain and wind. I close my eyes, shoulders slumping as the tension drained from my body. “Everything will be okay”
The wind had quieted, leaving only the faint trickle of water running down the path and the rhythmic drip of melted hail from a few alpine pines. My breath, which had been tight for hours, came easy now, as though the mountains themselves had decided to let me go.
In that moment, the hardship of the day—the cold, the hail, the exhaustion—seemed to fade, not fully, just enough to make me capable of seeing the beauty of the CDT again. For the first time all day, I felt something more than survival – I felt peace.
23 miles is a short day for me. I call it quits regardless, pitch my wet tent between a small cluster of trees, hang my wet clothes over branches in the sun and eat a wrap.
I’m behind schedule but screw it, enough walking in wet clothes for today. I check the weather forecast on my InReach: more rain tomorrow.
Day 92 – lightening or trail zero
I’m laying in my tent, staring into the darkness under my rain fly when suddenly it’s bright as day: lightening! Followed my thunder that makes my stomach squirm.
So much for getting up and hiking.
I squeezed my small tent between a few trees, lonely survivors of the elements on a wide open plain. My spot is protected, but I can hear the wind howling. The CDT follows the exposed ridge line from here. Being cold and wet was my worry so far, the lightening adds another, way more dangerous aspect to today’s hike.
Hiking my own hike (aka not hiking?)
The good news: this is not the PCT. This is my own hike. If I don’t want to hike on a ridge through that storm, hell, I simply won’t. I’ll stay snug as a bug right here with my stack of (digital) books. Trail zero?
I wiggle my dry toes in my dry warm socks in my slightly non dry quilt: yup, that sounds pretty good. After a few pages of reading, my eye lids get heavy. The storm outside my tent had become a sort of lullaby, the rhythmic patter of rain rocking me into an uneasy sleep. In my dream, the sun shines and I lost my water bottles. Something warm in my face wakes me up, but I didn’t dream: Sunshine pressed through the thin walls of my tent, glowing golden and bright.
I blinked, disoriented, then unzipped the door and peeked outside: a bit of blue sky. Still dark clouds in the distance but I take it! If there would be a competition for fastest time from being in your quilt to being on trail: I’d win. I don’t want either of us to change our minds, not me nor the weather.
a dangerous decision
4 miles. I glance up. The blue sky had vanished, swallowed by dark, churning clouds. I hiked no more than 4 miles. “Should have stayed in my spot.” I scold myself. But now it’s too late. Shivering once again, I press on.
I don’t get far before the sky starts shooting little ice balls down on me. I’ve never seen as much hail in my life than I have on the CDT. Lightning slashes the sky ahead of me, and the accompanying crack of thunder made my chest tighten. Not in the distance, RIGHT where I am.
Panicking, I run to a nearby tree and press myself between its low branches. My only chance of shelter up here. I watch the hail collect in little piles around my feet, my tan legs are covered in goosebumps. I am soaked to the skin. Lightening and thunder are playing their games around me. “Fuck” I think to myself. “I’m absolutely screwed.”
When the storms seems to take a break, I run (if you can call it running) down the rocky trail, that has become a stream. Thankfully I’m not far from tree line, a small green patch on my map where I could find shelter. “Should I really stop though? I’m wet already, might as well keep walking?”
A lake stretches out between the trees. The smell of wood smoke reached me before I see the camp – tents and a canvas tarp, three men sitting around a fire. They looked up as I approached. For a moment, I hesitate, the heat of the fire tempting me. But something about the scene feels off. I couldn’t place it – maybe it was the silence. My instincts screamed to keep moving.
The thunder returns and my map tells me the CDT is about to climb up above tree line again. No effing way.
The rain continues to fall and every step feels heavier than the last. I search for a place to camp, but the valley floor was a swamp of mud and puddles. Finally, I find a small patch of ground between two young trees. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
My clothes are dripping, my tent and my quilt are wet too. “Should have stayed in my spot and wait it out” I think again. Next time. Setting up my camp in the rain was a miserable affair. Once inside, I strip off my wet clothes and pull on my dry base layers, but even the down quilt can’t trap enough warmth.
I lay there, teeth chattering, too cold to sleep, too exhausted to cry. The pop-tart I manage to unwrap with some effort tastes like cardboard, but I force it down, knowing I need the calories to produce heat. Outside, the rain continues to fall.
Curled into a ball, I pull the quilt tighter around me. My muscles ached, my fingers stiffened, and I felt a creeping sense of despair settle over me. For the first time in over 2000 miles hiking, I ask myself “What am I doing here?””
I close my eyes, listening to the storm rage on, and whisper to myself, “Just make it through tonight. Only one more day, tomorrow I can get to the highway.”
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Comments 6
Some beautiful pics here. Wow.
Thank you! Highly recommend hiking in the area, my favourite part of the CDT 😇
You are so strong, you have come so far. You have to take care of yourself, if you don’t feel like hiking while wet then don’t. There is nothing wrong with taking a day to read inside while rain comes down outside. Or getting into town and taking a few days to decide if this is still worth it to you. If it was me, I’d probably spend every rainy day in a tent reading. That would be awesome. Hope the weather got better for you!
Thank you, Jenny!! That’s sweet of you. You’re right, I have been stuck in this mindset that as a thru hiker I’m just supposed to “endure” it all… instead we should do what is best for us. Nothing better than being cozy with a good book
The trail really has a tendency to give you an awesome, 10/10 day… then follow it up with a crappy one 😂 Glad you trusted your instincts and didn’t stop at the canvas tent. Always trust those instincts!
For sure! The CDT especially keeps you on your toes. Thank you, me too. Stay safe and happy trails, Jess 🙂