CDT: 50+ mile days and the boulder boys š
Day 101 – Men come from Mars, women from Venus
āWhich one is that?ā John asks, his finger pointing to the first star that has pierced through the deep indigo of the night sky above the CDT.
DĆ©jĆ vu slams into me, sharp and disorienting, like stepping into a forgotten memory. My sense of time and place is melting into a swirl, and suddenly, I’m no longer on the CDT. Iām a year back in another desert. The same question, asked by someone else, but the answer is the same.
āVenus,ā John says before I can reply, his voice cutting through the fog of my thoughts. And I smile – the same smile I smiled last time, when Alan told me it’s Venus on the PCT.
Weāre standing beside the trailer, John, Pistol, and I. The night feels immense, as if the sky could swallow us whole. It makes you forget that there’s a whole world out there, with billions of people and cities and cars. If all the desert magic could squeeze into one night, this would be it.
The other three are somewhere nearby, their laughter faint in the distance. But maybe I should start with how we met.
The boulder boys on the CDT
I love being by myself on trail, I hate being by myself when Iām not alone.
It’s late afternoon when I turned off the CDT to get water. The air shimmered with heat, and the back of my throat is dry.
On the way to the spring, a truck comes into view. My steps faltered. This was a strange spot for a vehicle, and the sight of it sent a flicker of unease through me. I hesitate, scanning the area, fumbling for my water bottle in the side pocket of my pack: almost empty. The next water is in 12 miles.
Reluctantly, I sigh and keep walking, my shoes crunching in the dirt. Thatās when I see the trailer belonging to the truck, and the men sitting around a weathered table, their voices low and unreadable. This is getting worse. I nod in their direction, keeping my gaze neutral, and heading straight for the spring.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the men gets up and walks toward me. My pulse quickens as I turn to face him.
āYou want a cold drink?ā his voice easy and friendly.
Behind him, 4 pairs of eyes are watching us, curious. My mind is racing, trying to assess the situation. Are they a threat or not? But then I see one face in the group that wasnāt unfamiliar at all. One that I have seen multiples times before on the CDT.
Pistol.
Any tension is wiped away.
He grins, that same crooked grin I remember. The other men exchange glances, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You know each other?”
“I thought you’re already in Mexcio”, I smile, Dale pushes a luxurious camping chair towards me, a cold can of coke finds its way into my hands.
“Sooo”, I am gesturing at the elaborate trailer in sleek, modern design, complete with a kitchen nicer than in my last Amsterdam apartment, and, curiously enough: an impressive incineration toilet. “what kind of adventure are YOU on?”
“We’re sectioning the GDMBR”
“We’re enjoying it bit by bit, you know, we’re old’, John chuckles. Being the oldest around the table, well into his 70ies, fit as a fiddle and looking back on an Olympic skiing career.
“They call us the boulder boys”, Dale says, before inviting me for dinner.
I glance at my watch, I’ve already stayed longer than I should have, considering I have to make it to Grants on Saturday before the post office closes. Pistol doesn’t seem in a rush, I wonder how long he’s been here. I look at him, an unspoken question that he understands, “Oh, I am definitely staying”, he says casually. He’s skinnier than when I’ve last seen him but he looks happy and relaxed. Now it’s my turn to look surprised. In Wyoming and Colorado, he was always pushing big mile days. Maybe thru hiking the CDT has changed him since.
Move over, Georgia: Colorado peaches
“I am making peach crumble”, Dale baits me shamelessly, “Everyone is talking about Georgia peaches, but Colorado peaches… that’s where it’s at”. The thought of warm crumble and juicy sweet peaches make my stomach growl.
I look at the horizon, the desert stretching south, if I stay, it’s gonna be a long night. But at least I wouldn’t be hungry.
A massive salad bowl, a pot of Spaghetti, the promised cinnamon-dusted peach crumble and bottles of red wine fill the table. I shake my head when the wine gets poured and to my relief, no one is questioning why I skip.
As if it couldn’t get more indulgent, there’s ice cream served with the crumble – sweet baby Jesus, I am in heaven.
“if you camp here, there’s coffee in the morning”, Dale baits me again. “Did you know I roast my own coffee?”
I roll my eyes jokingly, “are you actually a real person?”
While the sun is setting, Pistol and I grab our backpacks to find good spots for our tents. Goat heads are everywhere. I chuckle while I stake our my guy lines, tomorrow is gonna be a big mile day then. But the CDT is also just a trail.
Day 102 – ultra race on the CDT
It’s still dark when I shove my tent back into my pack, a gas fire is burning in front of the trailer. Dale pours black, liquid gold into 6 cups. A pot of warm oatmeal appears too. When was the last time I have eaten it warm? Not once on the CDT, since I don’t carry a stove (cold soaking hate comments in 1,2,3…)
Pistol and I don’t hike out until 8 am. We hug our new friends goodbye and this must have been the most unexpected, heart warming, desert vortex on my entire CDT journey. Our mood is light hearted and our pace is quick when we set back out onto trail.
We pass the first miles chatting about life and trails, before he takes a break and I decide to push on. 60 miles in under 20 hours is my goal.
Racing the Mount Taylor ultra
My pace is steady, the trail is mellow for most of it. I bypass the Mount Taylor turn off as it would be dark by the time I summit. There’s the ultra trail marathon this weekend that overlaps with the CDT. The light of my headlamp is reflected by little course markers. Even after sunset, I feel better and stronger than expected. Now it’s about keeping up the momentum.
Forty miles in, things take a turn. The weight of every step suddenly feels amplified, as if gravity itself has doubled.
The trail twists and turns, jagged rocks and uneven ground slowing me down. I stumble more than once. Each misstep jolts me awake for a moment, only for the fog of fatigue to close in again, thicker and heavier than before.
The miles blur together, but not in the way they did earlier. Time has slowed, each minute stretching endlessly, each mile feeling impossibly long. I glance at my watch. Two miles since I last checked. It feels like ten.
Quit bitching, Pinecone
The water is still, murky in the dim light, with a faint sheen of something untrustworthy floating on its surface. My throat is dry. Reluctantly, I fill my bottles. While I squeeze murky water through my filter and my bandana, drip by drip, the night is eerily quiet around me.
The thought of how much farther I have to go sends a wave of frustration through me. I feel weak, more emotionally than physically. “Quit bitching, you used to do this for fun”, I murmur, strutting through the dark forest.
Lights appear in the distance, shadows move between the trees, volunteers making the last preparations for tomorrow’s race, restless runners strolling between their vans. Like a zombie I am stumbling down the trail, disappearing into the woods, unseen.
Less than 10
My watch beeps. 50 miles. A sweet memory lights up my brain fog, “less than 10, less than 10” I yell into the dark. And I can hear LAF’s laughter as if she was right here. I had felt nauseous before, but now my stomach twists into a tight knot of sadness.
Back in august, the three of us, LAF, Mosey and I had hiked 100 miles together (you can read that story here) and now I am complaining about 60. I scoff at myself. But good company makes these ultras so much easier and tonight I got none. I had tried to talk Pistol into it, but there was no chance of convincing him of this madness.
Day 103 – silly ideas end in prison?
There it is, the trail head. Only a couple of miles to hit 60 now. After the rocky section on the CDT hurting my feet, the tarmac feels pleasantly smooth. Something extremely bright illuminates the night in the distance. Must be the prison. Itās 3 am in Grants, New Mexico. My watch says 58 miles. A tired smile flickers across my face. āIāll make the 60 in under 20 hoursā`
Not that it matters. It also didnāt matter to hike 60 miles in one go. I could have gone to camp after 50, or 45, hike the rest in the morning and still make the post office in time.
But silly ideas cross my mind and then they get stuck there and then I say it out loud and then I gotta to do it.
A movie set by night
Somewhere before the prison, 59.99 turns to 60.00. Beeeeeep, I am free. Tired doesnāt even cut it. Relieved I wander a few feet off the highway, into the bushes and drop my foam pad behind a cactus. Pull out my quilt and curl into a ball. Itās uncomfortable, but I donāt care.
I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I notice are the head lights of a car, adrenaline jolting me wide awake. āCan they see me?ā I wonder, but the car drives off. Unaware that a dirty thru hiker is hiding in the ditch. I drift in and out of restless sleep before eventually giving up, packing my things and walking into Grants. The sky still pitch black.
Thereās something about places while the people are still asleep. Itās telling a story without the actors. It feels like not being part of life but being on the outside looking in, like walking through a movie set after hours.
No double espresso can fix this mess
The supermarket is still closed, so the gas station it is. A refrigerator hums against the back wall, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass, sun burned and tired, my eyes hollow under the fluorescent glare.
I wait for Mount Taylor Coffeeshop to open. Takeout boxes of freshly baked cinnamon rolls are stacked on the counter, filling the small shop with a heavenly scent, locals are pouring in with the same steady stream as coffee pours into cups. Smalltalk is exchanged. I forget to ask for a double shot of espresso.
My fatigue turns me into a zombie. A friendly patron starts a conversation but I can barely keep up. There must be sand in my brain.
Why did I hike 60 miles through the night? The motel where I agreed to meet Inspector is on the other side of town. From the prison to there, it was another 11 miles.
don’t you see my boyfriend over there?
“Are you alone?”, someone asks me while I leave, I shrug in response. Hastily, I pack the supplies in my backpack and walk across the parking lot when a truck stops beside me. I had decided to resupply at Walmart while waiting for Inspector to get here.
“Hey lady. You’re hiking?”
My eyes narrow, “Yes.”
“All alone?”, the man looks me up and down. His gaze lingering on my scratched legs for a little longer than appropriate.
“No, my boyfriend is over there”, I lie sweetly and point to the back of the parking lot. He drives off without another word.
All at once, I felt exposed and vulnerable. Another glance at my watch, where’s Inspector? To get off the street, I dip into the dollar store, seeking refuge between overflowing shelves of cheap food and plastic toys. But it just doesn’t stop.
“What are you doing?”, a woman points at my backpack, her words are slurred at the edges, stretched out as if spoken through a thick haze.
“Hiking to Mexico”
“Why, you don’t have a car?”, Her eyes are glassy, and unfocused, as though she’s trying to catch hold of thoughts that keep slipping away.
I smile politely, too tired to explain thru hiking, “Correct, plus I like walking”
“We saw you.”, she points at a man down the aisle. “You’re alone?” – What is it with this question?!
“Nooo, my boyfriend is waiting outside”, I lie again and she too, wanders off.
you need a weapon, little hiker
I escape the dollar store and quickly hide behind the building, out of sight from the parking lot, hoping for some quiet. I shrug the backpack off my shoulders and lower myself next to it, when a man appears around the corner.
‘Not again’, I cry silently behind the best poker face I can muster.
I recognise him, he’s the homeless guy who stood by the Walmart with a cardboard sign.
“Hey, you alright? I saw that guy in the truck, harassing you and I just wanted you to have this”, he holds out his hand. For a moment I am too stunned to speak, my eyes flicker between him and the blade, my mind struggling to process whatās unfolding.
I stare at the boxcutter, somewhere between gratitude and disbelief. His face is earnest, his brows furrowed with the kind of concern that feels both touching and unsettling.
“Thank you, I don’t think I need it”, I say warmly and smile.
knife blades and soft hearts
“I make sure my wife always has one with her too. You can, just like this…”, he mimics a quick swing through the air, the rusty blade cutting a jagged arc in the space between us. “You just…” He gestures again, a sharp motion through the air, as if slicing through an invisible threat. “Like this. If you need to. They will leave you alone”
The sight of his rough, worn hands handling the rusted tool with such familiarity makes the gesture feel both absurd and somehow sincere.
“Thank you, I am good” – truthfully, I don’t think anyone needs a weapon on the CDT.
“I’ll sleep better tonight if you take it”
His hands stay steady, as if heās offering a sacred relic, and I can see the grime beneath his fingernails, the callouses on his palms – a life written in rough edges. His heart has remained soft and pure.
“Okay”, I say and he hands over the metal blade.
We wish each other a safe journey and he leaves. Bing, a text from Inspector and 10 minutes later the door of our motel room closes behind me, finally a barrier against the heat, the town, the madness. I sink into the not-so-white-anymore pillows, with the commentary of a football game in the background, at last, I fall asleep.
Day 104 – after 60 miles
My eye lids are heavy and crusty. Thatās the first thing I notice. And that I am still so god damn tired.
What time is it? 7 am. Groggy and slow, I get up. A cup of watery coffee at the reception, shower, pack my things, back flush my water filter, apply sun screen and then weāre off. Another day thru hiking the CDT, I’ve run out of excitement for it.
Leaving Grants to the south itās one long, long road walk. Paved road. No shade. Basically no shoulder.
Most thru hikers dread it, but I canāt say I mind. It easy to move at 3.5 – 3.8 miles an hour. Nothing to trip over besides my own feet. Good to zone out. Sometimes drivers wave at you. When I get bored I make up stories in my head about them, where they are going, who they are visiting, if their car is messy or tidy, what music they listen to.
Zoom. “Road trip, straight couple, 30 something, tidy car, she makes him listen to Taylor Swift”
The arch and the brown line
After a while I turn around and notice that I can’t see Inspector anymore. Oh well.
The midday sun is beating down on the tarmac. Sweat is running down my back. Itās almost October but that doesn’t mean anything in the desert. Itās hard to imagine that the nobos (hikers going nortbound on the CDT) had snow around here. FarOut is full of comments about it, snow where I am boiling in my own sweat.
A truck slows down and asks if Iām with him, pointing at the road behind me. My eyes follow his hand but the highway is empty. I nod.
āWe gave him some piƱons. Here, have someā
I take a step closer and he grabs a plastic bowl with home roasted piƱons and fills my hands. I smile while they disappear down the road.
In the early evening, a few cars are parked by the arch. Tourists nod at me when I pass them. Once theyāre out of sight I climb over the barrier and look for the faint path to the mesa. Little red cairns mark the way up.
The sunās setting over the lava fields below me. Confident that Iāll finally be by myself out here, I set up my cowboy camp on the ridge. The nights are so warm, too warm for a sweater. Back in Colorado I was shivering in all my layers, even under my quilt.
105 – Night hike into pie town
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Comments 4
Loving the NM posts. Getting near the end.
Thank you!
Nice story! Itās the real life out there and looks like you are crushing a lot of miles and hard questions š . Congratsss thru hiker! Keep going the path is the reward
Thank you, Diego! It’s definitely been more than “just a hike” š