CDT: The Desert of the Basin

The hike through the Basin is a wild ride through the stunning highs and grueling lows of the CDT, from cowboy camping under a sky thick with stars to battling relentless winds and pushing through endless sandy trails with sagebrush. In this section of the Great Divide Basin, we meet wild horses and pronghorns, and walk under desert sunsets so surreal they almost make us forget our aching legs. It’s a journey of tough miles, raw beauty, and unexpected moments of joy.

CDT Day 66 — Going into the Basin

We return to the cozy embrace of Lincoln Street Bakery, eager for another loaf of their incredible sourdough. We indulge in sandwiches, packing them out like true trail champions. Then, it’s off to the Oxbow for a soup and salad bar extravaganza. Ryan goes all out, stuffing himself as if there’s no tomorrow. He ends up uncomfortably full for hours — definitely didn’t need that second plate of pudding piled high with whipped cream. But hey, at least he walks away feeling like he got his money’s worth, even if that comes with a side of indigestion!

The air is thick with smoke from the Fish Creek Fire raging further north. Highways are closed to South Dakota, and I’ve never inhaled such an intense, acrid aroma before. The mountains behind the town are shrouded, their majestic outlines barely visible. But back on the trail, the skies open up with a clear blue that feels like a promise of adventure.

It takes us two rides and two hours to get back on trail, it’s a tough hitch. First up is Byron, who swoops in with his Subaru — which seems to come with the obligation to pick up hitchhikers. Our next ride is with Kevin, a guy with 26 years of military experience under his belt. Now, he’s leading tours through Yellowstone and the Tetons. He treats us to some fancy Italian water, almonds, gummies, and apples — talk about trail magic!

We’re dropped off just moments before another group of hikers arrives on a NOLS school bus. The weather is nothing short of perfect, and we start walking together, our excitement bubbling over. The trail is alive with the essence of adventure.

We stumble upon the old mining ghost town of South Pass City, unexpectedly brimming with charm. Each building is a treasure trove of details, and we can’t resist splitting from the group to explore every nook and cranny. They also have a delightful cream soda at the small store.

As we continue our hike, the trail rises with some steep ascents, only to flatten out into an endless expanse of plains that stretches before us. The sun dips lower, painting the sky in breathtaking hues. The beauty of the desert unfolds around us, with mountains framing the horizon, standing tall and proud. With the breeze at our backs and the sunset putting on a show, we can’t help but dance our way down the road. I start to get why people hike 100 miles in one go here, you just want to keep going. Our friend Randi just crushed 100 miles in 36 hours, and while we’re no Randi, we’re eager to push beyond 30 miles tomorrow.

As night falls, we cowboy camp under what feels like a million stars — the ultimate celestial hotel. The Milky Way stretches across the sky, shooting stars darting like wishes come true, and Venus and Jupiter twinkle brightly overhead. It’s astonishing. We unwrap our packed sandwiches, feasting under the starry canopy while the moon rises, big and luminous, peeking out from behind a veil of clouds. In the distance, lightning flickers, reminding us of nature’s power.

Reluctantly, we realize it’s time to sleep, though we’re loath to take off our glasses as we can’t see much without them. Tonight feels magical, and as we drift off, the stars keep watch over our dreams.

 

CDT Day 67 — Desert Magic

The bright moon guides our way as we break camp before dawn, its light casting long shadows over the trail. As we walk, the sky begins to glow with the first hints of sunrise, transforming the cold morning into something magical. But my legs are numb — I made the mistake of starting out in shorts, and now I’m regretting it as the chill cuts through me.

We stumble upon a massive herd of feral horses, wild and free, galloping across the plains in front of us. Pronghorns dart away, their speed unreal. The air hums with the chorus of coyotes in the distance. A few small snakes slither by, quick and shy. We even spot some cute little weasels near the upper Mormon Spring — though calling it a spring is generous. It’s more like a stagnant rock pool.

Thankfully, the weather is kind — cool, mostly flat, and nowhere near the blistering heat this stretch gets for Northbounders in July. They must slog through brutal, exposed terrain, with scarce water sources to save them. For us, though, it’s mild and peaceful. We see a small horned toad scuttle by, and cicadas start clicking away, adding to the soundtrack of the trail.

At 17.5 miles in, we take a much-needed lunch break in the shade of a large rock. The clouds overhead begin to darken, swirling with the threat of rain. We watch the storm dance around the horizon, thinking we might escape its wrath. But eventually, the rain catches up to us, forcing us to push on through the drizzle. Fortunately, it doesn’t last long, just enough to refresh the landscape without soaking us completely.

Soon, we reach a cow pond — one of those sketchy water sources that looks relatively clean but still makes you question your choices. We filter it, of course — no way to tell what’s lurking in there, and surely some cows have done their business nearby. After another six miles, I’m ready for another break. We sit down by the pond, watching another set of dark clouds roll in. But just like before, it’s a tease — only a few raindrops before the sun pops out again. So, we linger a bit longer.

Ahead, a dirt road stretches on in a straight, seemingly endless line. It’s one of those roads that plays tricks on you, making you feel like you’re walking in place. Eventually, we reach a water cache secured in bear boxes — what a relief! We stop here for a longer break, having covered 28.7 miles by this point. Our legs are starting to feel the burn, so dinner tastes extra satisfying.

Little Legs, Crazy Eyes, Mooch, Nana Man and Chip catch up to us, and we all share dinner together. They chat about pushing another 12 miles tonight, their energy seemingly boundless.

We decide to keep going, too, even as the sunset paints the sky in wild, surreal colors. It’s one of those evenings that makes you forget your tired legs — pure magic. We hike until the stars reappear, and eventually find a perfect flat spot along a ridge to cowboy camp under the endless sky.

Today, we hit 34 miles — my longest distance yet. As I lay beneath the stars, utterly spent but utterly content, I can’t help but feel proud. The Milky Way stretches across the sky like a glittering path, and sleep pulls me in, wrapping me in the beauty of it all.

 

CDT Day 68 — The Wind and the Stars

I barely sleep. Gusts of wind whip through the night, sneaking drafts into my sleeping bag, keeping me awake. I didn’t realize I left parts of my zipper open. I’m definitely not a morning person, never have been, and the whole sunrise hype is lost on me. I’m more of a sunset hiker. Mornings are tough — nauseous, no energy, and eating solid food feels impossible. So, I move like a zombie, conserving what little energy I have. My trekking poles stay stashed because even the thought of moving my arms feels like too much work. I don’t talk. I don’t smile. I just walk. It takes hours for my body to wake up enough to handle even a few sips of liquid food. It’s been like this since childhood. If I were alone, I’d start later, but here I am, somehow out of my sleeping bag by 6 am, feeling like it’s the middle of the night.

The world is waking up around me, but I’m not ready for it. The sunrise paints the mountains in soft silhouettes, and I notice it through tired eyes, too drained to even take a picture. I just let it pass by, acknowledging its beauty without the energy to engage.

The wind picks up as the morning progresses, and we face a bit of elevation — nothing major, just speed bumps by CDT standards. My body trudges forward on autopilot until I finally find a peaceful spot, shaded by a few trees, next to a small, bubbling spring. I sit there alone, soaking in the quiet, grateful for this little pocket of solitude. Lately, social situations have overwhelmed me again, and I find comfort in these solitary moments.

But the others trickle in one by one. We huddle together for lunch as the wind grows stronger, whipping across the landscape. The next stretch of hiking becomes a battle —wind coming at us head-on, sand stinging our faces. Each step feels like a push through quicksand. By the time I reach a lonely dirt road, exhaustion crashes over me. It’s not hot, thanks to the wind, but the sun beats down relentlessly, and the wind’s howl never leaves my ears. I’m dehydrated, I realize that now. It’s a bad habit of mine — not drinking enough when it’s not hot.

I collapse by the side of the road, throwing my Nemo Switchback over me to shield myself from the wind and sun. Gulping down electrolytes, I start to feel better — just enough to get back on my feet and resume the battle. Not far ahead, I find shelter by a small trailer, a little oasis offering shade and a break from the wind. It feels heavenly, the kind of peace that sinks into your bones after hours of fighting the elements.

The rest of the day is flatter, but the sandy trails continue. It’s like getting off one of those moving walkways at the airport — suddenly, everything feels heavy, and my legs are acutely aware of the effort again.

At a water source, we encounter the same group of hikers we’ve been running into all day. And again, I struggle. The social dynamic feels like an obstacle course I can’t navigate. I watch as they effortlessly engage in conversation, everyone finding their place, their words slipping in naturally. Meanwhile, I stand on the sidelines, invisible, anxious, unable to figure out how to join in. Groups of more than three or four people overwhelm me. It makes me sad, this feeling of social inadequacy that seems to creep up on me more often these days.

Eventually, I give up trying to connect. I slip away, tuning into a new audiobook about the evolution of humans. It’s fascinating, and soon my mind is consumed by it, far from the awkwardness of human conversation. I find so much more joy in learning about ancient history than in the small talk that fills most interactions. I get why people do it— to make connections — but I don’t feel that same need for constant connection. Occasionally, I click with someone, and I put energy into that. But most of the time, it just feels like a futile effort. I wonder if it’s partly a cultural gap too — European hikers seem calmer, quieter, their conversations more measured, less overwhelming.

Anyway, I feel a lot better after letting go of the need to be part of it all. We’re having dinner by another water source as the sun sets in a spectacular display of color. While the others chat, I stretch out my aching legs, stiff from the 29 miles we’ve already covered today. It’s another big day, my body is feeling it, but the sunset and the stillness of the desert make it all worth it.

We hike another three miles as darkness falls, looking for a campsite that promises shelter from the wind. We miss it at first, stumbling around in the dark until we finally find it, tucked down in a ravine. It’s not perfect, but it offers a bit of protection from the relentless gusts. The Milky Way stretches above us, a vast and brilliant reminder of the universe’s enormity. The evenings out here in the Basin are the best part of my day.

The sunset, the colors in the sky, the quietness, then the stars popping up one after another until the entire firmament is filled with millions of far away suns, giving a vague idea of the vastness of the universe. I always feel like I’m time traveling when I stare up at the stars, looking into the past, seeing the light of suns long dead.

It makes me want to grab a towel and hitchhike through the galaxy. But not on a Vogon ship, please. Out here, with barely any light pollution, the night sky is breathtaking — at least until the bright moon rises, stealing away some of the stars’ magic.

I hope tonight brings more rest. I’m craving it.

 

CDT Day 69 — The Never-Ending Road 

Today, we hiked what felt like the longest, straightest line ever — 25 miles of flat, unchanging road. The first day in the Basin was fun, but by now, we’ve had enough of the endless sagebrush and sand. Every little rise in the trail only reveals more road stretching toward the horizon, taunting us. We’re ready to escape this place, so we push hard, aiming for the highway.

Our bodies are feeling the aftermath of back-to-back long days. My legs are sore, and even lying down hurts. Getting up in the morning was tough — I had to keep turning like a rotisserie chicken during the night because my hips ached so much. We got a later start to give ourselves a bit more recovery time, but still, every break leaves me stiff and waddling like a penguin for the first few steps.

We hit a water cache in the morning, left by a local church, complete with an umbrella for shade or rain protection, and seating cushions. A small oasis in this desert of monotony. But soon, the clouds start darkening, and we watch as rain begins falling in the distance. We hope it will miss us — wrong! The sky unleashes a short but heavy burst of hail, leaving us cold and drenched. We huddle for lunch by another water source, trying to stay dry as the rain keeps drizzling down.

Afterward, it heats up again, and the wind picks up. The road stretches on endlessly through more sagebrush and sand. Finally, we hit an asphalted road leading straight to the highway. It’s five miles long, and we can see cars in the distance, but no matter how much we walk, they never seem to get closer. It’s like a mirage, endlessly teasing us. It’s upsetting.

Although the road is asphalted it’s completely empty. There is one truck coming out of the other direction that we can see a long time before it passes us. Dark clouds are gathering behind us, coming closer and closer. But after an hour of hiking, the same car comes back, we throw our thumbs out and it stops. The lonelier the road, the better the chances. He doesn’t go into Rawlins, but we can hop in the back. It’s only a little more than a mile left to the highway, but we’re so grateful. The asphalted road didn’t exactly ease the pain in our joints. We have enough. 

The trail follows the highway for another 20 miles into Rawlins, but with an upcoming storm on our heels — no, thank you! Same old sagebrush, sand and route finding. Fun per miles as Blanket always said. Nana Man has the same idea, the others keep on walking.

As we wait by the highway, we spot a red Subaru Outback approaching and we get excited. These always stop for us. A climber with curly hair pokes his head out, smiling, and asks if we’re planning on murdering him. We laugh and assure him we aren’t, and he takes all three of us into town.

We hit McDonald’s just as the sky opens up and a heavy thunderstorm begins. While the others are out there getting soaked, we’re indulging in Big Macs and fries. Then it’s off to our hotel for a quick shower before heading to the movie theater to see the new Deadpool movie — Ryan’s been talking about it for weeks. I’m so tired that only Coke keeps me awake in the comfy reclining seats, but then I have too much and can’t sleep at all.

On trail, I can always sleep and when I finally can sleep as much as I want in a real bed in town, I suddenly can’t. So, I end up with four hours of sleep. It’s a conundrum.

We’re taking a zero tomorrow, thank goodness. Lodging is cheap, and we need the rest. In the morning, we visit Walmart — our first since Butte. How exciting. They even have sensory-friendly hours from 8 to 10 am: no music, no crowds, just peace and quiet. Blissful. Can recommend.