I Think You Should Leave

Less than an hour from camp, I reached a clearing in the trees and felt direct sunlight for the first time in 36 hours. Under normal circumstances, it might not have registered. However, I’d just experienced the coldest, wettest, most uncomfortable day of hiking I could remember, and I instantly appreciated the warmth.

Continuing the climb, and above treeline once again, the overgrown bushes blocking the trail held almost as much snow as the previous day. I was soon the recipient of all that icy meltwater, but my mood wasn’t as easily dampened as it had been 24 hours earlier. Blue sky and improving weather made all the difference. Eventually, I started to dry out.

That day’s trail was pretty rough, so I made slow progress and finished quite late. Just a few miles from my eventual campsite, I traversed a steep, crumbling, overgrown, north-facing slope that’s been washed out in several places. It’s on the northern side of a feature called the Knife Edge, and I imagine it’s pretty scary early in the season. Without any repairs, in a few years’ time it’ll be pretty scary even when it’s free of snow.

Although the bad weather had moved on, temperatures didn’t rebound as high as they’d been when I entered the San Juans. It was now the second half of September, which I’m sure was a factor. The days were cooler, but typically not uncomfortable. At night, the temperature consistently dropped to near freezing. I spent two cold, consecutive nights above 11,500 feet before enjoying a warm hotel room in Pagosa Springs.

Silver lining

Conditions were cool and cloudy when I returned to the trail after resupplying, but the climb from Wolf Creek Pass kept me warm. I met a couple of hikers from Florida, and a trio from Arizona, all of whom were suitably dressed for northern Alaska, never mind southern Colorado. I was a little envious of their extra layers, but by now I was only a three-day hike from sunny New Mexico.

Later that afternoon, I was overtaken by three dirt-bikes whose riders had ignored the prominent “No motorized vehicles” signs. Half an hour later, I caught up with the bikers where a large fallen tree had effectively blocked their path. We chatted for a few minutes, then I clambered over the barrier and left them to their discussion. They were unable to proceed, and turning around on such a narrow section of trail was proving difficult. Of all the downed trees on the CDT, this was the only useful one.

The frequency of blowdown increased for half a mile, and the mile after that, I spent more time hopping trunk-to-trunk than I spent on the ground. To make matters worse, Colorado seemed determined to give me a chilly send-off. I waited under a tree for the duration of a rain shower. I took shelter again during a barrage of hailstones. When another storm arrived, I decided I’d wasted enough time, and kept moving. It was the first of several thunderstorms that afternoon, each of which sprinkled me with snow.

The blowdown ended abruptly at Silver Pass, and the wet, slightly overgrown trail climbed above treeline. A breeze from the southwest gathered strength, and I’d dried out by the time I reached camp.

Message received

Correction: everything was dry except my shoes and socks. By now, the wind was raging, and I was lucky to find a tiny flat spot behind a small cluster of trees. At sunset, someone flipped an almighty switch, and the wind vanished. The temperature plummeted, and it was close to freezing by bedtime.

It was an eerily quiet, bitterly cold night. I wore my puffy and gloves, and although I stayed warm, I woke several times. The inside of my sleeping bag was pretty crowded and required regular readjustment due to the nocturnal wanderings of my water filter and electronic items.

I literally could not leave camp fast enough the next morning. My socks were frozen solid but thawed quite quickly at the expense of my toes’ circulation. From the moment I jammed my feet into icy, stiff, uncooperative boots, they were achingly cold. Sensation returned to my extremities after about half an hour of hiking.

Weather conditions were copied and pasted from the previous day. Clear sky initially, gathering clouds, increasing wind. The scenery was mostly alpine tundra, which provided plenty of views but very few windbreaks. Predictably, snow showers arrived late in the day, but precipitation was light, and I remained pretty dry all the way to camp. That night, there was a thunderstorm sandwiched between several showers. Colorado’s message was starting to come across loud and clear, “I think you should leave.”

Dishonorable discharge

My last full day of hiking in the Centennial State was cool and dry, but frustratingly, ferociously windy. The speed of the clouds was matched only by the remarkable rate at which my eyes and nose overflowed.

As I stumbled along the rocky, rutted trail, my nose continued to leak an unnecessary amount of snot. Every few minutes, a drop of viscous liquid appeared, dangling for a second or two on an increasingly slender thread. Some of the snot-drops were swept downwind, but most sprang back in my direction and hit me in the face. If not quite my peak hiker-trash moment, it was close.

Mid-afternoon, after a 1,000-foot descent, I found that conditions at Dipping Lakes were warm and still. I could hardly believe the difference. Hunters had taken up residence at each of the lakes, and I lingered just long enough to get water for camping. With my face covered in an avant-garde pattern of dried mucus, talking to people wasn’t an option, so I hurried onwards.

My day ended with a 1,000-foot climb to a plateau where the crosswind was still howling, and I staggered the final few miles to camp. Just beyond the southern boundary of the South San Juan Wilderness, on the windiest of windswept ridges, the trail passed a clump of stunted trees. I discovered a small, perfectly sheltered, C-shaped clearing that was big enough for my tent. My final Colorado campsite, at an elevation of 11,811 feet, couldn’t have been cozier, even though the wind roared until dawn.

Trainspotting

It took more than three hours at a brisk downhill pace to reach Cumbres Pass. Where the CDT crosses Highway 17, I turned left and walked uphill for a few hundred yards. There’s a large parking lot just before the railroad crosses the highway, and it looked like the best place to hitch. I chatted with a Harley rider who was waiting for his friends, then I spent some time looking at the information board that describes the history of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railway. Shortly after 11:00 a.m., I heard the huffing and puffing of an approaching steam-powered locomotive.

I walked to the track to watch as the train slowly completed the climb and gradually came to a halt. While the tender’s water tank was refilled, I chatted to one of the passengers. After the train departed for Antonito, I met Alan, a volunteer for the Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad. He was one of the people tasked with stopping traffic at each of the railroad crossings. He very kindly offered me a ride into town, and I accepted.

During the drive downhill, Alan had to stop at each of the railroad crossings again. One of the two ember trucks that had followed the train uphill was in the process of returning to Chama. (Drivers of each ember truck douse any fires started by embers the locomotive spits out.) Alan gave me a quick tour of the town before dropping me at Foster’s Hotel, where I ate lunch and reserved a room for the night.

I bought a six-day resupply at Family Dollar, and an 8 oz. fuel canister at “Tumble On Outfitters.” Then I returned to the hotel to complete my chores.

A stylish exit

Even though it doesn’t seem to be mentioned on their website, the Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad has a hiker special. The next morning, I bought a ticket to Cumbres Pass ($27) and ate a breakfast of gift-shop snacks while waiting for the daily 10:00 a.m. departure. I also discovered that the railroad is at its busiest when the trees are changing color.

Chama was crowded that Saturday morning. Plenty of people were taking the train, but there were lots of enthusiasts who just wanted to watch it leave. It was the first train of the season with extra cars and a second locomotive. Motorists had stopped along the highway to witness the sights, sounds, and smells of two steam locomotives dragging a longer-than-normal train up the 4% grade.

At a trestle where the locomotives needed to cross one at a time, the train stopped briefly. It stopped again at Cumbres Pass, before continuing minus one locomotive and one thru-hiker. I was back on trail by 11:30 a.m., and an hour or so later, I reached the state line. Colorado handed the baton to New Mexico, and the final leg of my relay had begun.