CT Days 1-2

Day 1 – 24.6mi

I wake up a bit late, only having time to throw my stuff in my pack, scarf a breakfast burrito, and download some maps last minute. Then the lovely angel drops me off at the trailhead, five minutes down the road. It’s august 19th, a Saturday, and for 7am, the parking lot is completely full. The crowds, the eyes! I feel stuck out as I get my picture taken at the sign.

The first six miles through the canyon are packed with runners and cyclists. There’s a traffic jam when a herd of bighorn sheep block the road, frolicking and head butting each other, but eventually a service truck arrives to break it up.

Passing the giant dam at the top of the canyon, the crowds thin. I pass by two girls who also started their thru-hike today. That’s nice, we’re sticking out together with our big packs (although, mine is definitely bigger than theirs).

The switchbacks make the climb go by so fast. I spend the rest of the morning getting acquainted with my trekking poles – I’ve never used poles before, and at first I find it hard to figure out where to place them in a way that actually aids me and doesn’t slow me down. But by the time I descend to the South Platte river, I can’t imagine not having them. Funny how that works.

All the while, lots of bikers passing by. Lots of people at the river, swimming, enjoying the sun. I arrive there much earlier than I was expecting, which is nice, because I have a goal of at least making it past this point. I take a break, fill my water to max capacity, and charge my satellite device to check the weather, as I accidentally forgot to before I left.

Big fluffy clouds start to form overhead – blessing me with occasional shade, yes, but also stirring up fears of thunder and lightning. The next segment after the river would climb up into a high burn, and the warnings of exposure and lack of water circle in my mind. I feel a little sick, is it dehydration or nerves? I look up at the unpredictable sky. Should I keep going? Above all I fear that sky, coming down on me in the worst spot, where I can’t escape, getting struck by lightning. There’s a rumbling that makes me jump, but it’s the rushing river, or else a passing car.

In the end I decide to go, and the climb starts out hot, too hot. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. But the intermittent cloud over is just enough to keep me going. I meet a nice older couple doing the segment, and our conversation raises my spirits. (Maybe talking to people isn’t so bad after all).

The jagged red rock formations and brown dirt contrast with the blue sage and silverweed like a painting. I think the burn is pretty, in its own dry, dry way. I’ve spent almost six weeks in burns this summer for my job, and I kind of like how open and clear they feel, and the different colors and smells that you don’t really experience elsewhere.

I forego some really cool campsites sheltered by huge red rocks for one on the map I’ve been enticed by. It starts to rain and I find out my rain jacket is not really a rain jacket anymore. I round the corner, and I see an island of pines atop a hill, surrounded by barren burn. That’s where I’ll stay, amidst this thunder that is continuing to build? The tree thicket is large enough, but still, I shudder with fear, as I have not yet learned to trust the sky.

I race across the openness and into the trees. I guess I’m staying here, because it’s getting late and there’s only more barrenness beyond, anyway.

Too nervous to eat – and also I forgot my spork. Ah well. I try to settle in underneath the pines, their black bark and long needles my shelter for the night.

Flashes of lightning send jolts of adrenaline through my body as I lay in my tent. It’s uncomfortable, and I hope I can relax into sleep soon.

Day 2 – 24.2mi

45 minutes from wake up to getting moving – not bad for the first morning. I cut down through the burn from my Isle of Pines back to the trail. I am struck by how compacted the ground is; it’s almost as rock hard as the trail itself. I wondered how difficult it would be to replant this area, and if it ever would be. I do see a few baby pines waving here and there however. Somehow they manage to root themselves in these rolling hills of concrete.

I think the first half of segment 3 is my favourite so far. Open pine forest, with really interesting red rock formations jutting out of the sandy soil. Part has been recently subjected to a prescribed burn, and I can still smell that delicious campfire smell. Random dead junipers encircled in a ring of black – intentionally targeted, it seems. Elsewhere, that same combination of turquoise vegetation and red earth in the morning light gives a magical feeling. So different from the black and green of many other forests I’ve been in.

The spaciousness between the large trunks of the trees seems to let everything breathe a little. Hiking locally in the coastal rainforests at home, everything is choked and dark. Giant gnarled trees tower, dead logs create a maze, young trees stand too close together, and 5 foot tall salal bushes cover everything. You couldn’t thrash your way through if you wanted to. There are so many secrets that it does not want you to discover. But these open pines invite you to take a leisurely stroll under their canopy. They welcome, they give, there is nothing to hide.

Another 30+ degree day, and I’m melting. The pressure builds as I climb, and suddenly, the loud echoing bangs emanating from a gun range shatter my resolve and shakes all my unhelpful thoughts free. My current menu of worries includes:

• Am I going to get shot
• Are my foot cramps going to turn into something worse
• Is my shoulder pain going to turn into something worse
• Is all this sweatiness going to disrupt my new tattoo from healing properly
• Does my health insurance cover hiking above 3000 meters
• Am I going to feel safe enough to sleep at my next camp
• Am I going too fast
• Am I not going fast enough

It’s midway through the day when I usually have the most doubts about everything. It’s too hot, it feels like there’s an impossible distance left to go, I’m tired. At the same time, the nervous-anxiousness won’t let me chill, and I have to keep moving, feeling pressured, punished.

A creek break to dry out my tent and fill water before the climb which will take up the rest of the day, through the Lost Creek Wilderness. I now dread the chore of getting water, as my filter is so clogged its max speed is about 5 minutes per litre. My fault for being too cheap to replace it before I let home though.

Truthfully, something about the word ‘wilderness’ strikes me in a primal place, and I am a bit apprehensive of entering it. Purely because I am worried about possible creepy vibes. (I’m never totally at peace alone out here, so feeling unwelcome can really get to me). But it is actually quite beautiful. Interspersed with the conifers are stands of aspen, whose crowns waved in the wind, creating a pleasant sound. These areas are so bright and full of vegetation, as the sunlight reaches the forest floor, unlike some of the denser evergreen areas.

The incline however is not pleasant. About halfway through a series of steep switchbacks, my ears pop – 10,000 feet. I’m moving slow now. I’ve gained 4,500 feet of elevation in two days. But it hasn’t really felt like that much, as it is mostly gradual, with big sweeping switchbacks abound. The most painful thing on my body right now is actually my shoulder straps rubbing raw on my collarbones. Stuffing a spare shirt under them for more cushion did help a lot, though.

Finally, I reach the end of the wilderness. At the boundary sign on the other side, I make a slanted camp, and watch the squirrels chase each other around as I go about my chores.

Even though it was a long day, I am glad I set myself up for less climbing tomorrow.