CT Days 7-8

Day 7 – 22.9mi

Same routine today, catching the 6.30am bus to Copper. But this time, I continue west, onto segment 8. It has stormed pretty hard overnight, and the sky is overcast, with low lying clouds drifting over the hills. The air is saturated with moisture.

The reason I was stressed yesterday, is because storms are in the schedule for today and tomorrow. But, I have a six mile approach to four miles of exposure, and I really don’t want to be caught in a storm up there.

So I find the right dirt ribbon that cuts through across the ski hill (there are many), and hike as hard as I can into the humid forest. I see, in the wet dirt, someone’s footsteps from this morning. I wonder how far ahead they are, and when they started. If it weren’t for the bus schedule, I probably would have been out here before dawn. See, it’s the afternoon you’re supposed to be worried about.

Pushing hard, up through the valley, following the creek higher and higher. Nerves are there, yes, but something assures me that there is nothing to fear. Excitement, instead, should I call it? Some say only a single hormone underlies both emotions. I enjoy the feeling of breathing hard.

The trees start to thin and the rock, red and grey, towers above. I see some dots up ahead, and it reassures me, as others are making a run for it before the rain, too. We’ll make it.

On top of Searle Pass, I get a glimpse of what’s on the other side, and it’s beautiful. Sloping alpine in the strange watery light. I turn to follow the others below the ridge line to our exit at Kokomo Pass. To my surprise and delight, I really enjoy the morning, just being in the moment. I even make the effort to say hi to other hikers, and it’s nice to feel that we’re together in some kind of way, on this hanging misty plain.

I’m really excited when I see my first marmots in real life; they waddle lazily about on the rocks, not seeming too bothered about the proximity of humans. So cute!

I wind around the corner and turn down Kokomo pass just as it begins to spit. It rains then, in 5-10 minute rages, for the rest of the day. Once I get over the whole spectre of storms, I actually enjoy the cooler weather. I let the cold hard drops hit my bare sweaty legs. A welcome change from melting in the sun.

The descent is long, and I can’t imagine ever climbing it. Down through hillsides of fragrant, wet sage and rose hips. A small break at a waterfall in a lucky patch of sun, but then a cool wind, and moving again.

I pass through Camp Hale, an old secret army training ground. You can’t wander off trail or camp here for the hazard of unexploded somethings or other underground. I actually spy a long row of strange hobbit-like bunkhouses, but I don’t take a photo because it’s pelting.

I cross the highway in the dim afternoon and follow the fringe of a marshy valley. I see the whole sky, I see a dark wall moving towards those distant peaks, and I see bright and blue popping through over these trees. Then there’s a road that takes me into the forest. Where I plan to camp, there are already some tenters. I work up the courage to introduce myself, to awkwardly break the ice. I actually saw these hikers yesterday, going the other way, on my slackpack. I use my real name; they have trail names. But it starts to rain hard, and we spend most of the evening in our respective tents (and I nap of course). I’ve never done this before, I wonder how you get to know someone in the small passing windows that occur when you’re all on the move in different ways all at once.

I feel energized by the day. It is the first day I’ve been able to be in it all and away from the stuff that doesn’t matter. (See: nonsensical rambling of previous blogs). This is why I like being out here. It feels like returning.

Day 8 – 23.5mi

Early, as usual. But as I’m packing my things in the dark, trying not to disturb my camp neighbours, I realize with a sinking feeling that I forgot my passport at the motel yesterday morning.

I quickly acknowledge the absolute meltdown I could have right now about this, and decide not to go down that route. This is where anxious planning brain does come in handy, actually – running through the practical options to solve this dilemma. I resolve to call the motel when I get cell service, in the hopes they still have it and can send it to a nearby post office. If not, step two will be to report it lost and have a new one sent to me somewhere. I’m very lucky I’m in an English speaking country with modern institutions I can somewhat trust, and that I am not crossing a border imminently.

I surprise myself with my relative coolheadedness about the whole thing. There’s no one I can turn to but me to navigate this, and I so the only thing I can do is start taking the necessary steps.

In the meantime, I could sit and stew, or I could just hike. I try to put the unhelpful worries away once I make a plan, and enjoy the morning.

And it is a nice one. Before sunrise, the droplets of heavy mist residual from yesterday’s storms glow white in the light of my headlamp. It’s less than a mile to Tennessee Pass trailhead where I use the pit toilet and organize my things in its dry interior. (What a luxury not to dig a hole). And then, onwards into the mist, the world slowly gaining its color back from the grayscale of the night.

It’s a nice cool temperature, and the forests swallowed by cloud feel like a refuge. If I forget that I’d really like some sun to dry out my tent, I could hike in this all day.

Soon I enter the Holy Cross Wilderness, and the clouds turn whiter, as they do when the layers are clearing and the sun is close behind. Into a bowl of brown rock, clothed in golden water droplets. I climb a green shoulder, past a lake, where there are the laughing voices of campers.

The climbs are really getting to me today. Three major uphills, and on every one I must stop frequently to catch my breath. My legs get that lactic acid buildup and just stop working sometimes, even after a few steps, and I must lean over my poles gasping again. At some point in the day, I admit the fact that I might need a zero day soon.

At the top of one of these searing climbs, I find enough sun to dry my tent and enough service to make the call. I hope that the post office will hold it until I get there, and I hope that I won’t get there before it does. The balancing act of timing, but I have little control over it. With it all sorted, there’s not much else to do but cross that bridge when I come to it.

Out of the Holy Cross, across a trailhead parking lot, and into the Mount Massive Wilderness. Today is about tiptoeing beneath the skirts of the mountains. Winding around their green feet, but staying low. Out of respect, I like to think. Or at least that’s what I call my fear of heights.

I end up walking with a CDT hiker for the earlier hours of the afternoon. I actually enjoy the company and the conversation, and it makes the terrible climbs go by a little faster. I find my words flowing a little easier, and it’s nice to connect so casually and effortlessly with them. Social for me is a struggle, but it was one of the highlights of my day.

Finally, I arrive at camp, the high point before descending into Twin Lakes tomorrow. Tent up just in time for the rain.

The sky goes absolutely ham from 4-6:30pm. I watch the pelting of my tiny shelter from the inside, and listen to the thunder. Unfortunately, I always forget that my ground sheet is not the right size, and it reaches beyond my fly and fills with water before I remember. Luckily I carry an absurd amount of black garbage bags (for waterproofing, you see), and I slide a few under my foamie to prevent seepage. Some of the raindrops hit the fly so hard I swear I feel them on my face. Indeed there are a few drops sliding down the mesh layer now.

It’s too loud to think. So I wait and eat tortilla chips out of a ziploc with a spork until it’s quiet enough to collect my thoughts, and then write.