Snowshed
Monday, March 22nd, 2021: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
I’d taken last Sunday off, to break the pattern and give my troubled foot a rest. On my last Sunday hike I’d encountered a two-foot-deep snowfield at 9,500′ in our local mountains, but since then we’d had two weeks of warm weather. I figured that farther south, in the lower-elevation Chiricahuas, I could return to my favorite trail and climb to one of the peaks of the range. That trail goes through the “cold canyon” where snow accumulates deeper than anywhere else, and lingers longer. It’d been three months since I’d done that hike – in the winter, snow prevents me from doing the longer hikes with higher elevation, and I worry about losing conditioning.
But as soon as I crossed the pass south of town and got a view of the distant range, I could see there was still a lot of snow on the north slopes above 8,000′. I decided to change plans and hike to the “bleak saddle” instead. It’d be a long, hard hike, but with southeast exposure it should be snow-free, and if my energy lasted to the saddle, I might be able to continue up the nearby peak I hadn’t been able to reach last fall.
The forecast called for overcast skies and mild temperatures. From a distance, it looked like low clouds over the range were trying to drop some rain. But by the time I got to the trailhead, the sky had cleared, with only wisps of cloud.
I climbed the steep trail steadily, shedding outerwear, until midway along the 3-mile traverse, it was so warm I had to unbutton my shirt. It was probably in the 60s, and intermittantly gusty. Small black flying insects kept flushing out of my way, but the wind whipped them away so I couldn’t tell what they were.
Approaching the saddle I was feeling pretty sore and exhausted, and nearing the compression zone of strong wind that streams through saddles. I had to stop and squeeze into my sweater, and decided to put on my shell as well. The sky was now almost completely overcast, and the wind was so fierce and cold I had to pull up the hood immediately.
Despite being worn out, when I reached the trail junction on the bleak saddle, I decided to try the trail to the peak. It looked like the peak was close, a quarter mile and a few hundred feet above. I might not make it, but it would be more interesting than this bare, windy saddle.
There was actually no trail on the bare lower slope, only sporadic cairns and fallen logs placed as directional markers. The wind was so strong I was almost blown down at times. But after a few hundred yards, I found a distinct trail that had recently been cleared.
Then suddenly the cleared part ended. I could see the trail continuing ahead, but a thicket of aspen had been growing on it for at least five years, to a height of 8 or 10 feet.
Later, back home, I discovered the Chiricahua Trails website lists this trail as in “terrible” condition – the worst condition possible. But now that I’ve had plenty of experience bushwhacking and climbing over blowdown, I just kept going, pushing through the thickets, re-finding the trail on the other side.
As so often happens, the peak I’d seen from below turned out not to be the actual peak. Dozens of switchbacks, blocked by thickets or deadfall, led to a ridge that continued east for another half mile. Whereas the surrounding slopes had burned in the 2012 wildfire, a pocket of beautiful alpine forest had survived on this ridge. Otherwise I might’ve given up and turned back, especially when I reached an extensive blowdown blocking the trail 3/4 of the way along the ridge.
Past that, I finally saw the actual peak, a little hump at the far end of the ridge, where I flushed a white-tail buck that briefly stood, silhouetted, before dropping out of sight down the slope.
I expected the forest would block views from the peak, but it turned out I had good views due east and south. Making it all the way here, despite the way I’d felt at the saddle, seemed to recharge my energy. I started paying more attention to the beautiful forest.
This range crests a thousand feet lower than our mountains at home. It has only six peaks above 9,500′, five of them named – I’ve now climbed three of them. But it’s a Sky Island, and those peaks host tiny pockets, like this, of alpine spruce-fir forest like you find much farther north. With a warming climate, how much longer will they last?
According to the GPS data on Chiricahua Trails, this would be a 12-mile round-trip hike, with barely 4,000′ of accumulated elevation gain. But it took me nearly 8 hours – longer than any 14 to 16 mile hike I’ve done. That’s partly explained by the difficulties I had on the peak trail. But I still wonder about the accuracy of these GPS distances, especially older data like this.
On the way down I finally got a better look at the flying insects – they were small black butterflies with banded wings. Millions of them had recently metamorphosed in this range, despite the cool weather of early spring. They were having a hard time in the wind.
I was 1-1/4 hours late returning to the vehicle, but the time change gives me an extra hour of daylight. From the near-freezing wind chill of the high traverse, it got steadily warmer as I circled back and dropped into the dense oak forest of the trailhead canyon, where it felt like the mid-70s. Happily, despite the long day and the two-hour drive home, I got back just before dark.
Cloudbursts & Torrents, Thunderclaps & Gunshots
Monday, August 2nd, 2021: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
At this point, we can all expect Max’s next hike to be an adventure. But some more than others.
It’s August already, so I can go ahead and admit that this is one of our best monsoons ever. Meaning that every week, I spend hours cleaning and reconditioning my gear after sweating in high humidity and getting soaked in yet another thunderstorm.
It was finally time to head back to Arizona. My last experience of chaining together both maintained and abandoned trails hadn’t worked out, so this Sunday I wanted to stick to good trails. There were really only two trailhead options over there, and I’d hiked my favorite in June. The remaining trail definitely wasn’t my favorite – it involved a very steep initial climb and a long, high traverse that was completely exposed, ending at a bleak saddle. But the day was forecast to be mostly cloudy – which probably meant storms – and I figured I could vary this hike by extending it a mile or two onto a part of the crest trail I hadn’t hit before. The upper part of the hike would have absolutely no protection from storms, but I should be used to that by now. And if I returned early enough, there’d be a red chile pork burrito and a local IPA waiting for me at the village cafe.
I made good time on the highways, and there were only a few small cumulus clouds shifting over the range amid a crystal blue sky. But I knew that would change.
The first trail zigzags up a densely forested canyon bottom, crossing and recrossing a creek which was running strong from the past month of good rain. With few or no stepping stones, crossings are tricky, and I fell once – fortunately backward onto the rocky bank instead of into the water. The clouds were coming together and darkening overhead as I finally began the steep climb out of the canyon, through dense oak scrub. It was a good time for wildflowers, butterflies, fungi, and slime molds.
It wasn’t hot, but as usual it was so humid my shirt was soaked by the time I reached the forested upper slopes. A glance back at the northern part of the range showed rain already falling only a few miles away. The humidity slowed me down so that it took almost two hours to climb the first three miles and 2,000′, and when I moved onto the second trail in the chain and entered the pine “park” at the halfway point of the day’s hike, the sky ahead was low and dark. I realized the storm would hit me on the exposed traverse.
The arms of the storm were surrounding me as I began the traverse up the side of the long, deep canyon – three thousand vertical feet between crest and bottom. Near the beginning I suddenly saw a familiar pattern beside the trail ahead – a diamondback rattlesnake. It was full-grown, its body extended toward me, and its head was covered by vegetation only a couple of feet from my forward boot. Not a good position. I backed up just as the snake snapped back into its defensive coil and began to rattle.
I couldn’t pass it on the trail, so I had to climb up the steep, brush-choked bank of loose gravel at the side, hoping I wouldn’t slip and fall right on top of the snake.
It was shortly after that that the storm hit, and I had to dig out my poncho. Rain quickly became torrential, and since there was no place to shelter, I just had to keep climbing through it. This was the heaviest storm I’d been out in this year. I had to keep my eyes glued to the trail, but lightning seemed to be striking on the ridges far above – the time between strikes and thunderclaps was reassuringly long.
It was raining so hard on this steep slope that each little gully quickly became a torrent I had to carefully step over, and bigger drainages had been reshaped into temporary banks of debris that were more treacherous than usual. I kept telling myself the storm would move away soon, but it dumped on me for almost an hour – two miles of climbing – before moving off east down the canyon.
I’d passed the switchback that bypasses a big rock outcrop, and was crossing the short but coarse talus slope when I realized my feet were soaked and it was time to change socks. The oversize fragments of talus provided a good changing bench. That delayed me another 20 minutes – again, I wasn’t going to reach my planned destination for the day.
On the final stretch before the bleak saddle, where a ghost forest of fire-killed ponderosa dots the slope, I heard a raptor shrieking, and assumed it was hundreds of yards away on the opposite slope. But it kept up its cry of alarm several times a minute, and scanning the nearby trees, I found it only about 50 feet away. As I kept hiking, it kept moving to perches near me – it must’ve had a nest in a rock outcrop near the trail.
By the time I reached the saddle at 9,300′, I was already pushing my schedule – the time I needed to return to the vehicle in order to get that burrito and beer. But I’d been here twice before already – I just had to venture farther on this hike, even if only to the junction with the crest trail, less than half a mile farther. That would give me a view into the next big watershed, justifying the day’s effort and discomfort.
There was a trail, but just barely. It started out through a vast stand of chest-high ferns, with just the barest trace of tread hidden among them. Of course they were all wet from the storm, and although my pants were soaked already, I knew all that additional water would soak right through my boots so my temporarily dry feet would be wet again soon.
As short as it was, it was an interesting trail. Past the ferns it climbed across a bare, dramatic rock outcrop, then through a tunnel of aspen seedlings, emerging above an old, broken concrete springbox where it met the crest trail.
Whenever I encounter a structure like this, many miles and thousands of vertical feet from the nearest road, I can’t help thinking of the poor equines that had to carry those bags of cement mix.
I followed the crest trail down to the next saddle, which overlooked the big canyon I’d hiked into in June. I was filling in my mental map of the range.
On the way back, the hawk rejoined me in the same place, crying its regular warnings. I was in a hurry now. I’d used up time I barely had and was still hoping to reach the cafe just before closing.
I pounded down that steep slope, ignoring my wet, worn-out feet and joints, as if my body were 50 years younger. I was timing myself and making much better time going downhill. Three miles later and 2,000′ lower, when I reached the pine park, I was right on time, but storm clouds were forming again.
A mile down the next, steepest trail, my right knee reached a crisis stage. It hurt to walk on and it was impossible to lift it to step over a fallen log. I’d never had trouble with that knee before, but I dug the knee brace out of my pack, strapped it on, and continued. It started to rain again under a mostly clear sky, but only lightly, and it stopped before I reached the canyon bottom.
I checked my watch again, and then it hit me. I’d made a really stupid mistake. I’d forgotten about the time difference – something I’d never done before, on dozens of trips. There’d been no need to hurry, because I’d cut my hike unneccesarily short, and I had plenty of time. I could’ve continued on that crest trail as originally planned. I slowed down, and brutally chastised myself, cursing my stupidity. All that work and pain, and I could’ve gone even farther without even rushing!
But I soon had more to think about – before I even reached the first creek crossing I came under another downpour. Now my right little toe was killing me – that fast descent in wet boots had raised a blister – and I could hear the creek roaring ahead.
Although I had to keep my head down in the heavy rain, crossing the flooded creek turned out to be fairly easy. I didn’t have time to think, I wanted to reach the vehicle and change into dry clothes, so I just crossed the damn creek in any way I could.
Just as I got fully naked in the half-open vehicle – in an empty overflow parking lot big enough for 12 cars, at the end of a very rough dead-end road way back in the mountains – an elderly couple in a Prius drove up and parked right next to me. I stared at them, hoping they’d get the message I needed some privacy, but they just smiled and waved as I laboriously pulled on my dry clothes.
A half hour later, I was sitting in the cafe enjoying my early dinner, among staff and diners blissfully maskless, when a dozen middle-aged fully-masked men and women, dressed like generic naturalists, burst rapidly through the tiny dining room and disappeared into the back, where as far as I knew there was only the kitchen and a restroom. They never reappeared.
After the big meal and the beer, I really wanted to book a room at the lodge. But I had yet another busy week ahead of me, so I hit the road at 7 pm New Mexico time.
The clouds were glorious. The sun had just set by the time I hit the highway north to Silver City, with no cars ahead of or behind me.
But I was wrong. Less than a quarter mile up the highway a big SUV filled my rearview, and it passed me, “SHERIFF” painted across the back. Then a rock hit my windshield and cracked it.
The sheriff’s car slammed to a stop ahead and whipped a U-turn, parking on the opposite shoulder, so I pulled onto the right shoulder, rolled my window down, and waved. The deputy came over and I showed him my windshield.
He said he was on a call – shots had been fired between vehicles on the highway ahead. But he spent about 15 minutes photographing my windshield and all my cards, and gave me a number to call. He was all amped up, and I wished him well. He told me to be careful, but didn’t stop me from driving on.
A little ways up the road the convoy appeared – a half dozen vehicles with lights flashing, speeding toward me – city police, county sheriff, state highway patrol. Past them, as it got dark, a half dozen more light-flashing law enforcement vehicles streamed past, one after the other. Finally, ten miles outside of town, there was a roadblock – but only on the opposite lane. I never found out what had happened, but I was kind of a nervous wreck by the time I dealt with my wet gear, showered, and climbed into bed.
Monday, January 31st, 2022: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
After last week’s scary experience with wet hands and feet in near-freezing conditions, I finally broke down and got a pair of waterproof mountaineering boots. I guess I was in denial all those years, believing like most people that I shouldn’t need waterproof boots in the arid Southwest, and after all those decades of hiking in the desert, convinced that all I really needed was breathable boots to keep my feet from overheating in the summer.
So for this Sunday’s hike, I was looking for some deep snow to test the new boots. For the first time since our New Year’s Day snowstorm and my misconceived snow hike with the UTVs, I actually wanted a trail that ventured above 8,000′.
But we’d been having an unusually cold winter, so that New Year’s Day snow was mostly still up there. The high-elevation trails near home would require me to spend most of the day slogging through knee-deep snow. That made me think of the trail over in the “range of canyons” that climbed a steep north slope to a clearing at 8,000′, then spent over 3 miles traversing an exposed south-facing slope to finally connect with the crest trail at 9,300′. Snow on that south-facing slope would’ve melted by now, so it was one of the few ways I could reach 9,000′ in winter, but I knew that when the trail cut back into side drainages it would have to traverse short sections of north-facing slope that remained in shadow, preserving isolated patches of deep snow a hundred yards or more wide.
Those patches should give my boots a test, while the overall distance and elevation gain should help “break in” the new boots, which are the stiffest I’ve ever worn. After last week’s wet pants and freezing legs, I would also wear my “upland hunting” pants, which are both waterproof and thorn-resistant. The cuffs adjust to fit tightly around the boots like gaiters, so I should be fully prepared for deep snow.
Approaching the mountains from the northeast, I could see there was still plenty of snow around the crest.
With all that snow up above, I was surprised to find the first creek crossing dry, and where it was still running a little farther up, the level was unusually low. Apparently low temperatures persisted here, too, so the snow that remained on shaded slopes up above was keeping frozen and releasing its moisture slowly, a good thing for the habitat.
The new boots were so stiff it felt like walking in ski boots at first. I kept tightening them to keep the heels from slipping and raising blisters. This is what most hiking boots used to be like – you had to rub oil or wax into them to limber them up, and spend days or weeks breaking them in. My feet were starting to hurt before I even reached the halfway point in the high “park”.
Long before that I passed a friendly retired couple from Wyoming, the only other hikers I saw that day.
Past the “pine park” I turned the corner into the big canyon and began traversing the burn scar, parallel to the spectacular snow-draped slopes of the opposite side. Partly cloudy conditions had been forecast, and I was hoping I might even get some weather. But the alternating sun and shadow during the climb meant that I had to keep stopping to shed or add layers to keep from overheating or chilling.
When I reached the patches of snow on north-facing cutbacks, I found they were covered with frozen crust – something I should’ve anticipated this long after a storm. So instead of testing the water-resistance of the new boots, they became a scary test of my ability to kick footholds on steep, smooth slopes where a slip would’ve sent me sliding a hundred feet or more down toward rock outcrops or standing snags in the gullies. My feet were now really sore and side-hilling in the new boots made me grit my teeth. It took me 20 minutes to cross the first 100-yard patch.
But after safely crossing the two biggest patches, I realized it was doable and focused on what was ahead. In previous years, it had taken me three tries to reach the crest on this trail – the traverse had seemed really daunting. Today I’d gotten a late start, so my time was limited, but I was determined to reach the crest. And despite the many stops and the slow snow crossings, my pace on dry trail was good and I thought I could do it.
Wind increased the higher I got, and whenever clouds came over, the wind chill became brutal. In shadows between shrubs over 9,000′, I encountered tiny surviving patches of snow 2 feet deep, showing just how much snow that New Year’s storm had really dumped here. I finally made it to the “bleak saddle” at 9,300′, but only by assuming that a trail that took me over 4 hours to ascend could be descended in less than 3 hours. As usual, I wanted to get back to the vehicle in time to catch a burrito and beer at the cafe before its 6pm closing time. I’d done this hike 5 or 6 times before, so my guess was based on experience. I prefer trails like this that involve hard work early in the day and reward you with an easier hike on the return.
I was able to literally run down much of the trail on the way back – it’s very rocky, but there are stretches of steep fine gravel that beg to be taken quickly. When I reached the pine park, I could tell I was cutting it close and had just enough time to finish the hike and drive to the cafe, if I maintained my pace on the next section.
The boots were still stiff, but I was developing a little more feel for them. My feet were hurting a lot, so I loosened the laces on the last, steepest descent, and found that helped. The last half of the trail was mostly shaded so I had to pull all my layers back on to keep warm. And then my left hamstring began cramping, from crossing patches of icy snow. It was all I could do to avoid the cramp taking over and paralyzing me with pain.
Still, I managed to reach the vehicle with just enough time to reach the cafe before closing. There was only one other table occupied, by a couple in their late 70s, probably birders. That burrito and beer were as good as usual and convinced me to get a room for the night. All clean from a very hot shower, lying in a strange bed, I tried to imagine the canyon, ridges, peaks, and rock formations outside my room. But with the heat turned off, the room was absolutely silent and darker than any place I could remember sleeping in, and I felt like I was literally nowhere, floating in a void.
Monday, September 5th, 2022: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
It was September already, and there was only one of my regular crest hikes that I hadn’t tried since my May-June illness and loss of capacity. It was in the range of canyons over in Arizona, southwest of here, and was far enough that it involved an overnight stay.
The last time I’d been up there was the end of January. We hadn’t had much snow, but there were some drifts that had enabled a test of my new waterproof boots.
Now I was wearing those same boots during the summer monsoon, to help with creek crossings and fend off rain. It appeared that our thunderstorms were on the wane, but I brought the boots anyway, and was glad as I saw a layer of clouds over the mountains ahead. Then I remembered the creek crossings at the beginning of the trail, sometimes a challenge even at low flow, and was doubly glad.
The first half of the hike involves a steep climb from a lush riparian corridor at 5,800′, deep in the central basin, to a “pine park” at 8,000′, up on the shoulder of one of the range’s tallest peaks. It starts with three crossings of the range’s most famous creek, which turned out to be running high as expected, and up to 15′ wide. Trusting in my boots, I basically just ran across on submerged rocks, but at the second crossing I encountered a father and son who were wearing sneakers, and I helped them find a stick to make their crossing safer.
Despite it being a holiday weekend and this being a popular getaway from Tucson and Phoenix, I didn’t see anyone else after that. The 2,000′ climb from oak scrub to mixed conifer forest is very steep – when I started hiking here 3 years ago I considered it one of my most daunting climbs – so with my current reduced lung capacity I approached it with a stiff upper lip. But it actually wasn’t too bad. I realized I was in exactly the same position I’d been in 3 years ago – having to stop often to catch my breath, I’d trained myself to climb more slowly so I didn’t have to stop as often. I covered the 3 miles to the park in 2 hours, which didn’t seem bad. And as usual, I was grateful for how much better maintained the trails are here than back at home. Fighting through monsoon overgrowth of shrubs and annuals has become a real chore this year, but there wasn’t nearly as much of it in these mountains.
Clouds were drifting back and forth over the crest, and the temperature was mild when I started out, but I was soon sweating through my clothes, and before I was even halfway up to the park, I was sweating so hard it was dripping constantly from my hatbrim, nose, and chin – another thing I’m getting really tired of.
Then, as I continued past the park and rounded the corner into the big upper canyon, I was hit by a blast of cold wind, and quickly became chilled. This cold wind chased me for the rest of the climb, and my sweat-soaked hat and shirt didn’t dry out until I reached the end – so it was only the effort of climbing that kept me from being miserably cold.
This second stretch of the hike is not quite as steep as the first half, and I was able to maintain a good pace until the last mile, when I really ran out of steam and had to stop often. It’s always been a hard slog – it originally took me 3 tries to reach the top. But today I was determined to go farther than ever before – to explore a little of the crest trail beyond the junction, into the other big canyon in the south of the range.
In the bleak, burned saddle at 9,300′, the trail disappears in overgrowth of annuals, and makes a sharp turn to traverse the next peak toward the actual crest trail. It’s only because I’ve hiked it before that I know where to go at this point – there’s an almost invisible path through the shoulder-high ferns that you can only detect when you’re right on top of it, and even then you have to use landmarks ahead and behind to keep on track.
But this traverse lies at the southwest head of the long, deep canyon, and today’s wind was out of the northeast, so the entire canyon was acting as a funnel, and all along this traverse I was subjected to gale-force wind, intensifying as I reached the junction saddle. I was only able to keep my hat on by cinching it down tightly over my ears.
It’s always great to reach a new watershed, with new vistas – this hike progresses across 3 major ones – but it was so damn windy I couldn’t linger. I only explored about 300 yards up the crest trail before it was time to turn back.
My shirt and hat were finally dry, but now the wind was in my face as I started back down the big canyon. It’d been a grueling hike and I was feeling a little sick at first, running out of breath and having to stop occasionally, but after the first mile of descent I was okay. The lower I climbed, the wind gradually slowed and temperature gradually increased, until when I reached the pine park I was actually warm again.
From the pine park, you’re descending a north slope in late afternoon, so you’re mostly in shade, with long shadows from the crest cutting across the slopes ahead, making wonderful patterns of light and dark. As usual, I was looking forward to burrito and beer in the cafe, but still lingered as much as time allowed, to admire flowers and butterflies.
Monday, December 11th, 2023: Chiricahuas, Hikes, Snowshed, Southeast Arizona.
After the relative success of last weekend’s big climb on an unfamiliar trail, I decided to drive over the state line this weekend to re-do a slightly longer big climb that I hadn’t done for over a year. Unfortunately, in multiple instances of wishful thinking, I mistakenly assumed I was back in top shape after more than a year of setbacks, and I forgot how challenging the hike actually is and what limited time you have to complete it once you drive over there.
It was 21 degrees out when I left home, and I packed my gaiters, expecting both creek crossings and patches of deep snow.
Approaching the mountains I was surprised not to see snow on the crest. The temperature at the trailhead, a couple hundred feet lower than home, was still in the mid-20s – colder than I remember in this location – and my uncovered nose quickly got cold, so I hurried through the shady spots. The creeks were lower than I’d ever seen, so the gaiters would just be dead weight.
The first three-mile segment of trail climbs 2,000 feet, with the first mile and a half at a steady 15 percent grade, from oak scrub to ponderosa pine forest. From there it traverses a shaded north slope to the junction with the upper trail. I always forget how hard a climb this is.
I’d seen a couple of footprints on the initial climb, but most people just do the first mile or so, and I was the first hiker on the traverse in many months.
The first payoff of this hike is when you cross into the next watershed, a big east-trending canyon whose head is on the crest of the range. Much of the forest was destroyed in the 2011 wildfire, and at this time of year the rocky, treeless slopes are dominated by ferns in their fall color, rust-red.
What follows is a traverse that climbs 1,300 feet in another three miles – which doesn’t sound like much, but the trail hasn’t been cleared in many years, the footing consists almost completely of loose, sharp rocks, and our wet year of 2022 resulted in erosion of tread and overgrowth of woody shrubs that block the trail in many places. There was no sign that any other hikers had tried this trail in the past year.
I found this traverse so difficult that I had to stop repeatedly to catch my breath, and in the last mile I realized I wouldn’t reach my destination, and began feeling like I’d made a mistake in coming. This trail climbs to a barren saddle, and from there continues across the head of the canyon to its junction with the crest trail. I’d forgotten that it originally took me three tries, simply to reach the barren saddle, and then another couple of tries to reach the junction, which offers a view into yet another big canyon.
You have to be in killer shape to reach that junction quickly enough so you can return down the trail before the cafe closes, and I was not in killer shape now. The six miles to the saddle had taken me almost 4-1/2 hours, and continuing to the junction would force me to hurry down that treacherous loose rock, almost certainly missing my deadline.
On the way down, I gradually became aware that I’d been so distracted throughout this hike – thinking only of my problems at home – I’d barely even been aware of my surroundings. Normally I love the views here, and I had noticed four redtail hawks working the canyon and a young whitetail buck crossing the saddle, but overall, this was the first hike I could remember that I simply hadn’t enjoyed.
To compound my discontent, I developed a leg cramp on the way down, so bad that for about fifteen minutes, I was screaming whenever I tried to move. This was the third hike in a row where I’d developed a cramp, despite drinking plenty of water and adding electrolytes. I’ve been bringing 3-1/2 liters since cold weather started – that was more than enough in the past – but this year I find I’m running out of water before trail’s end, and getting these terrible cramps.
By the time I reached the pine park – the halfway point – my neck, shoulders, hip, knees, and ankles were all aching. I didn’t know if it was due to lack of conditioning, or simply natural aging. My whole routine for the past five years has been oriented toward longer, higher-elevation-gain wilderness hikes. And whenever I find myself losing capacity, I wonder if the loss will be irreversible this time.
On the way down, instead of enjoying the hike, all I could think of was dining in a restaurant and spending the night away from the problems that are crushing me at home. But despite giving up on my original destination, I still ended up cutting the return too close – the cafe was closing so I had to get my burrito and beer to go.
