Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

  The air, the foliage, everything, was wet and muddy. It took a long time for the sun to clear Chieftain Mountain to reach the valley as I slogged through the wet. I watched the stream grow from a trickle to a good-sized creek with crashing rapids and waterfalls. Descending, I saw a deer and happily identified yellow shrubby cinquefoil. A strange pink flower took me six years to identify from its photo; it was prairie smoke.

  Reaching the campground shortly after lunch, I found Chosen had come and gone with horse riders to get her car at Wolf Creek Pass, cryptically telling Kathy and David that we were incompatible hikers. I wondered what she’d been expecting when she said she wanted to hike with me. Hikers come in many different personalities. There is no one right way to hike, and there is no one right personality. We all have our own issues and life problems, which affect who we are. The trail (the world and God) holds us all.

  David and Grapevine cleared out of the trailer, so I could take my bath in the sink. I was so filthy. Getting clean felt good. It was wonderful to have friends, who had come to the end of the earth to support me. After a relaxing afternoon and evening and a good dinner, too, we were happy to be inside for the afternoon thunderstorms.

  On my rest day, David heated boiling water to do my laundry in a bucket. It was nice to get hiking clothes clean, even in a primitive campground. I hung them on chairs to catch the morning sun, along with my drying tent. Shoes, clothes, and gear dry, I was ready to go again.

  David fixed us elk steaks for dinner, along with broccoli and potato. Yum. After dinner we took a walk around the campground, stopping to talk to John and Marvis from Texas on a fishing trip, who were eating a nice catch of German Brown Trout along with corn and even peach cobbler done up in a Dutch oven like I used to do in Girl Scouts. We had a fun conversation, and they fed me trout and cobbler. Yum again. Hikers can eat double meals.

  The “Window”

  John liked to hike, too, and he walked to Squaw Pass with me in the morning. He shared plums and grapes, as I treated water for him at the pass for his way back down. During the day I passed six different hikers in groups of two. The last two looked at me like I was crazy when I told them my destination was Buena Vista. Well, I didn’t expect to get there any time soon.

  Struggling up the last hill, I listened to thunder and watched dark skies beyond the ridge. Eyeing a scrubby patch of very short alpine trees and deciding where to pitch my tent, it started to rain. Dashing into the patch of trees, I sat on my pack, umbrella over me. When the rain stopped for about two minutes, I hurriedly set up the tent, putting in the first basic stakes and the central hiking pole before it again began to rain and hail.

  Grabbing my pack, I dove into the half-erected tent, awkwardly holding the tent’s side out with one arm while half lying at an angle. Throughout the squall, I couldn’t change positions, unpack, or put on my coat. It was better to be cold and dry than cold and wet.

  Still in my cramped position, I heard voices. Gail, whom I’d met on the AT in Maine and in New Mexico in the spring, had arrived with her son Greg in rain and hail. I hadn’t known for sure if our paths would cross. Not only did we meet, they decided to share my small clump of trees, setting up camp in the rain. Finally, the rain stopped, we settled in together, anticipating a cold night at 12,300 feet, the ground now dressed in wet hail.

  That night a mouse ran up the wall of my mosquito netting. It must have been a well-used campsite to support active mice at that elevation. Waking early, my body was tired of lying down and ached in every horizontal position. High altitude had prevented good sleep, having to consciously deep breathe every several breaths. Funny, I wasn’t bothered with shortness of breath until over 12,000 feet and at rest.

  From our high perch below a large, distinctive opening in the rock wall of the Divide called The Window, the sunrise was beautiful. I love to take sunrise pictures, but Gail and her son were more interested in firing up their stove for breakfast. We were all cold. After packing up we said our good-byes, they heading south and I north.

  Pushing through willows and walking in ditches, I passed a number of high-mountain lakes, and the willows changed color to paint the high country shades of yellow in contrast to the dark green spruce in the valley. Lovely.

  Leaving the lake in the morning, I saw fresh cat tracks, and as I approached the first pass, I saw a critter, possibly a cougar, too far away to positively identify. Hearing my movement as I pulled out my camera, it went over the ridge like a flash. Later I heard coyotes.

  Huffing and puffing, again I moved like a slug on every uphill. Thinking the stress of trying to go faster, might give me a heart attack, I didn’t push myself. I just didn't feel right over 12,000 feet. But I was thrilled to be walking in awesome country on top of the world, reveling in fantastic views.

  I’d seen the Rio Grande Pyramid and The Window, that remarkable straight gap in a rock ridge line, from both sides that day. A new range of mountains, the Grenadiers, came into view, rugged and pointy, reminding me of pictures of Peru’s Machu Pichu on a smaller scale.

  By beautiful Ute Lakes, I passed three large groups of backpackers at the beginning of Labor Day weekend. Glad to reach my destination, finding a lower campsite at 11,600 feet, I was happy it didn’t rain.

  But I woke up to clouds. Uh oh. Not a good sign. I had many climbs and spent most of the day well above 12,000 feet. Half way up my first 1,000-foot climb, it started to rain. Up went the umbrella, and I needed it frequently as rain or hail storms passed by.

  My trail went over Hunchback Pass down to Bear Town, then up to a crest, then up and down a few times more, all while multiple rain squalls blew by. Breaks and rain-free times were short, but the views were outstanding. A passing bow hunter excitedly told me he’d just seen a moose, and I saw 21 hikers in groups out for the long weekend. As I walked through high open country under my umbrella, I hoped lightning would find other places to hit. I had plenty of company with other hikers (sans umbrella), who wished the same.

  Stony Pass and Silverton

  David and Kathy were waiting for me at Stony Pass. Kathy loved to climb summits, even with plantar fasciitis, and she almost summited the peak by the road before I arrived. Reaching the truck, I felt whipped after only a 10-mile day.

  The ride down the Stony Pass Road was very steep and rocky. I don’t know if David ever forgave me for abusing his nice truck on that horrible road. We were all glad to reach Silverton, for differing reasons.

  My zero day coincided with Sunday, so I went to church. Afterwards, I called Punkie, or Liz, as she goes by now, an old friend from Girl Scout Camp more than 50 years ago. Amazing. The CDT put me in touch with my past, first Terry in Las Cruces and now Punkie.

  Punkie drove from Durango to Silverton, and we went out to lunch, showing each other pictures of family, adventures in hiking (me), and llama trekking in the San Juans (Liz) as we caught up on the last 50 years. Past lives of old hikers can dot long trails with old friends, adding to hiking enjoyment.

  I had my ice cream fix with a gigantic cone while walking around Silverton with Liz. David cooked us elk steaks with lovely fresh asparagus for dinner, and it was time to hit the trail again, so David and Kathy drove me back up to Stony Pass, though I know David hated that road.

  I set out with good cheer under fluffy clouds in a blue sky and hoped my red blood cells were catching up to the altitude. In the afternoon, in dry comfort on my ridge, I watched a storm one valley over.

  Wildlife included several marmots, an eagle, and a ton of mice in the meadows. I’d never noticed so many mice before. Yarrow, alpine cinquefoil, a few paintbrush, yellow daisies, marsh marigold and penstemon were still blooming, though it was the third of September. I learned a new flower, king’s crown. I was amazed how fast fall was approaching. After returning to the trail following a zero day, the high meadows were browner, the willows more yellow, the king's crown more red.

  That particular section of the CDT is the longest continuous section of any United States Scenic
trail above timberline, more than 20 miles. I was walking on top of the world, though not a level world, numerous 500-foot climbs along the way provided ample exercise. The grand horseshoe of the San Juans enabled me to look at the north side of mountains, (I’d walked by on the south side many miles before) and I could identify Rio Grande Pyramid and the Window from a different perspective.

  Feeling Funny

  After lunch, I began to fade. Though the uphills were not more difficult, I became more slug-like going up them. Marcus, from Germany, whom I’d met in 2011 in Oregon on the PCT, came toward me. We were both excited to see each other and chattered quickly before going our separate ways. Marcus was the first SOBO thru hiker of the year, a strong hiker doing 30-mile days. He said he might take a bike trip across Asia for his next adventure when he finished the CDT. He was way beyond my class of old lady hiker, yet I was happy to count him as a friend.

  Seeing Marcus gave me more energy for the last stretch. Passing a small stream, I hydrated my dinner before the last little climb to the lake where I met Sara, a young Colorado Trail section hiker, and a couple from California hiking a short section. We camped by the lake at 12,200 feet, Sara’s tent close to mine. Besides having my daughter’s name, she was an interesting young woman, who flew C-130s for the Air Force and loved climbing, rafting, and hiking. We talked until darkness fell. The people met on the trail were as varied and interesting as the many flowers beside the trail.

  I woke up a few times in the night to concentrate on breathing but still slept fairly well. I woke to a frosty world, 36 degrees inside the tent. Sara and I were packed and ready to go at the same time, so we said good-bye and left in opposite directions.

  After the first 700-foot climb, I walked by broken-down cabins and mine tailings, the remains of the mining town of Carson.

  The second climb of 1300-feet took me to the 13,250-foot-high point, concurrent with the Colorado Trail since the midpoint of the San Juans. Climbing slowly, stopping to catch my breath and slow my heart rate whenever I felt funny, I tried to listen to whatever my body told me and not to assume I could power through.

  From the high point, the view changed entirely, going up and down increasingly lower peaks with broad, sloping east sides and rugged rocky west sides, sweeping views mainly to the east. In the canyon immediate west of me were yellow groves of Aspen, a startlingly red mountain and a rather large lake. Again the storms missed me, barely. The wind didn’t. I found it hard to dress for the weather. One minute I would be cold, in the shade of clouds with howling wind, and the next minute in bright sun, too hot for whatever I was wearing.

  Much of the Continental Divide Trail is a shared-use trail, different than PCT and AT, where bicycles are not allowed. Passing two bicycle riders, I thought I wouldn’t have wanted to push their bikes through some of the talus slopes I’d walked. Riding through them wasn’t possible, even for daredevils. Pushing and hauling, they took their bicycles over the rocks to ride again where trail was friendlier.

  Bow hunters I passed were surprised to see me. I suppose it might have been surprising to be met with a pack-carrying grandmother on the trail, when they were hunting in wilderness. Walking 14 miles on a day with only small, puffy clouds, I felt like a real hiker.

  A very brazen bunny rabbit ran around my campsite that night; I hung my food bag on a poll in hopes that would discourage the bunny. I’d arrived too late to hang properly for bears, and hoped they were not around. I seemed to be getting more acclimated, or perhaps I’d just descended lower than 12,000 ft.

  The rest of the way to the highway consisted of two low ascents of very gradual up hills followed by smooth, gentle down hills. Patches of golden aspen shown against the backdrop of the mountains, and I could see the red mountain in the valley to the west and the Snowy Mesa to the east. Virtually every step of the way through the San Juans had shown me a view. I didn’t walk to find a view. I walked to see how views changed.

  At the highway, I met Kathy and David one last time before they headed home to Washington the next day. Thank you was way too little to say for the trail support they’d given me. I hoped they’d enjoyed southern Colorado while waiting to give me food drops.

  Without David and Kathy’s support, I had a new challenge—one I’d been worrying about since I’d started the trek into the San Juans. How could I carry enough food for eight days? I’d carried eight days of food beside the Gila River, but a river in a nearly level river valley meant I did not need to carry much water. I could carry eight days of food with no water and no big climbs. I couldn’t carry eight days of food and liters of water, too. Water is heavy, and my trail wouldn’t be level or at low altitude.

  The hosts at Raven's Rest Hostel gave me Debbie’s phone number. She agreed to take me back to Spring Creek Pass in the morning and would also bring me a food drop in four days at highway 114. It cost me some cash for this arrangement, but my aging body needed to not carry eight days of food plus water going up and down high mountains.

  Debbie was right on time. She took my food drop and told me she’d have my back if I ran into any trouble. She planned to bring her sleeping bag with her the day she brought my food drop, in case I’d had trouble getting there at the time planned. Neither one of us were too sure exactly where the trail would cross Highway 114.

  Embrace the Brutality

  I took the 1,500-foot climb up to Snowy Mesa slowly, if not as a slug, then as a turtle.

  Pikas with cute round ears lived above treeline in the rocks and were industriously gathering grass for the winter. Pikas are small alpine mammals about the size of hamsters, but related to rabbits. David told a story, perhaps true, of a trail crew in Washington that struggled to remove a very large rock from a trail. When they finally succeeded, they found a Volkswagen-sized pile of grass and a very angry pika. Pikas are also sometimes called rock rabbits or conies. The ones I saw that day, mouths full of grass, were intent on winter storage in the talus field.

  I also walked by a well-camouflaged ptarmigan, who was so still it looked like a rock. When I stopped moving, it's low, soft humming coo gave away its presence.

  On top of Snow Mesa, I saw a sheepherder's tent in the distance and a wall of sheep moving across my trail ahead of me. They moved amazingly quickly, disappearing over the curve of the hill by the time I reached the spot where they’d crossed my trail. I also saw an eagle and almost walked over two more rock-resembling ptarmigan before they moved.

  Stopping for the night at 11,600 feet, I camped between tall, cliff-like mountains near a high mountain stream with yellow daisies all around me. Stopping early, I avoided another night of breathlessness above 12,000 feet.

  Start at 11,000 feet. Climb to 12,000 feet. Descend. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. End with a long descent of 2,000 feet. Top with wildlife. That was the next day.

  Details: The second 1,000-foot climb came close to doing me in. It was very steep, and the altitude was, well, the same altitude as the others, but my body said it was much higher. I had to rest every three or four steps, steps that seemed like climbing a ladder while I was weighted by lead.

  It was the day for septuagenarians. The first two gentlemen I saw were 75 and 74. Another 74-year-old gentleman, who worked in Alaska for the National Park Service, was traveling with two young people. Later, Remy, from Bellingham, a good looking young man thru hiking the Colorado Trail, passed me moving smoothly and with energy, even uphill. Marcus moved like that. But I didn’t. Later still, an older gentleman with a heavy pack passed me. All were pleasant folks.

  Finishing brutal climbs, I walked five miles down the Cochetopa. One of the phrases thru hikers have used to describe hiking on the CDT is “embrace the brutality.” I don't really like the phrase, but on that day it really fit.

  My last pass of the day was next to San Luis Peak, one of Colorado's many 14ers. (Mountains over 14,000 feet) Many thru hikers climb it as they go by, but I left that to the big boys (or younger boys and girls than me). I didn’t need to go up a 14er when I’d
had trouble breathing at the altitude of the trail. Although I loved the high country, I was glad to descend the Cochetopa to views of a different kind and better breathing.

  “Thank you for the picture, Mr. Moose”

  As I descended past flowers and beaver ponds, two deer said hello. Then there were moose—two cow moose in the willows beside the trail. As I was taking their picture, papa moose, a big bull with a huge rack, suddenly stepped out of the bushes near me. He was magnificent. His rack was so big it looked like he had to be careful with head movements to keep from being overbalanced. I already had the camera out and quickly took his picture, but I didn’t stand around staring. Definitely big enough to be dangerous, he was only 15-feet away from me. Saying, “Thank you for the picture, Mr Moose,” I left before he could be upset. Finally stopping for the day near a tree appropriate for food-bag hanging, I ended without high-country vistas. But I’d seen a perfect moose.

  Most of the next day was spent continuing the long descent along Cochetopa Creek with a few little up hills to remind me I was hiking, not strolling. The morning color was provided by aspen gold against spruce dark green; the creek danced downhill between beaver dams. Although I didn’t see him, a beaver felled a big aspen about 20 feet below me, crashing right as I passed. That was startling.

  Kinnikinnick and juniper ground cover brought back memories of growing up in Colorado Mountains. Predominant plants in the valleys were rabbit brush and sage. Purple asters, yarrow, harebell, shrubby cinquefoil and a couple kinds of yellow daisies also still bloomed.

  I must have been thinking deep thoughts, mentally singing or playing trail zombie, hypnotized by repetitive steps eating the miles, as I made a wrong turn just before Ant Creek, but I quickly found the trail again.