by Bill Walker
“All the evidence known at present shows that a man cannot do without water, nor be trained to do with less water.”
Adolph’s research was groundbreaking at the time of World War II, and to this day remains the gold standard on human water requirements.
Every year about two hundred people die in our national parks. They drown, they fall, have heart attacks, drive off cliffs, you name it. But few ever die as strangely as 26 year-old David Coughlin.
In the summer of 1999, David and his friend, Raffi Kodikian headed out on that great American rite of passage—the cross-country road trip. They left from Boston and on day six arrived at Carlsbad Caverns National Park in the Chihuahuan desert in southern New Mexico. First, they went to the ranger station to inquire as to the cheapest place they could camp. The ranger recommended a campsite in an area called Rattlesnake Canyon. Specifically, they were to drive down a dirt road, park their car, and walk a mile down to the campsite on the desert floor. Raffi filled out their campsite permit for a stay of one day.
The ranger also advised them to carry at least one gallon of water for each day they planned to be out there. David and Raffi were on tight budgets, however, and chose to purchase just three pint bottles for the two of them. They hurried out to make it to the campsite before dark.
They easily found the parking lot for Rattlesnake Canyon, strapped on their backpacks, and soon reached the bottom of the canyon floor. They had planned to camp right there, but were in an adventuresome mood. So David and Raffi took a turn onto a lightly traveled trail which they followed for about a mile. Here they set up camp
All was well.
David and Raffi broke camp early the next morning to avoid getting caught in the broiling sun. Quickly they realized they were lost.
Because of its shear vastness, hiking in the desert can be tricky. David and Rafffi spent the afternoon wandering thirstily in various directions hoping vainly to come across water somewhere. But wisely they elected to not wander too far afield. They reasoned that since they had filled out the camping permit for only one day, somebody would soon come looking for them.
That night around midnight their hopes were suddenly lifted when both spotted a light on the far canyon wall. There must be a road over there, they reasoned. The following morning they began scaling a steep incline to try to find the road. Altogether, it took three hours in the blazing heat to arrive at the top. Once at the top, it became immediately clear there was no road anywhere around. But that wasn’t the worst part.
The previous day, David Coughlin and Raffi Kodikian had actually played it pretty smart by seeking shade and not using up too much bodily water. But the trek they had just made to the top of the shelf probably used up as much as eight times the bodily water than if they had laid low. And it left them on barren heights completely exposed. This is when things began to get ugly.
Vultures started circling over David and Raffii. Like almost everyone else, they had seen old westerns in which vultures wait until their prey is too weak to resist. At that point, the vultures strike.
“They were probably about thirty feet above us,” Raffi later testified. “It would start with just one circling and then another one would come and then another one. They would just stick around and watch us. We would wave our arms to let them know that we were still alive. My understanding of buzzards at the time was that they start before you’re done—as soon as you’re too tired to fight them.” David and Raffi happened to be disastrously wrong on this point. Vultures are actually highly social creatures that like to hang out around outdoors people, as well as other vultures.
They decided to head back into the canyon they had used up so much effort climbing out of earlier in the morning. First, though they found some pieces of cactus bush and began trying to suck water out of it. Since cacti absorb water, this theoretically could have helped. But they remained desperately thirsty. Now it was time to try the oldest trick in the book.
They would each drink their own urine. Had they known better, however, they would never have tried it. A person’s body actually uses up more water processing the urine’s waste than it gains from the liquid. Nonetheless, they filled up their pint bottles with urine which was a dark gold color, sampled it, and immediately gagged. David now began to stagger and it was all they could do to get back to their tents.
“We will not let the buzzards get us alive,” Raffi wrote in their journal on August 7th, the hottest day yet. “God forgive us.” Then they decided on a ghastly course of action. They would each slit the other’s wrist. They pulled out their one knife and each took a turn at carving the other’s blood vessels. But, for whatever reason—fear, weakness, whatever—neither was able to do more than mark up the other person’s wrists. Now they were faced with having to take everything the desert could throw at them in a slow, agonizing final act.
David began vomiting uncontrollably. Soon he was begging Raffi to kill him. Assuming they were both going to die, Raffi decided to oblige his friend. He took the knife out and tried to stab David in the chest. The first attempt was only partly successful. But on the second stab he achieved deep penetration into David’s heart, who started bleeding profusely.
“Pull it out,” David then said.
“I asked him if he was in pain,” Raffi later testified. “He said he felt better and smiled.” Raffi held David’s hand and put a tee-shirt over his head as David died. He then went back into his tent to await his own fate.
Several hours later he heard footsteps. Ranger Lance Mattson approached the remnants of Raffi’s tent and was shocked to see someone in there.
“Please tell me you have water,” Raffi rasped.
“Yes, I do,” replied the ranger. “Is everything okay?”
“Why weren’t you here earlier?” was Raffi’s croaking reply. The ranger handed Raffi a bottle of water, which he began, at turns, inhaling and vomiting.
“Where’s your buddy?” the ranger asked.
“Over there,” Raffi said, gesturing to a makeshift stone grave he had constructed. Matson saw nothing as he wandered around.
“Where?” he asked again.
“Right here,” Raffi pointed out. “I killed him,” he said calmly.
The facts above come from the sometimes rambling journal they kept, as well as the testimony Raffi delivered under oath. The police, however, flat out didn’t buy it.
“I don’t care what anyone says,’ the county sheriff said. “You just don’t do that to your best friend.”
An equally skeptical county prosecutor stated, “You don’t get to kill someone in the state of New Mexico just because they ask you to.” One story that gained currency was that David Coughlin had trysted with Raffi’s ex-girlfriend, Kirsten Swan. The theory was that at some point in their traumatic journey David had confessed to Raffi, at which point Raffi became enraged.
Raffi Kodikian pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and put his fate in the hands of the court.
“It was mercy, not mental illness, that made you kill him?” the judge asked.
“What I thought I was doing,” Raffi replied, “was keeping my friend from going through 12 to 24 hours of hell before he died.” David’s parents believed Raffi, and publicly supported him, while Raffi’s parents sat there weeping. Raffi listened intently. The judge sentenced Raffi to a lighter than expected 24 months, of which he served 16 months before being released for good behavior.
This whole tale, which reads like a Greek tragedy, is brilliantly recounted in Jason Kersten’s book, Journal of the Dead—A Story of Friendship and Murder in the Desert. Kersten actually tells the story in a way that lends a kind of poignant dignity to the whole drama.
The dread that so many people feel in the desert is not usually through imminent danger. Rather, it is something far worse—the desert’s implacable indifference. We are humans and our bodies are full of water. The desert will efficiently and inexorably suck it out of us. In the process, we become deranged.
The message
for the desert hiker is loud and clear—caveat emptor.
Chapter 7
And They’re Off
Bliss was in that dawn to be alive.
William Wordsworth
It was a brilliant pageantry of clean, well-fed, well-hydrated hikers in their desert best that bounded out of Lake Morena County
State Park in southern California with such high hopes. The PCT had issued a record number of hiking permits (over 500) to thru-hiking hopefuls this year. And, of course, many had already picked up colorful trail names ranging from Heartless Bastard, to Helen of Troy (well, nice try anyway), to Serial Killer.
To describe us as heavily laden would be an understatement. I was carrying about 42 pounds which was a dozen more than I had begun with on the Appalachian Trail. Specifically, we had been advised to carry winter clothes all the way through the desert, which had our backpacks bulging. Attached or stashed in each backpack was a minimum of four liters of water.
I had always wondered why Arabs in the Middle East wear such long robes. Wouldn’t that Saudi royal family be more comfortable in Izod golf shirts? But once in the desert, I quickly began to understand. Those robes are light and loose, and provide maximum protection from the sun. Most hikers, male and female, were wearing long-sleeved, beige Sahara desert shirts. Yogi, whose PCT Handbook is the one indispensable guide to hiking the PCT, had strongly advised, “Get yourself the widest, dorkiest hat you can find.” Everybody seemed to have taken that advice to heart. On our heads were widebrimmed white fedoras with chin straps to cover our faces and nose.
When we passed through the Boulder Oaks Campground at mile six, a crowd was gathered around the faucet, drinking like camels.
“Let me have some,” a healthy-looking, squarely-built girl in her mid-twenties immediately exclaimed upon seeing me. She wasn’t talking about my water, though, but my height.
“Just take steps like this,” I stretched out as far as I could. “You’ll be in Canada before you know it.” This generated the intended laughter, to be sure. All weekend at the Kickoff, I had been hearing, “God I wish I had your height.” But I was uncomfortable with the high expectations it created.
“I’m Galit,” this girl introduced herself.
“Where are you from?” I asked, noticing a foreign accent.
“Israel.” Those Israelis sure didn’t win all those wars by being shrinking violets.
I lay down in the shade next to some other guy with our backpacks as headrests.
“Hey guys, watch out for those bees,” Galit said. I jumped up, suddenly alarmed at the swarm of bees all over my back. Galit immediately jumped in and started fanning wildly at the bees to get them off our backs.
This girl reminded me a little of myself. She was probably a bit insecure about what lay ahead and was looking for hiking partners. Something told me she would find them. Indeed, she soon had herself embedded with a big group that got dubbed the International Brigade.
Perhaps my hiking contingent should have been called the Sausage Brigade. There were four males, aged 39, 48, 48, and 66. The latter, Dave—to my surprise—had called my name out at the Kickoff.
“I bought your book at the book signing at Borders in Sarasota,” he had said.
“Oh yeah,” I remembered.
“It was my inspiration to come out here and give it a whirl,” he then claimed. That was surely an exaggeration. But it did make me feel obligated to hang together with him, for at least awhile. His heart and soul were in this hike, and he had obviously trained meticulously.
Dave had been ripping to go that morning. As the rest of us scurried around to get packed up, he toodled around with his backpack
firmly strapped on. That was a no-no. It expends unnecessary energy. His biggest mistake, though, was the classic rookie error. His backpack looked like he had stuffed the kitchen sink in there somewhere. It weighed about 50 pounds, and quickly earned him the trail name, ‘Lighten Up’.
A pattern soon developed. Ralph, St. Rick, and I would hike a couple miles, notice Dave wasn’t back there, and stop for a rest. When Dave would arrive huffing and puffing fifteen minutes later, the four of us would head on. But only three of us would be rested.
These breaks did afford us a chance to view a few of our new colleagues. An athletic-looking redheaded girl in her thirties that I had seen at the Kickoff came by.
“Excuse me,” I playfully said, “but the three of us are all out of water. Could we borrow some of yours?”
“No,” she immediately barked out and quickly jumped into a fighting crouch. “Me do kung-fu.” The short, squatty guy trailing behind her must have appreciated it because he broke into a delirious laugh. He named her Kung-Fu, and she dubbed him Giggles. Both names stuck all the way.
We soon passed Kung-Fu alone on the side of the trail.
“How about coming along to help us not get lost,” I suggested.
“Well, I’ll hike with you for awhile,” she said grudgingly. These women out here sure were a different breed from what I had grown up with in the Deep South. In place of charm and subtle calculation, you often got bluntness and fierce independence.
Perhaps trying to assert my own self, I bolted ahead of the group down a long, sandy straightaway.
“Skywalker, Skywalker,” they all suddenly were shouting. Oh God, snake! I started frantically high-stepping as fast as I could for about twenty yards. But they all kept screaming my name. I turned around and looked at the ground, but saw nothing. Instead, all my amused comrades were pointing to the fork in the trail I had just missed. Be careful. Rattlesnakes were bound to give anybody this side of Huck Finn the creeps. But the lack of landmarks in the desert probably makes getting lost the greater threat. Every year there are hikers that pick up the trail names Wrongway or Backtrack.
The trail angels and hiking community, having spoiled us at the Kickoff, apparently decided to slowly wean us. When we got to Kitchen Creek Road at mile ten, a couple of trail angels from the Kickoff had pulled up in vans. Coolers full of ice-cold drinks and snacks were laid out for us.
The best part, though, came when a guy named Hector interrupted my reclining reverie. “You’re next, Skywalker.” Hector was famous in PCT circles as The Foot Doctor. He had me soak them in some concoction for a few minutes and then propped them up in his lap to examine them.
“Wonderful calluses,” he said approvingly. “These things can take some punishment.”
Heck, telling a hiker he has great foot calluses at the beginning of a twenty-six hundred mile hike, is the greatest possible benediction.
The vague, Hollywood-inspired image many of us had of the desert was of a hot, flat cakewalk. Immediately, we received a jolt, however. The trail wound its way almost three thousand feet up a mountain. The sun was dipping below the horizon when we got near the top.
“I believe everybody is headed to Cibbet Flats,” St. Rick said. That sounded pretty good—lots of people. Dave should be able to make it there. And Cibbet Flats should be flat. Right? Not even close. When we turned the corner, there was a hiker’s version of a mob scene. Worse yet, Cibbet Flats was a ravine, with a filthy-looking stream bisecting its banks. Nonetheless, people were planning to stay here, and the least angular spots were already dotted with pitched tents and sleeping bags.
“I’m gonna’ give this a miss,” St. Rick said in British parlance.
“Oh wow,” I moaned. “This is Dave’s first time ever camping, and we’re already leaving him behind.”
“Yeah, I feel bad, too,” agreed Ralph.
“First night out here—you two guys abandon him and he gets eaten by a cougar,” St. Rick piped in with his very correct English accent. But as I had long known, long-distance hikers do habitually leave each other behind. I was no different. We had a long journey ahead.
It was getting cold and windy and we were faced with an exposed climb to try to get to Burnt Rancheria Campground. I left word with a couple hikers to tell Dave that we were moving on. Dave ended up hiking unt
il dark and made it to this last ravine. He had then attempted to set up camp on this incline for the first time in his 66 years. In the middle of the night his tent blew down and he spent the rest of the night keeping it erected. His troubles were just beginning.
Ralph, St. Rick, and I headed up the mountain, trying to beat dark. Unlike a couple nights before, we made it to the campground just before dark. However, the wind dominated the landscape, and the three of us ended up pitching our tents hundreds of yards apart in the most bizarre places. Oh, how I missed the shelters of the AT.
After 22 miles I reasoned I deserved a hot meal. I pulled out my old alcohol stove and tried to generate a flame. But one time after another, the cold wind harassed the modest flame my stove could generate. Hmm. So this is how all these forest fires get started out here? I finally gave up and ate cold food.
This trail is going to take some getting used to.
Chapter 8
Trout Lily
“Man, you should have seen this Mexican dude,” she exclaimed. “He just came out of nowhere and started begging me for water.”
“In spanish?” I asked.
“No, perfect english,” she said in wonderment.
“You should have asked him to hike with you,” I suggested.
“I thought about it. I swear I did. But I don’t want to get in any shit with these border officials.”
Some people just have star quality, pure and simple. This girl had it from the get-go. I say girl. She was 29, but probably got carded every time she ordered a beer due to her youthful bounciness.
She was hot. Okay, everybody’s hot in the desert, right? No, she was the real deal. Great figure, a million dollar smile, a southern accent to make you swallow your heart, and—it also seemed like—cool as hell. I had seen her razzing around at the Kickoff (who hadn’t!) and wondered if she was a hiker or a partier. She was both.