Where's my lady wilderness hero?

An Adult Book Report.

I grew up on the works of Gary Paulson and Wilson Rawls. I found inspiration in Billy Colman’s hard work, independence, and adventurous spirit. In a way, ever since I read Where the Red Fern Grows I’ve wanted to go on long walks in the wilderness, finding respite in caves and playing with puppy dogs by firelight. That seemed like the best life to me…giving dogs names found carved in the trees and catching raccoons with my grandpa to teach the dogs to hunt. A spirited feral childhood, reliant on the intertwining of nature and adventure.

I first fell in love with Brian Robeson, a fellow child of divorce, in elementary school. He seemed so rugged, a multitool of a Leatherman with a streak of sadness that arises with time after a trauma or two. “Trauma is a part of childhood. When we deal with it…is when we become adults,” he would wisely say, I imagine. I wanted to be an adult with Brian as long as I could remember. Playing house with the original wayfarer, a Levi Strauss-clad James Dean rebel without a cause.

These were my badass outdoorsy heroes of youth, with guest appearances by Thoreau, Waldo, Wordsworth, and Wadsworth.  I suppose I’ve always been a romantic. But who doesn’t enjoy the musicality of a long walk with Frost? Perhaps that explains my love for long flights to locales both desolate and frigid. “And be one traveler, long I stood.”

Oh I should not forget Edgar and later, Abbey and Service. Poe was my preteen crush. My goth phase didn’t involve black shirts and comically baggy JNCO jeans, but an inordinate amount of Edgar Allan Poe. Thus is the life of a well-read (at the time) budding rebel with or without a cause, depending on the day. Well, what can I say? “Judge none, choose one."

And so, when kids pop up in my life, as they are wont to do, I desperately await the age when they can read these novels and readily supply the children with the hard copies. They too can be inspired by Billy and Brian! They too can learn about resilience and survival! But then I notice something.

Billy.

Brian.

Two boys with B names.

Two boys.

Why not a girl? Could not a girl want for puppies and adventure? Could not a girl experience an unforeseen traumatic plane crash and be left alone in the wild by circumstance and misfortune?

So when I look to find my lady-hero, I immediately joke about their only being Little Ann, Billy’s female coonhound. Then I think of Julie of the Wolves, which in my opinion should have been presented alongside Hatchet but came later for me after some digging. A heart-wrenching tale of a young Native Alaskan who experiences the ordeals of being an orphan and sexual assault only to find herself lost in the Arctic. The most visceral. The most real. The most intense and even today, the most relevant. Geez we were unafraid of powerful books growing up.

Is Miyax (Julie) my heroine? Maybe so. Overcoming the arctic harshness, coexisting with a pack of wolves and struggling between the old ways and the modern. Certainly Miyax is the strong, hardy lady-hero girls need. Certainly. Here I am writing today from Alaska. Methinks Julie still lives deep inside of me and has for a long time. An inspiration to the life I currently live. But still, I think the narrative is lacking. I want another wild lady hero. Annie Oakley and Fannie Quigley can only inspire you for so long before you start to see their flaws and want another great adventurous wild woman. Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz? She’s a heroine, I suppose. She went on some grand adventures but I’m not sure she’s a role model of strength and ingenuity in the same way Julie is.

So here I call for more women of the wolves, more women in the wild, and more lady-heroes. We need more stories of strong resilient women in all aspects both rural and urbane, both real and fictional. Surely, they already exist and their story just needs to be propelled to the forefront. So, let’s do it already. Share with the world! Girls need role models that they see themselves in, not apart from…or just alongside by some happenstance of romance. Bring on the Katniss Everdeens, the Bridget Joneses, the Laura Crofts. Show us that we are more than a singular Thelma or Louise, that we are indeed a nation of brilliant and diverse badass women. Just the same as that day last January full of anger and hope, where the country marched on behalf of women. This is what I, along with 2,000 others, stood out in the frozen Fairbanks streets for. This is what the nation marched for. This what I want to instill in my children, if I should choose to have them. For women are not only our mothers and daughters, but our collective future.

We shall not be ruled by our genders but by the endurance of our spirits. We shall exist by what our dreams dictate and not our precepted notions of conformity. We shall be civilized or wild, whichever we choose. We shall never let go our freedoms, our dreams or our hearts. We shall be the strong resilient women we look to find. We shall fight until every last glass ceiling is shattered and we’re finally perceived as equal. We are not weak, meek, or mild. We are women and we roar.

The Darkness Above and Below

Day 13: Morning, bright and sunny. I put on my stinky mud-coated poopy boots. I’m close enough to a real city so I try my hand at grabbing an Uber. I realize I’m probably 1,000 lightyears behind the rest of the country, but we don’t have Uber in bush Alaska. How wonderfully convenient and epic it would be if I could grab a floatplane so easily.

A woman in a small black sedan pulls up to the motel and I toss my now heavy water-filled backpack in the backseat beside me. The wheel spins smoothly through her long french manicured nails as she navigates the car towards the city of Vail, AZ. My nostrils are filled and overwhelmed by the potent air freshener and I apologize to the driver for my odor. Even though I’ve showered and rinsed out my dirt encrusted clothes, I know that my hiking boots may never lose their cow crud stank. I explain my crazy situation and she’s very friendly and curious about how one decides and executes a long trek. I’m curious too. Clearly, this isn’t my forte. “Things don’t always work out, but it’s one helluva a worthy adventure.”

It’s not long before we arrive in the center of Vail. “Here’s fine. Anywhere’s fine really.” I bid my farewell and the driver wishes me good tidings. Vail’s not much of a such. There’s a few taquerias and a gas station. There is, however, a Dairy Queen brazier. Naturally, I stopped in and purchased an Oreo blizzard. Cold and creamy, the ice cream complements the scorching day and I make short work of the dessert. I scrape out every little chocolate chunk with that iconic red plastic spoon. Ice cream for breakfast? Your mother raised you better than that. Well, I am an adult now and I can do as I please. It feels a tinge wrong but also so so right. 

I exit the air-conditioned restaurant a half past noon and make my way along the main strip to begin the 6+ mile journey to Colossal Cave Mountain Park, where I can meet up with the trail. Generally, cars motor by at great speeds but some slow down to ogle me, a misfit with a large green pack and trekking poles who is sweating in the swelter. I come up to the true measure of civilization, a Walgreens. I step in and take the opportunity to purchase another travel sized sunscreen, a Gatorade, and some sunglasses to replace my sacrificial Huachuca pair. Polarized. My eyes thank me and the world looks romantic.

It is a lengthy stretch of perfect desert road to the cave. A smooth black thoroughfare with sunflower yellow center lines. I drink a lot of water and amble along towards my destination. Hordes of bicyclists in their bright tight synthetic jerseys and shiny silver helmets pass me going in the opposite direction. I feel like I’m amidst the Tour d’France. A few wave hello as they zoom downhill and though they’re across the road, I can feel the breeze in their wake. I walk up a fairly gentle incline.

The saguaro cacti go from few to numerous as I cross under the large wooden gate of the park. It’s nearly 4 PM and I start to make haste up a steep winding hill to the visitor center. The park shuts its gates at 5 and I’d like to secure a campsite. The visitor center complex is very well maintained and busy as the last cave tour is departs from the bowels of the earth. Tourists of every shape and size file out of the darkness and make their way back to their multifarious vehicles. 

There’s lots to look at, but I don’t have much time. I weave through the packed gift shop, carefully not to bump any pricey trinkets off the shelf with my pack, and talk to an employee at the counter. I ask for a campsite and am willing to pay because in theory, there are bathrooms and water. The employee asks if I am doing the AZT and he says I can camp for free, which is awesome. The campground is a mile or two back down the mountain, so I hurry along to get through the gate before 5. I find a wonderful spot to set up my tent in a flat, dusty pad which is marked by little stones placed in a rectangle.

 

The happy cumulus clouds to the west begin to bunch up and portend something ominous as they make their way over me. The wind begins a steady crescendo while I set up my tent...

Tomorrow, a cave tour.

Day 14: Back at the Collossal Cave entrance with a heap of tourists, I waited for our cave guide. A young interpreter with a big flashlight lead us in. Collossal Cave was very different I had come accustomed to in Southeast Alaska. The cave had walkways and lights! Underground there were even dimly light glass display cases with museum items. An old outfit from an outlaw, a canteen, and other items with placards telling a bit about the history. It was a little hokey, but a happy diversion. I ate my first Sonoran hot dog, a local favorite, at the snack bar. Then, it was back to the trail.

Towering saguaros, each with their own personality lined the trail alongside beavertail cacti as I hiked out of the park north on flat terrain. Tumbling along with tumbleweeds with the day’s soundtrack featuring Sons of the Pioneers, it finally felt like the stereotypical Arizona I thought I would experience. My ceaseless stomping did a number on my feet and my boots were beginning to fall apart. The bottom was separating from the main sole on my left boot, so I took some duct tape I had wrapped around my water bottle and affixed it around the dirt encrusted leather. I was really sporting now. Big cumulus clouds gathered and grew dark on their bottom sides. Storm’s a-brewing. There was an epic look to the sky and the air felt electric. I was in the wide open when I got to the gate marking the boundary with Saguaro National Park. Mid-afternoon and the sky turned black with wind was a-gust. For sure now, it was going to rain. Only a matter of time. I set up camp right outside the park because camping is not allowed beyond the gate. Right as I was pounded the last stake into the dirt with a rock, heavy rain plopped hard onto to my back. I got in my little orange tent and did some reading. Great torrents and waves of heavy rain shot down from the sky and I was impressed at the tent’s ability to shield from the rain. Safe in my shelter, I surveyed my gear as soon I would be taking a break from the trail in Tucson with my mom who would join me in two day’s time. I could restock as need be then. Among the various items in my pack was a small bag that contained a portion of my dad’s ashes. My siblings and I had split them up to spread where we wanted as we all were situated in various parts of the country. My brother Karl and sister Krista were in Chicago. Kurt was in Tacoma. I was anywhere I landed from Arizona to Alaska.

My plan was to find a scenic spot along the trail to return my father to the earth. He had lived in Arizona when he was younger and was planning a visit before he passed, so I thought it seemed fitting to take them with me on my journey. Sure it was weird to hike over a 100 miles with, if I’m being crass, dead weight. However, it felt like my dad would have enjoyed following along on my journey, so I wanted to take him to see some things he’d never get to experience. It was hard to say goodbye to a person I had a complicated relationship with. He was by far not the perfect father and I was equally not the perfect daughter. But it was nice to know along the way I wasn’t totally alone. The storm made me introspective and the country around me was quite beautiful so I resolved the next day to finally spread his ashes. Perhaps his spirit would embody one of the giant saguaros? Now when I see particularly interesting saguaro, I think of Pops.

Day 15: While I won’t say exactly where, just that the next day I found a real saguaro forest and spread his ashes there. It was mountainy and the panoramic desert view was truly beautiful. I thanked my dad for his humor and for encouraging me always to pursue the things I loved, even if they meant I would be far away or in a little danger. I too finally let go of all my residual hard feelings towards him and resolved my lingering parental baggage. There was nothing he could about it now, and in the recent years before his death we had made great strides to fix our broken relationship. He had been trying to be there for me in the only ways he knew how and it was on me to forgive. So, I did. My pack was lighter now and so was my spirit. I cried because I had felt guilty, was sad for his loss, and resolute to fix any other broken relationships I had in my life before I was too late. Not again. Life’s too short. I won’t wait to make amends ever again. Another one learned the hard way.

After breaking camp in the morning, I crossed the NPS cattle guard into the park. Then, it was up past a windmill and out to the Loma Alta Trailhead. I’d be leaving the trail here for while. I got to the road and started walking toward town. I hitched a ride with a delightful old Minnesota snowbird couple who I had passed earlier on the trail. They drove me down to the intersection of Old Spanish Trail, where I would pick a more conventional means of transportation as we were headed in different directions. I was happy for a little break and looking forward to meeting up with some Denali friends who happened to be in town. Beer and tacos, here I come!

My mom was coming into town too and she the carrier of a very important item. It turns out my father’s last gift was not the late package from the AZT Association, it was a check from his life insurance. Enough to pay off the enormous debt of my college loans and that’s exactly what I did.

Dehydration

Passage 7, Las Cienegas: Mile 100.3 Lakes Road to mile 113 I-10 Underpass (for me)

Day 12, con't- I looked behind me and power walking down the trail was a young woman in sporty leggings, trail running shoes and tiny little gaiters. She carried a small pack and white headphone cords were dangling from each ear, easily visible because her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked so clean and put together compared to me. Her name is Breathless (great name) and she's a section hiker. She's headed up towards Colossal Cave and Saguaro. We chat a little about the trail and the upcoming sketchy-sounding water sources. 

Shortly thereafter, more footsteps. This time a thin man in light colored shorts and also rocking trail running shoes with itty bitty gaiters. His name is Softie and his face is obscured by the multi-colored umbrella he's holding. He intends to do the whole trail.

I feel massive and clunky compared to the pair. I'm wearing hiking boots and good old fashioned hiking attire, complete with wide brimmed hat. It feels like I represent an old, out-dated way of hiking and they represent a new, lighter, more sleek way. I consider why I don't look more like them and then I decide I don't really care. Freak what you feel. 

"Welcome to Mile 100." I say to the two. We smile. I think we all realized that Mile 100 is only remarkable because it is not really a remarkable place at all. Just a brown dirt road in a flat, dusty desert. 

It's getting hotter now and we're just about two miles from Twin Tanks. After some friendly and short "where ya from?" small talk, we depart in a staggered fashion, saying our goodbyes. 

I go last and I can see Softie's umbrella bopping down the trail ahead of me, its many happy colors provide a nice break from the sun-bleached muddy landscape. The terrain is super easy going and it would be a nice hike if it weren't so hot. 90 degrees are just too many degrees for me, as I tend to prefer the permafrost.

In little time, I arrive at Twin Tanks just as Softie is filling up his bottle. The tanks are large but totally icky. "Luckily, I don't need much." Softie says as he departs. 

I grab my various vessels and lean down towards the large pond to collect some of the filter clogging scum. It seriously smells like poo. There's a tremendous and continuous buzz from the multitude of flies that are bouncing off the chunky water and swirling around me en masse. Beautiful. It's going to be one of those days.

I fill up enough for the next 7 miles, where an okay sounding Duck Tank awaits. I'm hesitant to fill up too much because I know it will majorly clog my filter. 

The thermometer continues to rise and I pop out the umbrella for shade as there's none to be found naturally. The easy terrain is boring at best and boiling at worst. My questionable water warms quickly and the sips of murky muck from my hose are altogether unsatisfying.

I press on, headed towards Highway 83. The trail gets a little hard to follow after the Sahuarita Trailhead as it parallels the highway. Me thinking I'm smart, decide to walk the road to where the trail should intersect and hop down from there. I get to the trail crossing, but there's a barbed cattle fence so I can't leave the road surface.

I backtracked a ways and tried to find an in. This ate up a bunch of time as I skirted around prickly bushes and spiky cactii. I could almost feel my shadow grow taller in the late afternoon sun. I did find one section of fence that looked intentionally cut, right near the underpass. Did someone else run into the same thinking and happened to have wire cutters?

I took my pack off and pushed it ahead of me as I Army-crawled under the rusty barbs, careful not to catch my hat or back. I felt rebellious. I felt like I was running from the law or maybe a Depression-era hobo...a real wayfaring, leather-tramping drifter. In actuality, I was just making up for my poor judgement. Little did I know, that would soon become the theme of the day.

I get to the underpass and trot across the dry wash in route to Duck Tank, where I'll definitely have to stop now since I'm out of miserable muck water.

I say goodbye to the steady VROOM of cars and headlights. The highway-side litter glitter in all its glistening garbage glory soon fades and I'm back in the desert between two great roads. Duck Tank isn't far now. It is a bit of a detour but worth it if I find some nice clean water and maybe, a happy place to camp. 

After some cross country, off-trail hiking at a fair clip and I get to Duck Tank nice and thirsty. It looks nice from afar. There's a big tree with a rope swing and you can tell it is a well used area. 

Nearing the pond, I get a more accurate picture of the place. There's a monster truck sized tire partially on the muddy shore and partially afloat in the pond. There's lumber and other garbage exposed in the shallow water sections among mucky grass. There's giant, deep hoof prints in the feces/mud mixture that encircles the entire water line. Unfreakingbelievable.

A long sigh and a quiet "FML" moment as I grab for the Gatorade bottle I'd been using to collect water and pour into my bladder. This is going to destroy my filter. What else am I going to do?

With a weird determination that only someone who has been truly, desperately  thirsty would understand; I approached the disgusting water. The mud was slippery and cautiously made each foothold. I do NOT not want to slip into this stuff. 

The nearer I got, the more each step would sink into the smelly muck. I tried to move slowly as I lifted each leg so I wouldn't sink deeper but to no avail, I got stuck. My feet were plumb encased in the most foul-stenched filth I've ever laid nose to. I tried my best to lean over to the waterline to get something...anything...into my bottle. It was just wet mud, grass, bug larvae, and algae. I couldn't reach the clearer water and I couldn't take one step nearer... lest I wanted to be knee deep in cow crap and sucked into the swampy mess like those old superhero dramas with people sinking into quicksand all the time.

I slowly retracted and escaped the funk, back to the grass. Spiking my Gatorade bottle to the ground out of utter frustration, I exasperate AAAAHHH like an angry cave woman.

Well, it's getting dark and I don't really have any options. I guess I'll have to keep going to I-10 and hopefully, just hopefully there will be a water source that is randomly not on the Passage lists, as has happened once or twice before. Good lord, let that be the case. I know I can survive without water for 3 days, but I also know that going the night without water would be heartbreakingly miserable.

I grow more parched as I make haste north. I now have a tremendous, incredible thirst. My lips and mouth begin to dry out painfully. If I had to talk right now, I couldn't. I can feel my throat dry out starting from the back of my tongue south and any residual moisture begins evaporating clear down to my esophagus. I try to suck out little water droplets from the hose. Its 95% air, but every so often after considerable effort, there would be a droplet that landed on my tongue. Keep moving, there could be water ahead somewhere. 

The sun ducks under the horizon and I'm left with my headlight on the trail. I scan everywhere for a nook or cranny or bend or hollow that could hold any kind of water. None.

In the darkness, I can see the lights of cars whizzing down I-10. I'm motivated by only the hope of water soon. I don't think I can make it to the next creek, miles up the trail. Keep hiking, get to the highway and hitch a ride to Vail where there is surely water.

Arduously, I stumbled like a zombie closer to the highway. The loud cars and semi-trucks sound like a rescue from the absolute desperate misery I'm experiencing. 

I arrive at the underpass and try to find a way to get into the highway. Again, a barbed cattle fence. I go under the highway. Maybe there's a way up on the other side. Nope.

I retreat back onto the poleline road on the south side of the highway. The lights of Vail and Tucson shine tortuously close but out-of-reach to the west. Okay that plan failed, what now? I need water now. I needed water hours ago.

Phone service now. Google Maps, my savior. I find out that the poleline dirt road connects to a paved road several miles to the west, back near where Highway 83 meets Vail. I can hoof it speedily on a road compared to varied terrain of the trail. It's the fastest route to a for sure clean water source.

Lit by only distant city lights, I head towards the glow. I can feel myself growing weaker, drying out into a pile of human dust. I reevaluate my decision again.

I'm so tired. It's much cooler now, maybe I can spend the night without water?. No, I'll just be worse off, more dehydrated and suffering more tomorrow when the sun comes up. I should keep towards town. 

I've never been so desperate. I hated myself for the mess I was in. I think about how I could have avoided this whole debacle. I should have gotten more water and terrible Twin Tanks. Talk about a lesson learned the hard way. Who am I to think I'm too good for a little mucky water?

Around the 9 o'clock hour, my achy feet arrive at a little paved road with a new plan to call a taxi into town. I can get water there and then crash in town somewhere. Perfect.

Perfect, except one thing. There's nowhere to sleep in Vail. Absolutely no lodging. It's too dark now and finding a campsite in the dark is always a crap-shoot because you can't see what's around. In the past, I've woken up in places no sensible person would be  lingering in or camping. Also, I'm too exhausted to take one more step.

I call a cab and text with my mother, brainstorming. I decide to take the cab to the nearest place, a Comfort Inn off the highway about 13 miles away at the unbelievable price of $35 a night.

The taxi comes and whisks me off to safety. I can almost taste the water from the hotel room sink as we pull up. I got a room and opened the door, threw my pack down and rushed to th sink. First, using my hands as a cup and after I got some to quench my throat, found the cup and chugged. There is no water in this world that tastes better than that cold, clear, hotel sink water.

Whew. I relax a little, count my blessings, and get oriented to my new, foreign location. There happens to be a gas station next door with an A&W burger stand inside. I haven't eaten since that granola bar at Mile 100 many hours previous, so I'm pretty hungry. I walk over to the gas station and buy two Gatorades. Nearly 10 PM, I'm the last order of the night at A&W, where the chairs are all flipped upside down on the tabletops. I order a cheeseburger and a root beer and wait patiently under the bright, unnatural fluorescent light. 

I grab my order when it's ready and head back to my room. I happily wolf the food. The root beer is so strong and flavorful, it knocks me into nolstalgia of summer days in Waukesha getting floats with friends at John's Root Beer Stand. I feel as content as those carefree days of youth.

I indulge in a shower. As I wash away the sweat, dirt, muck and cow crap, with it goes my worries about dying of dehydration. All that horrible directly down the drain. I hand wash my clothes in the hotel sink and hang them in the shower to dry overnight. From nothing to enough water to do laundry! This is a day to be remembered.

Tomorrow may be just as hard, but tonight...I'm hydrated, full, clean, warm, and safe. The accumulation of which is the best feeling a desperate hiker could ask for. I easily fall asleep in the springy hotel bed.

(To be continued...)

Rituals and Baggage

Passage Six, Las Colinas: Mile 88.6 Oak Tree Canyon to Mile 100.3 Lakes Road

Day 11, con't: I went down through Oak Tree Canyon, where sprawling and scraggly trees line the trail. It's not long before the singletrack heads back upward again. Climbing into an ocotillo forest, I feel welcomed by the spindly pipe cleaner shoots. They look healthy here.  I'm not used to ocotillos being in a place that isn't just lifeless baked mud like that of Ocotillo Wells, Calif. Some ocotillos are green, some are not. Some even have flowers and I enjoy my time among old friends. 

It's nice to see something new. I've been waiting for the day when I see more cacti than cow. Gently, the trail does some ups and downs and I'm rather content. 

I do run into a set of cows, but they seem like they're saying goodbye to me and that I'm moving onto some new territory for a while at least. I say goodbye back. 

I feel like I am in a place of transition. That excites me as well as propels me to think about the many transitions I'm going through in my own life. I think about my new ranger job in the Arctic and I dream about what it will be like. I think about how happy I am that my mom is coming to visit next week. I think about my dad and how one of the last things he said to me was that he's planning on visiting me in Arizona. I think about what it might have been like when he lived here and how, in a way, he's here with with me now. Tears begin to well up in my eyes as I hike because I know he would have totally loved this when he was alive and it's all too late now. I'm filled with regret. We should have done more together. I should have come home more. I should have been a better daughter. 

I grieve. I remember all the packages my dad has sent me over the years to every park I've worked at in Alaska, filled with snacks from Trader Joe's. I remember the Brewers games and beers. I remember that my dad and grandma bought me the sleeping bag I'm using every night and have used for the last 5 years. I remember it all and it makes me feel just miserable. I've been lousy in not spending more time and not showing more love. I feel so miserable, I don't even notice the terrain anymore, or that I'm getting thirsty, hungry and tired. 

Just as I'm dealing with some heavy emotional baggage, my right ankle gives out as it is prone to due because I have chronic tendonosis. My right knee then slams hard into the ground with the full force of my body weight and my pack.  Shitshitshit, I think. I can't get hurt, not now for chrissakes.

I slowly try to stand up, using my trekking poles as support. I pick out the rocks wedged in my skin. It hurts. Walk it off, Lewandowski I hear from the high school gym coach in my head. I walk it off. Thankfully, it was no big deal. 

I continue down the trail and now I'm in a full on mental breakdown. I really start crying hard thinking about my dad and this stupid hike and how I'm a terrible person, etc...The crying caused sunscreen to run into my eyes, burning and blurring my vision. I didn't do anything about it because I felt like I deserved the pain or something stupid like that. I thought about how I'll never get to Utah...I thought about how I'm not really cut out for this and that I don't have the discipline for anything big or important...I'm hiking too slow and not enough miles...This is all so dumb I should just give up now and go have margaritas with friends on the beach...This isn't fun, it's been just a bunch of cows and I smell terrible like a cow and this is a big waste of time and energy, etc etc etc...

But I couldn't really just give up and stop hiking because I was in the middle of nowhere. There's no phone service. No one is going to magically swoop down and pick me up. So, I had to keep going. I'm not sure what I would have done if I was near civilization. 

Walk it off, Lewandowski. There are many women way more badass than you. Get to a campsite and see how you feel in the morning. 

So, I walk. I start to feel a little better as I get going and I remember that the brain shoots out feel-good chemicals after you cry as a natural mood stabilizer. I feel resolved.

Well, then...I just had my first long-hike breakdown. It took only 90 miles, but it happened.

It feels like it is a rite of passage. 

[I'm hesitant to share the aforementioned baby moment with the world because it shows how not badass I am and I like to pretend I'm tough. I realize now I basically skinned my knee and cried like a child. Also, I was probably a little hangry.

However, I hope sharing my moment of un-badassness can have some value to someone, someday. There's something beautiful in our raw and vulnerable moments that tend toward self discovery. Our moments of weakness are a part of who we truly are. Perhaps, society is improved when we understand and portray our authentic selves instead of Instagram filtered versions of who we want to be.]

After the meltdown, I hiked up to a saddle and found one good spot to crash. I set up my tent and had 360 views of the area. My outlook had improved tenfold. The sun set and to the north I could see a tremendous orange glow rising up from the backlit mountains...the lights of Tucson.

Day 12: I wake up to the sound of a loud jet engine, seemingly feet above me harkening You're out of the wilderness now, Kara. 

It's 6:30 am and a little stuffy so I open the front door of my tent. Sunrise. Warm, happy yellow and orange light rising from the east. Good morning, indeed.

I'll get an early start today, which is good because it is supposed to be hot. 

The morning backpacking packing ritual: Stuff sleeping bag away, compress; fold up the Z-Lite, attach to outside of pack; place the water bladder inside the pack; grab the day's snacks; pack up the rest of the food, fuel, and stove; brush teeth; dig a cathole; utilize the cathole; sanitize; place trowel and unused TP in toiletry bag, place in pack; change clothes, stuff rest in dry bag, place in pack; put headlamp and other odds and ends away; put on sunscreen and hat; attach other water bottles to pack; locate umbrella and put in a reachable place on outside of pack; put garbage bag on outside of pack; put boots on; grab back trekking pole as I exit the tent; grab other trekking pole; disassemble tent; collect stakes; fold footprint; place tent and footprint in pack; strap everything down; fold over top lid of pack and clip into place; tighten everything; heft pack up; clip hip belt, tighten; clip sternum strap, tighten; grab trekking poles, readjust size for terrain; turn on Explorer tracking, walk; keep walking... 

It looks like a lot when it's all typed out, but once you get the order of operations going, it's not so bad. It's fun to see how you do the same thing everyday but every time, the results are a little different because you eat some food or you have a lot or water or more garbage, etc.

Downhill I go and it all flattens out from there. It's about 11 am when I reach mile 100. I'd been hiking for a few hours so I decided to sit in the partial shade of a tree right by the road. I drink some water because the sun is an inferno. I think about the last 100 miles and how far I've come and how much - so much - more I have ahead of me. 

I decide to take my time and if I don't make it to Utah, who gives a whoop? I'm going to enjoy the scenery and be a tourist the next two months and not worry about getting anywhere in particular. That's much more my style, instead of throwing this far off destination in my face. I feel at ease and relaxed and ready to take on what is ahead of me. 

I sip more water, it's awfully warm from the sun. I'm leaning back and opening up a granola bar when I hear hurried footsteps from behind me...

(To be continued...)

Santa Rita

Passage Five: Mile 75.1 Gardner Canyon Road to Mile 88.6 Oak Tree Canyon

Day 10 con't: As I reach the trailhead to Passage 5, the angry mama cow veers off my path and towards her babies. I relaxed a little at the sign and studied the map of the passage to come. The cow in distress is still moaning, but as I leave the area, the sound gets fainter. 

The trail immediately goes uphill for a short distance and I could see where I've traveled in the Santa Rita Mountains behind me. I took it in and felt accomplished to have finished yet another strenuous passage. It's high noon now and I feel close to the sun. 

For a while, the trail zigs and zags alongside an old aqueduct that miners built to transport water from far off places like Tunnel and Bear Springs behind me through eight miles of pipe to Kentucky Camp - the main mining operation - ahead of me. 

My anticipation to experience Kentucky Camp builds as I hit a long, straight dirt road. I commend the US Forest Service here. They did a great job in setting up the history of the area and I enjoyed learning something more than how much pain or discomfort I could withstand. I recognize they're both important lessons as a little history grows my intellect and world view but a fair amount of miserable, that grows my resolve. These are good, important things to cultivate. 

It's midday and I'm frying. No one should do anything midday in Arizona; there's not enough sunscreen in the world. I'd sit under the shade of a nice big tree if there were any around...I opened up my little pink umbrella and it gave me some respite from sunbeams so intense they could fry an egg. I stop frequently, I drink liters of water. 

The view is expansive on the road. I can see far off mountains that hint to passages to come. Nearby, it's more desert grassland, land made for cattle. I melt ever closer towards Kentucky Camp and am paying close attention to my water supply. I'll make it for sure, but I'll definitely need to fill up at the rate I'm going. 

The trail does a bit of a U-turn as I get to Boston Gulch, where placer gold was found. Soon, I reach the gate of Kentucky Camp at mile 78.8 and sign the trail register. I'm not officially sure of how the place got its name, but it could very well be because it looks like a country house down somewhere in the south, like  old Kentuck. Tall trees offer amble shade and their leaves gracefully wave in the wind. It's serene among the tall grass and I think of iced tea and creaky rocking chairs.  

Approaching the caretaker's RV near the main house, I realize that this is much more than a historic building, it's an old-timey mining compound. There's an assay office, a main building and a couple of other miscellaneous cabins. The main building is by far the most impressive with is wonderful, wrap-around porch. 

There are large wooden chairs on the porch for lazing about and visitors are welcome to go inside and look around. 

The floorboards bend under my weight as I enter the office and they make a slow crrrrrreeeeaaak as I investigate the living room. With its tall ceilings, sparse decor and tendency to spookily echo, I'm sure this place would be an excellent setting for a Nancy Drew mystery. I dig it. 

I wanted to stay longer, but I figured I should keep on trekking. Thus is the life a thru-hiker...you see a little bit of everything. I fill up my water vessels and eat a quick snack before I depart. 

The camp is currently being restored by volunteers. I'll come back with my nerdy friends in a few years and we'll rent out an old-timey cabin, eat old-timey Ranch Style Beans and talk like old-timey ornery prospectors... Well, that is at least what I hope as I make my way up the hill to the road. More dirt road walking. Gradually headed uphill. It's still very hot and I miss the blissful shade of that delightful porch.

I make it up the first hill and then it's back down to start another climb.

The grass, remarkably, gets even taller. I appreciate how it looks in the late afternoon light and enjoy more expansive views.

I get to the high point for the passage and not far after I find a nice flat place to camp. I set up my tent and enjoy the mellow sunset while eating dinner. It's been a decent day and I fall asleep happy. 

Day 11: It's 8am but the sun and the heat make it feel like noon. I'm sweating in my sleeping bag. I kick off the covers and immediately take off all my layers. It's so hot, I was going to melt into a puddle of goo right there. 

I layer on the sunscreen, eat breakfast and get slowly moving. The biggest climb for the passage is over and now it's many many little ups and downs in the foothills of the Santa Rita Mountains. 

It's pretty, but I'm getting sick of cows and grass. This isn't really what I had in mind for my trip in Arizona. I guess I (like most of the country I assume) pictured Arizona as half Sagauro National Park and half Grand Canyon. I wasn't expecting so much cow shit. I keep moving, hoping for a little change in scenery. Maybe, I was a little grumps on account of the heat.  

The best part of the morning was when I saw a large red truck next to a baby red truck. I don't know why, but I thought it was funny and cute.

It's about noon when I get to the metal cattle trough water source at mile 88.1. There's a spigot there that works splendidly and I fill up 6L worth because I haven't filled up since Kentucky Camp and the next water source sounded kind of iffy. 

I appreciate the spigot in the middle of nowhere. It is always nice to have the spigot because it's much easier and faster than scooping water out from the edge of a cattle pond. Ah, it's amazing the things you begin to appreciate after you spend some time as trail trash...

All filled up, thirst quenched and ready for anything, I motor on down the trail.  I blaze through Oak Tree Canyon and because there is no sign, I don't even realize when I've finished the passage. (To be continued...)

Temporal Gulch

Passage Four: Mile 53 Patagonia, AZ to mile 75.1 Gardner Canyon Road

Day 8: The dogs of Patagonia cheered for me as I made my way down 1st Avenue. Hopping and barking feverishly, they were telling me how proud they were because I showered and almost ate an entire 16" pizza by myself last night. People were waving goodbye to me like I'm sure they've done to countless other nameless and wayward strangers who pass through. Thumbs up are exchanged frequently and I begin to like this little Main Street of a town.

I felt good, refreshed even. It was about noon by the time I was really serious about leaving. I had spent the morning at the post office getting my resupply box, signing a trail register, and repacking my bag. I did spend a fair chunk of time sitting outside the Gathering Ground coffee shop, eating a delcious pecan bar and enjoying the freshest lemonade I've ever tasted. I'm not sure there's much better than ice cold lemonade on a hot, sunny day so I know it was time well spent. Support your local lemonade stand!

The trail departs Patagonia at 1st Avenue, which turns into dirt road that you follow for 7 miles through what is called Gringo Gulch. It's pretty monotonous, road walking...and this passage is full of it. I start to think about little bits from my favorite Walt Whitman poem, the Song of the Open Road. "Afoot and lighthearted, I took to the open road..." and then, "the long brown path before me" became less joyful and more of an annoyance.

I start to think about the Beatles and how this is indeed a long and winding road. Then, I start to sing the Beatles because I'm a crazy person. Anything to pass the time. 

I'm 4 miles down the road - warbling like a bird that butchers Beatles tunes - when I'm startled by the storm alarm on my watch. It only goes off if there's a big drop in air pressure in a short amount of time. Usually, it's pretty spot on and goes off when I already know something fairly gnarly is a'coming. Well, I look to the sky in the west, towards Mt Wrightson, and I see some wickedly wispy mare's tails. The W. And before I could even think Ah man, seriously? cannon blasts of wind come raging down the road and there I am in the thick of it. 

Bummer. I keep on trucking, head down like a sled dog once again and make my way down to the trailhead. The wind dies down by the time I get there so I still don't really know what that was all about. A microburst, I suppose. Perhaps, my singing summoned the wrath of the wind gods. I doubt it.

7 miles and I'm at the trailhead, ready to get some trail walking in. Well, not today me lass,'tis more road walking for you. The trail now follows a 4WD road into Temporal Gulch. Rocky and rutted, I imagine it's a Jeeper's dream. 

I march forth and notice that this passage is far different from the others. In this passage, there is no shortage of water. There's puddles of it and the road crosses mini streams of it and everything seems so, so alive. There's large trees and leaves and organic matter everywhere. It feels like a jungle in comparison to the other sections. It feels...wonderful. 

I lazily meander - as best as anyone with a giant pack on can - through the gulch, taking it all in. I notice to the swoosh of the blades as I pass a windmill, I watch some baby cows romp, I delight in the little insects swimming in the ponds, and I investigate a cave opening, sauntering along until I find a campsite. In total, I've hiked a mere 9 miles for the day and I call it a quits. I'm in no hurry, I'm on vacation. 

I set up my tent as the sun sets and eat dinner. The last two peices of pizza are on the menu, but they have become a big ball of cheese and dough since I didn't have anything to wrap then in so I used the free shower cap from my hotel room. Mushed backpack pizza tastes fine to me. 

Laying in the dark, I start to feel like I've accomplished nothing all day. I don't know when hiking 9 miles started to feel like nothing, but I guess that's where I am in life now. Perhaps, it was the road or because this was the first day of hiking that didn't have a whole lot miserable in it. Or, perhaps, I just didn't really do much at all. Alas, I fall asleep fat and happy in my little orange tent.

Day 9: Morning. It seems that I have parked my tent in the middle of an insect intersection. Light is shining through the tent and I lay there, listening to the morning commute of countless pollinators. The flies are in an incredible hurry as the dart and dash around me in surround sound. I hear bees bumbling, spilling their coffee as their minivan pulls into the school parking lot to unload the wee ones. There are small, high pitched racecar bugs that fly by so fast I can almost feel the breeze in their wake. There's the low buzz of a large semi-truck of an insect and I can see its shadow on the tent wall. Everyone off to work, getting the day started.

I take note and pack up my belongings, ready for hopefully a more productive day. I've just hefted my pack up and was securing the hip strap when I hear a vehicle. I look back and it's a red Jeep, followed by five more Jeeps, all a different color. Jeeps on parade! 

The ring leader has his window down, and says as he passes, "You're a long way from home."

I smile, and with a laugh, reply "You have no idea."

The Jeep rainbow passes and I see that all the drivers are men over at least 65, but I'm thinking they're well into their 70s. Gray haired, gun toting war vets in Costco pants, they all give me the what the hell are you doing way out here, girl? look but in a friendly way. I like them. They remind me a lot of my grandpa. I follow them up toward Anaconda Spring and almost could keep up because the road is so rocky they had to go slow. Not far down the trail, they've stopped at an old mine and try to pass group, in an effort not to disturb their wilderness experience. 

One of the grandpas comes walking down the hill, his hip holstered revolver shining in the sun, and asks, "You hiking the trail?"

"Yep." (No, I just carry this pack around for fun all them time)

"Where to?"

"Hopefully, Utah."

"What! No way."

Smiling, "Way."

"What have you got for protection?"

"Just this." I say as I thumb my large buck knife attached to my hip belt. "It's a big knife."

"Huh. Well that is a big knife."

-This is a weird conversation. I don't really want to talk about weapons. Change of topic to the trail, where I'm from, my profession, etc...

"Alaska? Why you ARE a long way from home. Say, do you know [insert the name of his daughter's friend who works in Big Bend but has been to Alaska once]? 

"Nope." We talk more about the trail and the rest of group comes down.  Somehow I'm standing in the center and I almost feel like I should be giving and interpretive talk about the Arizona Trail. A round of rapid fire questions and one request for a picture later, I remark about how I should be heading up the trail for water. They offer me a ride, they're going 5 miles up the way to the end of the road. I say, "Thank you, but I think that would be cheating." They laugh and we depart.

Well, that was intense. I peel off the road at the spring to grab water. Sip sip, cool and clear. I eat a Pop Tart and head uphill. It's 5 miles of up, steep and strenuous. It is so hot. The sun bakes my everything. Exhausted and only half way up, I wish I would have accepted the ride. Who am I to be so prideful? 

The road continues to weave it's way up the mountain. I'm 3/4 of the way up when the Jeeps return. They remark that I'm making good progress and depart with waves and thumbs up. I'm back to my lonesome, and I'm going to get to the top of this mountain if it kills me. 

Hike hike hike. Upward and upward. The road finally ends and then it's back to a singletrack of just one more mile up, through the trees. I'm a little grumpy on account of the heat and just going through the motions. 

The way down is rocky and forested. It's easy to get lost in thought, which I do. Miles go by and I barely notice until I get to Bear Spring. (This is the 2nd Bear Spring on the trail so far.) I'm rattled out of my mindlessness by the beauty of the river. It is the first water source on the trail that I would call an actual, real river by northern, non-desert standards. I fill up. 

The trail continues, following the river corridor for awhile and offers some nice views. Once I got to mile 72 at Tunnel Spring, there were actually interpretive panels talking about the mining in the area. That was an unexpected bonus for this nerd! It was around there when I decided to set up camp, next to the soothing sounds of a river...a novel concept on this trail.

Mac and cheese for dinner. Trail planning. Evening ablutions. Sleep.

Day 10: 3:35am. Darkness. The sounds of two large animals getting into a fight. Moaning. (Possibly cat?) Injured animal sounds like it's coming nearer, splashing. I grab my headlamp and knife and wait. The sound of footfalls get fainter, like it's moving away. I relax. Eventually, I fall back asleep.

Morning. Birds are having lively conversations as I open my eyes. 

"Chickadedidaleodee. Do you think she'll ever wake up?"

"Todoodeladeedidleo. No, it doesn't look like it!"

[ceaseless bird laughter]

Pop tart for breakfast, pack up the bag, and I make way to leave the land of plenty. There's too much life here, I've decided. Scoop some water from the river and I will miss the grab-n-go lifestyle. It's a short walk from where I was camping to Cave Creek, which is nearly the end of the passage. 

As I'm crossing the creek, I hear a terrible moaning moo from a nearby cow. This is a horrific one, really. I don't know what this cow is going through...Is it giving birth? Did it get caught in a barbed fence? I obviously know nothing about cows in distress, but I do know to leave 1000 pound animals alone. 

I cross the creek and make it to Gardner Canyon Road. There are more cows there, and they're looking at me as I'm coming from the same direction as the sound of the cow in distress. "Hey, I didn't do anything to your friend! I swear."

I follow the trail and make my way towards the end of the passage. One last gauntlet of cows. There's a group of 4 calves sitting in the shade by a tree. They see me and bolt. Mama is on the other side of me and she sees them running. I've never known cows to charge, but I get a little nervous as mama moo starts walking towards me. (To be continued...)