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...)