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...)