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...)

Huachuca

Passage One: Mile 0 US-Mexican Border to Mile 21.7 Parker Canyon Lake Trailhead

Day 1: My trip into the mountains started like many trips do, with a fond farewell. I had been visiting with friends Andy and Ali in the greater Californa-Nevada-Arizona area for about a month, camping and hiking and exploring. They so kindly said they'd drive me down to the border to start this crazy trek along the Arizona National Scenic Trail (AZT) and they did just that on Monday. What swell people and first trail angels they truly are!

Hugs and goodbyes finished and fully loaded with gear, food, water and hope, I made way up the Joe's Canyon Trail from the Coronado National Memorial Visitor Center. This trail is nearly 5 strenuous miles up to Yaqui Ridge and back down to the border. It's a haul for sure, but I happily hoofed towards the border still filled with anticipation and those awesome pre-hike jitters.

As I rounded the final corner of the trail before the border monument - which is the true start of the AZT - high velocity wind gusts came cruising around a bend in the topography and rather unpleasantly blew sand directly in my face. This made it difficult to joyfully commemorate this momentous beginning and hastened me along the trail. Little did I know that this breeze was just foreshadowing for my entire trip in the Huachucas.

Up up up and back to Yaqui Ridge and finally to Montezuma Pass, where many begin their hike to the monument. It was really getting windy up there, but one must press on. I used the pit toilets one last time and waved to the Border Patrol officer. Crossing the road, the trail follows the "Crest Trail," which winds up past old mine adits and along some stellar ridges. I met two Canadians on their way down, and they were the last people I'd see for two days.

I had gotten a late-ish start. The sun was getting low, my shadow was getting long, and the trail was getting steeper so I had to think about where to camp soon. There's no camping in Coronado National Memorial on account of the border activity, so I had to get to the boundary with the Miller Peak Wilderness in Coronado National Forest, which is only 2 miles from Montezuma Pass.

A rough two miles, steep with heavy pack and the wind now blowing 35 mph, it was slow going. On a knife ridge, a tremendous gust popped my hat up and with it my sunglasses flew into the air and down the canyon. I could see them tumble, hitting rock and after rock after rock. It was way too windy and steep to retrieve them, lest I wanted to end up where they are...so my sunglasses are now forever sacrificed to the Huachuca Mountains. Woof. I put my head down like a sled dog and just grumbled my way to the top. If it weren't so windy, I would have soaked up the scenery more.

I made it to the wilderness boundary with a little light creaking from the mountains. I've never been so happy to see a sign and a flat place to camp. 

The wind was howling and the trees were  bashing and rubbing against each other, but I was in a little alcove that I thought wasn't too terrible. I tried setting up my tent but every time I got the stakes down and lifted one of the trekking poles, a gust would come tearing through and turn my tent into a parachute. 

After several tries, I gave up and decided I'd just have to set down my sleeping bag and pad and wrap myself in the tent like an emergency bivvy or hypo wrap one learns about in WFR. It worked pretty well at keeping the wind out and me from being too chilly. There were cracks, which every now and then I would get a cold shot of air on my back or face, just enough to keep me from sleeping. 

I laid there, tired after hiking 8 miles, looking at both the stars in the sky and the lights of Mexico with mixed feelings. I've made mistake. This hike isn't going to be fun and it's just not worth it. No, this hike will be challenging, and that's so worth it. I literally could have gone either way. 

Day 2: Many sleepless hours pass, the wind becomes more of a breeze and the sun begins to rise. I slowly get gumption  and begin to get the F out of there. 

Not far down the trail I find a perfect snow patch in the sun and use it to get some fresh water and eat breakfast. I listened to some Hank Williams on my phone - because it just felt right - while I scraped the top layer of ice off with my trowel and got down to the good stuff in the middle. Trowels really are so useful. Snow extractor, cathole digger, impromptu tent stake...I love you, trowel. 

Feeling better after Hank, grub, and sun, I begin the long journey up the steep rocky trail through fire scars to nearly the top of Miller Peak. Oh my god, did I mention steep? I will have amazing legs after this. 

9000something' and that breeze below now whips up and kicks you right in the face. Alas, the worst is behind and it's time to descend. I've been looking forward to this because I'm sick of the up and sick of the wind.

Not far from the Miller Peak turnout, the trail goes into the shady leeward side of the mountain. And so, the trail is easy to follow because you step in someone's ankle-high footholes in the snow. In some places, trees have fallen across the trail (presumably the night before) and new little routes would have to be made, causing adventures in waist-deep post holing. 

The snow continued for awhile, until about AZT mile 8.3 where a bizarre but welcomed sight awaits the weary traveler... A seemingly algae filled bathtub, trickling out spring water, cold and clear! Why yes, I spent some time there and filled up my various vessels.

Onward and upward as the 6 o'clock hour approaches. Soon, I find my way to a nice flat and breeze-free campsite on Bear Saddle at 8100'. Not far from a spring if need be, though I had just filled up. All's well as I set up camp and eat dinner as the sun sets. The sunset was so peaceful after a hard day sweating and trudging up and down...the soothing blues, pastel pinks and faint yellows put me to ease as they let way for stars and more far off city lights and I drifted to sleep. 

Darkness. I'm abruptly awoken by pummeling winds announcing themselves from distant canyons and roaring into the sides of my tent. The walls collapsing around me and I was cold. So cold. I grew up in Wisconsin. I live in Alaska. I've never been this cold. Shivering for warmth in my 0 Degree Never Summer down chrysalis. Fade into sleep. Fade out. Fade in. I awake several times throughout the night to thundering wind. 

Day 3: Morning, fade out. Cold. Crunchy. Why am I so crunchy? Frost. Why does my throat hurt? Dry cough. Thirsty. Water's frozen.

I wait for the sun to shine in on me before I escape the sleeping bag or tent. I thaw out and slowly get moving, warming water and making breakfast. Cough. I think I'm sick. 

Packed and ready to once again get the F outta there, I head up the hill. One last up before the long downward zigzag to Sunnyside Canyon. Hard to breathe. 

Down down down down. Will I have knees after this? So worth it. Warmer already as I make it to Copper Glance trailhead at 7194' and feeling almost good when I get to mile 16 for water. This stop, the cement water trough, is known to be a fairly reliable source. Now, I wasn't expecting much as cows outnumber people in these parts, but frankly, yuck. Stagnant and scuzzy, this trough is not for me. There's a perfectly good stream right next to it, so that's where I scooped in my H2O.

Following Scotia Canyon, I walked out of the wilderness and past a few windmills, spooking cows and vise versa along the way. 

The sun crept slowly down as I made it to mile 20. I camped in some grass and the night was wind-free, clear, and cool.

Day 4: Drip. Drip drip. Drop. I had dreams about caving. I woke up crunchy again but my tent ceiling was dripping water onto my face. Melting frost in the morning sun. My throat still hurt but life  was not nearly as miserable as the night before, so I was thankful. Funny how it takes being cold and miserable to truly appreciate the many comforts one is afforded in life... 

Not feeling very well or motivated at all, I waited until noon for the tent to dry out and get back on the trail. I was going to finish the passage that day I decided because it's only 1.7 miles, but I'm not sure how much more I could do after that. Maybe I could just camp at Parker Canyon Lake (not far from the passage terminus) until I feel better? That could be nice since I can't really breathe and it's sunny and there's plenty of water.

I weave through savanna like shrub and grasslands and finally get to the Parker Canyon Lake Trailhead. Woot! I made through and the sun is shining. There's a bit of trail behind me and a beautiful lake ahead of me. Maybe things are looking up after all.

Maybe, I can go on. (To be continued...)