Gearing Up

April 2019. For the last twenty-five or so years I’ve dreamt of hiking a really long trail. I don’t recall the actual catalyst. There’s not one specific crystallizing moment when I knew without a doubt that I would one day load forty-ish some odd pounds of everything I need to survive on my back and set out into the wilderness for weeks, months, on end. But it grew out of something. Maybe it was the summer I worked at a camp in Maine and first heard tales of Mount Katahdin, the northbound terminus of 2,190 miles of the Appalachian Trail. Or maybe it was the first time I drove the Blue Ridge Parkway, pulled over at a vista, and caught sight of the signature white blaze marking the trail. The pull was instantaneous. Shortly thereafter I camped alone in the woods, somewhere along the trail, deep in the Smokey Mountains of Virginia. I can still feel the tranquility, the solitude, the thrill of being isolated and vulnerable like it was yesterday. I was hooked. The desire for more took root and within a year my sights were set, boots were bought, and all I had to do was wait until my hiking buddy graduated from Clemson.

Well, life has a funny way of interfering, and instead of spending six months in the woods, I got married (not to the hiking buddy), had babies, and spent the next twenty years living out a far more domesticated dream. Well, those babies are more or less grown now, and I think it’s high time I went on a long walk. I still have aspirations of a thru-hike on the AT, and now the Pacific Crest Trail has worked its way into my heart, but I don’t exactly have six months of financial freedom to work with, so I scaled the goal back a bit and now have my sights set on the Colorado Trail. Stretching from the Denver area down south to Durango, 486 miles seems a tad more manageable, because by most accounts it can be completed in less than two months. Of course we’re talking the Rockies with elevations more than double that of the AT, but hey, it’s just one foot in front of the other, right?

Fortunately I come from fairly sturdy stock. I don’t think it’s boastful of me to say my legs are one of my better features, a trait I no doubt share with my siblings. One look at this photo and it’s clear we were all made for either soccer or climbing mountains. Maybe I’ll take up soccer in my next life. In the meantime, might as well put these drumsticks to good use while I still can.

Easy enough to say here in the comfort of my RV while I couch-hike, perusing websites for the latest and greatest lightweight gear. At the moment it feels far more like a pipe dream than a reality. In fact I’ve taken to calling this the Fantasy Phase. Sure I’ve purchased a few things (for example, my badass Osprey Aura 65 in Challenger Blue), but any lazy out-of-shape wannabe can click a few buttons and within two to three days be outfitted to the nines. The only thing feeling any strain at this point in the game has been my bank account. I’ve hesitated to even announce my crazy plan to anyone just yet because I don’t want to look like a poser with some fancy unused gear. Not to mention the fact that I constantly struggle with confidence and I’d like to at least believe in myself before I go public with this seemingly hare-brained scheme. Typical start date for a southbound (aka SOBO) thru-hike on the CT is July 1st. Now with the insane amount of snow Colorado received this past winter, and the multiple avalanches that occurred on or near the trail, word on the street seems to suggest delaying until mid July might be shrewd. That gives me roughly two and a half months to prepare and train. Time to put not just my money where my mouth is, but my legs too. Initiate Put-the-Computer-Away-and-Rack-Up-Some-Miles-Phase.

Central Texas may be considered the Hill Country but it’s not exactly prime training ground for an extended hike at elevations ranging from 5,500 feet to 13,300 feet and averaging 10,300 feet. I’m hard pressed to find a hill over 1200 feet around here, yet, this is what I’ve got and I damn sure better make the best of it. A month or so ago I renewed my Texas State Park pass and began frequenting Pedernales Falls State Park, less than twenty minutes from my door. There are two modest five to six mile loops: Wolf Mountain Trail, and Trammell’s Crossing Trail, neither particularly challenging by most standards. I’ve hiked one or the other a half dozen times in the last month. Three miles in the first time around and my legs were screaming. Foot pain was bordering on excruciating and my lungs more or less laughed at me, once I caught my breath. I consider myself in better shape than the average Joe, but what the hell y’all? Is this how it feels to be 45? Please no.

Early May 2019. Daunted but not deterred I went back for more. With each hike the pain came later and later until finally six miles began to feel slightly more like a mildly taxing walk in the park and less like a death march. Mind you, at most I’ve been carrying ten pounds, and elevation gain can’t be more than 300 feet total. Am I nuts to think I can hike ten to fifteen miles a day at roughly two miles in the sky for weeks on end in less than three months? Maybe. But you know what, even if, for whatever reason, I don’t hike the CT this summer, I have something to feel passionate about. I am driven, motivated. I have a dream again. Hell, if nothing else, I’m getting in damn fine shape. And, lo and behold, I’m becoming restless each day I am unable to get in a hike. Of course, we’ve been blessed with an exceptionally mild spring here in Texas, so I can only imagine my tune once the mercury starts its inevitable ascent to triple digits and the air becomes nothing short of suffocating. All the more reason to make tracks sooner than later. Which means, it’s time to ratchet it up a notch or three. In other words, it’s time for the shiny pristine Osprey to see some action and soak up a little sweat.

14 May 2019. Maiden flight of the Osprey: Pedernales Falls, Wolf Mountain Trail. Not sure what happened with my pedometer app, but the trail that normally clocks in at around 6.7 miles somehow became 8.5 today, yet I did not stray. Maybe somehow the phone knew I was working double time and threw in another mile and a half to make me feel better. The only other variable I can think of is that I had my phone in my front pocket of my shorts as opposed to the back where I normally carry it. Possibly it tracks steps more (or less) accurately from one of those locations..? Either way, it was a fleeting boost to the ego to think I’d tacked on nearly another two miles. Now, I don’t own a scale, so I have no idea how much weight I was carrying, but I’m guessing it was 20lbs, give or take (FYI, it was 25). I’d filled it with a bunch of random items just for weight because I don’t quite have all the actual gear I’ll be hauling. Which brings me to the contentious subject of pack weight. Fortunately gear is constantly evolving, external frame packs are mostly a thing of the past, and we can all be grateful for new and improved lightweight choices. But spend any amount of time researching ultralight hiking and it’s obvious that shedding weight is synonymous with shedding big bucks. Pretty early on I realized I had a choice to make: I could cough up all the money I’ve been stashing away to be able to go rogue for two months and use it to buy all the latest and greatest ultralight gear, and then basically set it up in my backyard and dream of the trail I can no longer afford to hike. Or, I could add to what I’ve already got, carry a few extra pounds, and actually go hike the trail. Sure I’d love to have a base weight of fifteen pounds or less, but well, not this time. Onward.

18 May 2019. Ascents and descents are not what you’d call particularly challenging around here, and given the fact that I’d almost rather go to the dentist than a gym, I needed to expand my training plan. Enter Mt. Baldy, stair stepper extraordinaire. At 215 or so steps it’s hardly the Manitou Incline, but throw in 95-plus degree temps and well, it’s no walk in the park either. Climb it five times and it starts to live up to its name.

19 May 2019. The day stared off like a normal lazy Sunday. I slept late, grateful for no alarm and no wedding to set up. However, as I was going through my morning routine I realized it would be a shame to waste a day off without getting in some miles. Mind you, the weather forecast was promising sauna-like conditions, and it was well after 10am. I could already feel the syrupy air seeping into my RV and clinging to everything. It would no doubt be brutal, but I’ve got to be tough if I’m gonna hike this damn thing, right? Suck it up buttercup and hit the trail. I filled my water bladder with the full 3L and headed out to the park. A third of the way in I was already beginning to doubt if I had enough to drink. I didn’t have a filter system yet, and I probably wouldn’t have brought it with me anyway since it was just a day hike, so there was no refilling once it ran out. Up until now I had planned on using the bladder on my hike because they are just so dang convenient, but I quickly realized the major flaw in that system. Buried deep in my pack, there was no easy way to assess how much water I had left so I spent the whole time worrying if I was about to run dry. Six miles and ten quarts of sweat later I lived to tell the tale, but dang, that was not my smartest moment. From here on out my water will be primarily in easily accessible bottles and there will always be a filter. Lesson learned.

21 May 2019. Burned by the last hike I desperately needed to find an alternative trail that provided shade and felt less like the endless baking hot caliche road I used to live off of. Also, I was itching to try out my new poles that I’d just purchased (along with a shit-ton of other gear at REI’s big sale). Yet it was late in the day, and it’s a long drive into Pedernales State Park before you get to the official Ranger Station. According to the map there is a trailhead way up near the entrance. I’ve got a park pass, so it’s not like they were losing any money from me, so I opted to forego the official check in, leave the pass on my dash, and if necessary, ask forgiveness later. Right off the bat I encountered a locked gate and barbed wire fence blocking what I thought was the entrance to the trail. Frustrated and resigned to driving all the way in, I headed back to my car. As I was getting ready to offload my pack I looked up. When all else fails, look for the sign directly in front of you that says, in bright yellow, “Hiking Trail.” Feeling a bit daft, but relieved I didn’t have to drive all the way in, I followed the sign. However, to my dismay it began much like the other trails in the park, no cover, and more of a road than a trail. Well aware that July was fast approaching I figured I’d better not be picky and trudge on. After about a mile I happened to spot an unmarked side trail. According to my map Juniper Ridge Trail should be close by. I’ve been lured in before by deer trails and found myself utterly off track, so I was a bit hesitant. But faced with scorching hot gravel road, or dense woods, I took the chance. And what a reward it was, by far the best trail in the park! With renewed excitement and wonder my pack suddenly felt weightless. Not knowing for sure how long it’d take me, and knowing for sure I had a little over 3 hours of daylight, I set a timer for an hour and a half. Plan was to make somewhat of a loop, assuming the map and I could understand each other, but at the very least I could just backtrack when my alarm went off. Getting used to the trekking poles felt a bit like a kid with training wheels, or a foal just learning to walk, and I managed to jab myself in the boot at least a half dozen times. I did discover they are quite useful for clearing cobwebs, although I wish I’d thought of that before I ran face first into a huge one. By then end of the hike I felt like I had a good system. I could easily get to my water, and since it wasn’t in a bladder I knew exactly how much I had. I found I could access my top compartment on my pack (aka the “brain”) and fish out snacks without taking it off, and I even managed to get my poles strapped to my pack, while moving, towards the end when I no longer needed them. And didn’t stab myself in the eye.

2 June 2019. Let’s talk footwear. I love my Danners. They fit perfectly from the moment I pulled them out of their box. Not once have I had a blister from them, nor do I ever question my footing when I have them on. But damn if all the latest buzz isn’t about how amazing trail runners are for thru-hiking. Now, I’m not a bandwagon kinda gal. I don’t buy something just because everyone else has it; in fact, I usually steer way clear of the latest fads. That said, I don’t want to overlook something that could potentially be a game changer. So when REI had their big sale I tried on a pair of Altras: Lone Peak 4, top choice of many seasoned hikers. Turns out they didn’t have my size in the Lone Peak, but I slipped on another style and instantly felt the lure. My toes were dancing inside with all the space, and good gravy, the cushioning was akin to a super plush pillow-top mattress. My hiking buddy Audra bought a pair and was immediately singing their praises. A week or so later, comforted by REI’s amazing return policy, I decided to try them out for myself and had a pair shipped to my door. Knowing they take a little getting used to because of their zero drop design I took it easy at first. I tried them out on Mt. Baldy with Audra and wore them to work a couple times. I definitely noticed a soreness from my feet adjusting to the lack of lift, but overall it was hard to ignore how totally comfortable they were. It appeared I’d drank the Kool-Aid.

10 June 2019. With time running out and a rare summer cool snap I knew it was now or never for an overnight trial run with all my gear. Plan was to hike two miles in to the primitive campground at Pedernales, set up camp, cook dinner, sleep, then hit the trail in the morning with all my gear loaded back up. With my Danners in the car as back-up, it was showtime for the fancy Altras. Sadly, a quarter mile in I knew they weren’t gonna cut it. With all the extra weight of my pack I could feel every rock. My ankles felt wobbly, and I had zero confidence in my steps. Nevertheless I hiked the two miles in, hoping I’d get used to them. No such luck. I set up camp and hiked the two miles back to my car to change them out for my Danners. Immediately I felt better. Now I’m sure if I could manage to purchase all new ultralight equipment and get my pack weight significantly down, the shoes would probably be amazing (I still have my doubts about them on uneven and/or rocky ground, i.e., a trail), but then I’d be dead broke and couldn’t put any miles on them.

Danners to the rescue, I hiked the two miles back to camp, made dinner, drank my first filtered water from the Sawyer Squeeze, and crawled into bed for the night. Now, I’ve owned plenty of tents in my life, from backpacking to car camping, and when it came time to purchase yet another I was shocked and overwhelmed at the options for anything in the ultralightweight category. The most popular one, ZPacks Duplex, will set you back $600. For. A. Tent. There are other options, of course, but if you are aiming for the holy grail of 2.5 lbs or under, plan on shelling out about three bills. Mind you, some of the hard core hikers swear by either “cowboy camping” (no tent), or just a tarp. Maybe one day I’ll join their ranks, but for now I feel pretty strongly about not giving anything creepy crawly the option to just slither on in. Also, as a woman, I appreciate the sliver of privacy a fully enclosed tent offers. With all that and finite funds in mind, I ended up choosing a lesser known tent, the Peregrine Radama 1, weighing in at a ridiculous 3lbs 12oz (anything over 2.5 is absurd). For just over 100 bucks I got a tent, rainfly, and footprint. Made of all the right materials, DAC poles, a nice big side door and “large” vestibule, tall enough for me to sit up in, super easy to set-up, I do sincerely hope it does not become the you-get-what-you-pay-for item. Especially since shelter is kinda important. Alas, only time will tell.

I hadn’t camped since last summer, and I definitely had a lot on my mind, so needless to say I had a tough time falling asleep. Right as I was finally relaxing, well after dark, I heard voices, then saw approaching flashlights, followed by “oh, there’s someone here.” No shit, Sherlock… Despite the fact there was only one other occupied campsite among dozens of options, three very noisy teenage boys proceeded to set up camp right freaking next to me. Fortunately one of the kids was thinking and went scouting while the other two fumbled with their gear. Within a few minutes he returned and convinced his cohorts to relocate. Hallelujah. Finally I drifted off to the peaceful hum of cicadas and screech owls, only to be jarred from precious sleep by thumping techno music blaring through the woods. Furious, I tried yelling at them to turn it down, but well, they couldn’t hear me because of the deafening cacophony emanating from their tent. Without a second thought I got mostly dressed, strapped on my headlamp, grabbed my trekking poles (in case it got ugly), and bee-lined towards the source. It was farther than I thought and luckily I had the sense to mark the path back to my own tent. Once located I hollered out, “Hey!” My cry was immediately answered with, “Oh, sorry, was that loud? I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” I replied with, “Um, yeah,” and decided it was not the time nor place for a tirade on respect and a whole slew of other things these kids were clearly oblivious to. Back at my tent I had a fairly restless night imagining similar potential scenarios out on the trail and praying that most hikers I encounter will be of like mind and not have the need to bring their city distractions out into the woods.

8 July 2019. Whelp, time flies and here I am in Colorado. Fortunately my sister lives about an hour from the official start of the trail, and I have the comfort of spending a week here acclimating my body to the altitude. The drive here was emotional to say the least and saying goodbye to family and friends was borderline excruciating. So much planning has gone into this, as well as years of fantasizing about it one day becoming a reality. And now it’s just days away. My thoughts are all over the place and nerves are sky high. I feel more prepared for this than anything else in my life, yet I know there is so much more I could have done. I don’t doubt my determination, although I know it will be tested. I just hope my 45-year old body can keep up. So far the longest I’ve hiked is ten miles. In Texas. Am I really going to be able to sustain 10-22 mile days for weeks on end? My knees remind me daily of my age and I hope I haven’t waited too long. But again, only time and miles will tell. For now I’m grateful to have the luxury of a hot tub at the end of a long hike because in a matter of days my luxury items will consist of a mug, camp towel, a pair of tweezers, a tiny mirror, and a journal. And a heavier than necessary tent.

The last few days have been spent tying up loose ends, short hikes to test my lungs, and food preparation. I made the world’s largest bowl of trail mix and filled 38 individual bags. With pounds to spare… Food boxes are packed (mostly) and resupply addresses are being finalized. Today I will make one more shopping run for last minute essentials: sunscreen, lip balm with sunscreen, journal, lithium batteries, cheap sunglasses, and SD cards for both my camera and Garmin GPS.

Which brings me to navigation, a rather hot topic over the last few months. Modern technology, as usual, presents as many challenges as it supposedly combats. The trail foundation has both a guide book for studying pre-trip, and a lighter-weight databook for on-trail use. I knew I would use both of those, but as good as the databook is, it is very limited as far as an actual map. Enter the Guthook app, a detailed map covering the whole trail with all sorts of up to date information regarding water sources, trailheads, camping sites, etc. Of course, it’s only useful as long as you have a functional smartphone. And as much as I’d like to believe I won’t break or lose mine, and that my Anker powerbank will keep it charged between towns, I know that shit happens, and I had better have a back up plan for when it inevitably does. Therefore I will also have in my trusty-way-too-heavy-pack the waterproof set of National Geogaphic maps specific to the CT. And as if my pack wasn’t heavy enough, I will also be sporting the Spot Gen3 GPS which will allow me to “check in” as well as call for help should I need search and rescue assistance. Here’s hoping I do not need to press that particular button. But apparently even that wasn’t enough, and my sweet man-friend surprised me with the Garmin eTrex 20 right before I left Texas. Unfortunately we ran out of time and he was unable to show me how to operate the dang thing and I’ve been here at my sister’s pulling my hair out trying to understand it. Turns out it isn’t pre-loaded with topo maps. You either have to buy them (have I not spent enough money on this adventure already?!?) or be a dadgum computer wizard to figure out how to load free ones onto it. While I’m not completely inept in the world of electronics, I am far from savvy, and that little device damn near ended up getting launched off the upstairs porch. Two days, countless tutorials and downloads later I finally choked down the bitter pill and bought the damn Garmin topo maps that should have come with the blasted-I’ll-be-glad-I-have-it device in the first place. Argh. Truth be told though, I took it on a test hike a couple days ago, pre-topo maps, and I was actually able to use it to find my way back to a trail when I realized I had veered off course. So maybe it is a pretty handy little thing after-all. Oh, I also have a compass. Granted I should probably know how to use it for something other than locating North, but alas, there are just somethings you gotta learn along the way. All this to say, if I get lost with all these maps, equipment, and technology, well, maybe I am totally inept. Yet it happens all the time. Just in the last week I’ve read of two hikers getting lost in the first two Segments. I have no idea what tools they were using, or not using, to navigate, but it’s clear that awareness is vital. And I’ll be the first to admit, the more physically exhausted I am, the more my awareness dwindles. That’s when accidents happen and when turns get missed. No doubt exhaustion will be a constant factor on this adventure, so the key will be staying alert and knowing when to take a break before losing my wits or my way.

As prepared as I am and as much as I want to complete this trail (I’ve visualized myself at the end countless times), I do know it simply may not be possible. All the preparation in the world won’t stave off the unexpected and it’s entirely possible my body (or mind) might just say, nope, not another mile. But I’ll never know unless I try and I know without a doubt I have to try. At work when we are slammed with seven weddings to design I always remember a previous coworker saying, “How do you eat an elephant?” “One bite at a time.” I suppose the hiking equivalent to that is, one step at a time. It’s been near impossible to explain to friends and family why I want to do this. Maybe by the time I reach Durango I’ll have a better answer. Maybe I won’t. But there’s only one way to find out. One foot in front of the other. In the words of a dear friend, “You have one thing to each day: WALK.” Happy trails.