Total Weekly Mileage: 215.9

“Hot to Cold”

Heading into Silver City, I had a few things to deal with. I needed to get my resupply package and find a library to fill out my permit for the last 1.1 miles of the trail. Come hell or high water, I was going to reach the Crazy Cook Monument. There was no high water, but the heat did make me feel like I was in hell.

I enjoyed some sauerbraten at a restaurant with a fella named Tony. He also got the sauerbraten. He told me he almost died a few years back when he was crushed “like a pretzel” by a tree.
By 2 p.m., I was heading out of town, and tomorrow would be the last town stop of the CDT—an old railroad town called Lordsburg. Getting picked up at the end on the Mexican border wasn’t going to be easy. The CDTC trail shuttle wasn’t running until the 9th down there, not to mention they charge $175 per person with a three-person minimum. I would have paid that crazy number to keep my pace as tight as possible, but luckily Masshole gave me a website with another shuttle driver’s name. Tim Sharp was going to be at the finish line at 4 p.m. on the 7th and bring me to El Paso and to the airport the next day. Amazing!

Now I just had to book my flight, which I did in the middle of the desert. Once all the logistics were set, I had just over 100 miles to do in just over 48 hours.
I charged my stuff at the Lordsburg McDonald’s, ate some more of the delicious garbage, and headed out of town. I could tell the drug epidemic had hit this town hard, and the walk out passed some pretty sketchy neighborhoods. The water caches were stocked full for the last 85 miles—and good thing, because there was no water other than that.

I finished the day with 77 miles to go. Not great, considering when I needed to meet Tim. I was up and gone at 4:30 the next morning after terrible sleep, having cowboy camped with mosquitos buzzing in my ear all night long. At a certain point that day, I decided to try for a 50-mile day, but 40 miles in, my feet were too sore. A lot of things need to fall into place to pull a 50, and having shoes in fairly good shape is one of them—and I did not have that. These Brooks had over 600 miles on them at this point, so there wasn’t any cushion left.

I ended with a 46, needing to do 31.2 by 4 p.m. the next day. Again, I cowboy camped. Again, the mosquitos buzzed all night. And again, I was on the trail at 4:30. The trail was fine aside from a washout on the final road to the end. There was no border patrol or signage about the permit needed to finish the trail—just another gossip column brought to you by The Trek and Backpacker Magazine. I get wanting to get clicks, but freaking out hikers on the trail about this “important” permit when it isn’t was unnecessary stress.

Tim met me 0.3 miles before the terminus and escorted me through to the end. Photo for proof, and we were off and headed to El Paso. The only thing between the border and El Paso: a two-hour drive on the worst washout dirt road and another three hours on the highway. A stop in Deming to resupply, a Burger King pit stop, and by 10 p.m., we made it to Tim’s. Shower, laundry, repacked, and sleeping by 11. 3:30 wake-up, 4:15 airport drop-off, TSA pulling my pack apart—probably because of all the food, but also because of the way I looked. I think I fit the description of a drug mule.

First flight: 6:07 a.m. to Dallas. Then another flight to D.C., and my final flight to Bangor. A jog to the bus stop, an hour on Concord Trailways, and a pickup by the Appalachian Trail Hostel with a ride to Millinocket. A hangout session with Boomer St. John and a bit of sleep before a 6 a.m. shuttle into Baxter State Park.

At 7 a.m., I was ascending Katahdin. Wind was whipping, and the temp at the summit with wind chill was 4°F—a contrast from 48 hours ago. I spent no more than 30 seconds on the summit before heading down, stopping to tape up a blister, and being down and out of the park starting Day 160. I made it to a shelter by 10 p.m., but there was a solo dude in there sawing logs, so I pitched my tent far enough away not to hear him.

It feels good to be on the final stage of this thing, but I’m definitely not out of the woods yet. I still have over two months before that’s going to happen.

 

 

Total Weekly Mileage: ??

“City Chinese”

Coming into Grants, I was out of food. I’ve lost count of how many times this has happened. Wait—no—I had one ramen and two packets of oatmeal. I bee-lined it to the grocery store. I needed healthy food, so naturally, a quart of whole milk, an entire chocolate cake, and six bananas made for a very nutritious meal.

My spork was broken and I couldn’t find any utensils—also, no napkins. Being the resourceful hiker trash that I am, I used my hands. I sat on the curb outside the store and stuffed my face. Patrons stared and walked far away from me, but in that moment, how I looked wasn’t my primary concern. Calories, calories, calories.

I did laundry, resupplied, and avoided a rainstorm by eating more at a burger joint. Many miles of trail road out of town—I finished at 10 p.m. and camped in some bushes next to a barbed wire fence.

The morning seemed alright, and 15 miles of road walking led me right into the eye of a storm. Lightning was shooting all around with hail and downpours. There was no place to go. The road was the trail, and I was completely exposed. No buildings to hide in. When a bolt of lightning struck less than 50 yards away, I called it.

I had already turned off my phone and GPS, so when the next car came up the road, I didn’t even give it an option. I ran into the road and waved my hands. The car stopped—I ripped the door open and basically threw my trekking poles into the lap of the poor, unsuspecting sap. I jumped in with my pack on my lap and explained why I had seemed so crazy.

The lightning continued as we drove toward Grants. Flash floods had started making rivers across the road, which stopped traffic. After an hour, my driver decided to ford the river and go for it. Barely, we made it. I was back in Grants at 4 p.m.

Safe from the storm, I booked a room at the Motel 6, conveniently located directly across the street from the “Super Asian Buffet” (I’m not kidding—that was the name). After a couple pulls off a joint I’d purchased from the dispensary the day before, I headed over to stuff my face and thank God—not only for the delicious bounty that was about to be splayed before me, but also for sparing my life on this hike yet again.

Thinking back on it later, I still can’t believe how close that strike was. Well, God had other plans.

I arrived at the Super Asian Buffet to find a woman lying on the floor between the spread of food, crying and whimpering. Before I had a chance to assess the situation, the host came right up and said, “One fo’ dinna?” (He was Asian.) Being the ever-consumed capitalist, he wasn’t going to let a crying woman lying on the floor stop the business from making money—I mean, the crab rangoons were getting cold!

And of course, they sat me right in the booth closest to the injured lamb. Now herein lies my dilemma. I was starving—I’ve been starving—and a couple pokes from a professionally rolled jay really had me starving. But how could I, in good conscience, grab a plate and start perusing the spread while someone was writhing in pain at my feet?

This angel/devil debate lasted quite some time. No one else went up to get more food. Then again, they already had theirs—not to mention they got to watch this woman take the digger, slipping on the tile by some spilled egg drop soup.

I gave it three minutes—basically, when the paramedics arrived to take over the scene—I made my move. General Tso’s chicken, goons, wings, lo mein. Sure, I was getting some dirty looks, but when the EMT asked what her pain level was on a scale of 1–10 and she said “10,” I knew this was more of an ambulance-chaser lawsuit move than a seriously injured situation. I continued eating.

The maintenance guy, Jay, from the Motel 6 gave me a ride to my spot on the road the next morning. I was able to walk 35.5 miles even with a late start. Flat road makes for big miles, even where the washouts had been.

It had been a frustrating stretch with the weather. A lot of bikepackers through this area—all chipper, doing easy 50-mile days, smiling and waving as they passed. I would wave back, but part of me wanted to kick them off their bikes. Especially this one lady—singing as she passed.

After making it into Pie Town (yes, that’s the name), and eating a subpar breakfast even by hiker standards, I pushed on—needing to hit the Gila High Route and Doc Campbell’s Outpost to resupply before heading into the Gila Canyon section.

This should have been a stress-free, boring section, but it was brought to my attention by the CDTA and the brain trust over at TrekM.com that you now needed a new permit to hike the final 1.1 miles of the CDT where the monument is located. This was now a military zone, and the red tape to get approved was not something I wanted to deal with. A week out from finishing, and now I needed to complete a form, provide two forms of ID, and wait for approval from a military base. I’d deal with all that in Silver City.

Doc Campbell’s was great—the ladies opened early for me. I charged my stuff, ate a bit, filled my water, and headed into the canyon. Apparently, most hikers take the road for 40 miles into Silver City to avoid this tough section, but I was sick of road walking. I had just done so much in and out of Grants—I needed a change.

I was beat.

 

Photos and videos to come…

 

Total Weekly Mileage: 227.9

“Filtering Through”

Rested and refreshed, I picked up a water filter and hitched back to the trail the next day. Funny—the woman who picked me up was all excited because she’d been following my hike on social media. I managed to sneak through this entire hike filtering water no more than six times, but New Mexico is a different animal. A lot of desert, a lot of cows. Water sources, when they’re available, are not beautiful flowing rivers of clean god nectar. Instead: cattle troughs, filled with god knows what from god knows where. I’ve gone too far to get sick now—better to be safe than sorry, even if it cost me 50 bucks. The plastic sucker just screws onto the top of my Smartwater bottle and—voilà—clean, filtered H₂O.

With the water situation taken care of, I was confident in my pace: consistent high 30-mile days, even pushing into the 40s. Especially now that I’d be dropping to lower elevation. The Rio Grande National Forest is a nice change—cruiser terrain, slowly descending into lowland desert. Because I’m wicked smart, I decided back in Chama that I would no longer need my poncho. I had my rain jacket, and this is New Mexico after all. I remember three years ago dealing with no more than two days of rain, so removing any pack weight was a plus.

Well, getting close to Ghost Ranch Resort, the rain came back—and stuck around. I wanted to wait it out at the ranch, but it just lingered. I could only buy a hot meal in the cafeteria if I got a room. By 5 p.m. it came down harder. I got a room. Basically as basic gets—I felt like I was in a halfway house. No TV, plug-in heater, and communal bathroom. Dry and warm, I was happy. Included was dinner and breakfast. I was a little annoyed when, after leaving the dining hall, the sky had cleared. Oh well.

I met and passed “Flowers,” the most southern CDT hiker I’ve seen so far. Also met a couple other hikers, including an ex-pat living in Costa Rica. Even though I left the next morning late at 9 a.m., I still posted a 36.5—which just goes to show how flat and easy this section is. I passed the ex-pat around noon; he was having knee issues. The trail after this was completely washed out for the next three miles from a flash flood back in August. Negotiating this was interesting—from our side of the river back to the other, and so on, for two hours until a big climb out of the canyon.

“Flowers” caught me having dinner, and we hiked and talked until he pitched his camp at sundown. I pushed on, getting another seven miles in and putting myself just shy of 25 miles from Cuba, NM the next day.

The next day was another desert cruise. Hot, though—I’m not used to the exposure. It’s been a while. With a long road walk into town and a stop at the golden arches: four McChickens, two McDoubles, a strawberry shake, small fry, and a Dr. Pepper. Charged up, resupplied, and back on trail by 3:30, road-walking ten miles out of town. I had enough water to get me through the next day, and this section is amazing. Up on top of flat rock plateaus, the trail uses cairns to meander through, then twists down into the canyons. I didn’t bother setting up my tent—just slept under the stars.

I thought I had enough water, but the next morning realized the last source for 14 miles was over half a mile behind me. I’d passed it at night and didn’t feel like going back. I only had half a liter, but the morning was chilly, so I hoped to reach the next source by 11 a.m. The trail dropped lower, and as I was listening to something, I felt like I’d kicked a bunch of sand on my legs. I looked down to see what must have been 30 to 40 mosquitoes on each leg! Where in the F#%k did these come from? Middle of September? Really?

This battle against the winged devils lasted for the next ten miles. I didn’t want to, but I was forced to put on my rain pants. Noon in the desert is not ideal rain-pant-wearing conditions—sweating like a whore in church. It was rough, and I couldn’t enjoy lunch at the only water source for miles. They must have hatched after the rain from the other day, and my walking woke up the little bastards.

For what it’s worth, I really like this section. Intricate rock formations, the trail snaking through—makes good pictures easy to take. This area should be so much more popular than it is. Might have something to do with the lack of water and the condition of the precious nectar.

I arrived late in the afternoon to the source, which in this case was a cement pool of sorts. Surrounded by cows, the water was as brown as the cow shit floating in it. I do have a filter now, but even if that liquid went through every filtration system ever invented by man, I’d still be hesitant. Luckily, 20 feet away was a covered well, and aside from some live bugs on the surface, the water was okay.

A big 2,000-foot climb from the desert floor brought me up on top of another plateau. It was cruiser, and I crushed—cowboy camping off the trail at 10 p.m. Right as I had dozed off, I heard a scream of bloody murder. Over the years out here I’ve heard all kinds of animal stress calls—fawns, cows, coyotes—but this, this was different. And only 50 feet away. I was confused but also pissed. I lifted my head and yelled, “Bring it on, M#^@ther F@%#%r, or shut the hell up!” Whatever it was walked away. I went back to sleep.