Total Weekly Mileage: 235.1

“Hitting the Wall in Pennsyltucky”

Dried-up creeks, streams, and removed water caches have made this section difficult—more difficult than I expected. Relying on those things burned me, and I went 17 miles without water, which forced me to stay at an Airbnb somewhere off the trail. Initially, the owner balked, but later conceded, and I arrived at 11:30 that night. The room, a quaint studio, was covered with everything rooster: photos, bedspread, even the salt and pepper shakers—roosters everywhere. Apparently, there were over 1,100 in total.

“Rocksylvania” is tough, like New York, though with less climbing. It’s hard to get into a rhythm with pace, and the towns are depressing—one limping town after another. These were once thriving communities, now just limping along like a string of Berlin, New Hampshires scattered across the state. I finally made it to Duncannon on a cold, windy day. I sat in the parking lot, ate a breakfast sandwich, and drank coffee while leaning against a storage container to block the wind. The strip clubs across the street were closed, and I didn’t see any lot lizards cruising the truck stop parking lot for potential clients. I pressed on and knocked out the big climb out of town by 11 a.m. I was feeling pretty good.

Exactly on the start of day 200, I hit the halfway point. Forty days to do the first half. The second half needs to be much better if I’m going to break this record. Not impossible, but still—being stuck in the hiker-wall funk isn’t helping. The grind, long days, night hiking, cold, wet, exhaustion—it’s all taken its toll on me, and I can’t seem to snap out of it. I had a five-day lead when I started the AT, but now that lead has evaporated, and I’m concerned I won’t bounce back. I usually bounce back pretty well when my back’s against the wall, but sometimes I question whether these hikes are worth it. No monetary gains—I’m broke. Not much notoriety. It’s not as if ESPN cares, or a news outlet. I’m really questioning why I do it. At this point, I’m not sure.

Total Weekly Mileage: 190.2

“Bastard Stole My Oreos”

I was happy to have my old shoes from previous trips to use. Kind of nostalgic in a way, but I’d never worn them on the East Coast for hiking—and they definitely turned out to be a mistake. The soles weren’t Vibram, and those are the best; everyone knows it. With the slippery rocks and boulders of New York, I was slipping and falling all over the place.

The trail design of the AT in New York is funny. It will lead you up and over a boulder field with no views, only to bring you back down into the woods where the easier part of the trail had been before. A cruel joke, no doubt. It does make for cool hiking, but when it’s wet out, it’s very sketchy.

After a couple of nights of cold drizzle and fog, I decided to end early one night at the RPH shelter. This one had four walls and a front door. It was open when I got there, so I just left it open. I woke up two hours later to see a huge black bear two feet from my bunk, trying to get into my pack and at my food bag. I yelled, and it took off. The next morning, my Oreos were empty next to a tree outside.

With stiff new shoes and constant rain (almost every other day, it seemed), my feet were sliding inside my shoes, almost creating a sandpaper-like friction on the bottoms. The wet soles really started to feel messed up. I was caught in a downpour near Greenwood, NY, and after making it through and feeling my feet, I had to stop. A quaint little motel and a shower felt great after the rainstorm to warm up my bones, but my feet were so waterlogged and beat that I needed to get off them and let them dry out. I did this while watching stupid television.

Back on trail the next morning, I realized I had made the right decision. Sure, I could have hiked on the day before, but the following days would have been filled with significant pain, risking ruining my feet. I took the 15-mile loss and was happy about it.

The next day at noon, I made it to New Jersey—a cruiser section of easy terrain, which I really needed. In just over 60 miles, I made short work of it in a day and a half, arriving at a sketchy-looking horror hotel at 11 p.m. But the room was decent, and the shower pressure was exquisite.

The next morning, I had crushed pumpkin cake at the bakery and was off. I arrived in Wind Gap at noon, resupplied, and was out by 2. After the big climb out, I realized I had never filled up my water bottles—and this was going to be a problem.

Total Weekly Mileage: 190.7

“Dumpster Forts and Ticks”

The wind was crazy last night. More rain too, and I was very happy to have stayed in town. Losing half a day is hard for me—I tend to get down on myself—but I felt very refreshed after the stay.

The wind persisted the next day, and there were downed trees all over the trail. I met and hiked with south bounders “Mule” and “Gigs.” They stopped at a closer shelter, but I kept moving for another few miles.

I was excited to get out of Vermont and onto the easier Massachusetts trail, stopping in Cheshire for dinner and to recharge. Then came a big climb of three miles out of town. I was a little pissed when I arrived at the shelter—not only was it full, but all the tent areas were taken as well. So I pushed on a little farther and pitched my tent on the side of the trail.

The weather was decent, but some rain was coming in, and the wind was still sketching me out, seeing all the deadfall on the trail. People don’t think about falling trees here the way they don’t think about lightning strikes out west. I’m always asked about bears and mountain lions, but these are the real killers on the trail—along with river crossings, though I’ve talked about that before.

Luckily, I got a ride in Pittsfield that night to escape the rain and wind. I stayed at a motel and even had enough time to go to Applebee’s for some authentic American microwave cuisine. When I arrived back at the motel, I realized I had left my room key inside. I went to the front lobby, but the door was locked. I rang the buzzer—nothing. I called the number—nothing. I spent two hours trying to reach the owners and finally gave up.

It was so cold and windy that I had no choice but to sleep in the cardboard dumpster at McDonald’s across the street, building a fort to protect myself from the wind. Not much sleep—and bad nights like that should be on the trail, not off it.

Without much rest, I didn’t get good miles the next day, but arriving in Connecticut soon after helped my morale. Kent was a great little town, and so was Salisbury. I grabbed a sandwich and coffee at an upper-crusty inn, sat in one of the nice sitting areas, and in between bites of an overpriced roast beef sandwich, started pulling ticks off me. Three this round, and two latched on. I hadn’t even thought about ticks this late in the season. This could be an issue.

Total Weekly Mileage: 158.3

“Damn Rain”

Waking up in the shelter, it was cold. The rain had stopped, but everything was wet. The steeps of the trail made for slow going—everything was either iced over or soaked. Frustrating, to say the least. My pace was so slow, working twice as hard to go half as fast.

By the time I reached the summit of Mt. Moosilauke, it was socked in. Twenty weekend warriors were up there, and the ground was covered in snow. I pushed hard to get down low and into Warner. As soon as I reached the road, the rain started up again. Jeez, I can’t catch a break with this weather!

I stopped into a pub, had some awesome chicken wings, and got picked up by trail angel Holly. She brought me back to the trail, met me again at the end of the day, and let me stay at her house. The next morning, I hiked on, but I was definitely feeling the toughness of the last week.

I made it to a dirt road, and there was Holly waiting for me—with two grilled cheese sandwiches. She asked what I wanted to do, and I made the decision to go back to her place and sleep. Not what I wanted, but definitely what I needed. Everything up to that point had just wiped me out. I still hadn’t really rested well, and I know at this stage in the game, I won’t. Just keep on trucking!

Holly dropped me off the next morning, and my first challenge was Mt. Cube. Not super hard, but a long climb to the top. The next morning, in the fog, I made it into Hanover, NH. I was down to one trekking pole again, but luckily, the customer service desk at the grocery store had one left behind a couple of months ago and let me have it. Kind of an old person’s trekking pole with a weird handle—but I’ll take it.

It didn’t take long into Vermont before I broke it, and it didn’t take long in Vermont before the weather turned. Cold, hard climbs as the A.T. shared the Long Trail. Slippery and steep rock trails led to some tough climbs up Killington and beyond. Rain turned into a full 24 hours of cold, soaking rain. Soaked to the bone, I made it into Manchester Center, Vermont, and took the rest of the day off.

Rough section—hopefully the weather gets better!

Total Weekly Mileage: 120.6

“So Tough, So Cold”

Forgetting to download my New Hampshire map and having a malfunctioning phone was not how I wanted the week to start—but that’s how the week started. Luckily, the A.T. is marked well, so I was able to get through Mahoosuc Notch, slip and fall on my already sore left ass cheek, and make it into the Granite State—my home state. The White Mountains are my home, and you’d think I’d be prepared. I wasn’t.

Hitching into Gorham, I went straight to the gas station and hit town for some food. Sitting on the curb outside, a car honked its horn—it was my cousin. He was wondering why I hadn’t told my family I’d be there. Honestly, I still had 18 miles to go for the day and was still in trail mode.

Back on trail, I hiked my tail off, excited to be back home. The hiking wasn’t easy, and my knees were screaming. By the time I arrived back in Pinkham Notch, I got a text from my uncle warning me of 70–100 mph wind gusts and rain the following day on Mt. Washington. That forced me to take a zero in Gorham. The day after would be clear, but the next day would be junk again. I had one shot to make it up and over—which I did, but not before slipping and falling at the summit in front of a dozen people.

It was 3 p.m., and I needed to get down as far as I could. I pitched in the rain 5.4 miles before Crawford Notch. A sleepless, soaking-wet, leaking-tent night didn’t deter me from getting my cold, wet ass to the road. Unfortunately, no one wanted to pick me up, and in a 40-degree downpour, I waited with my thumb out for over an hour. Finally getting a ride, I stayed at the Highland Center for the day. The weather wasn’t going to get better, and for 80 bucks with AYCE dinner and breakfast, I was sold.

Some friends and family came to visit, and the next morning I was back on trail—surprised by Captain Planet and Sidewinder from the PCT. We hiked to Zealand Hut together, and I took off and pushed hard to make it to Garfield Hut that night. All by my lonesome, I slept well, and the next morning dealt with ice and wind over Franconia Ridge.

Descending down and across Route 93 and ascending up the Kinsmans, I was very careful. Everything was iced up and sketchy. Tough, slow going, I made it to Eliza Brook Shelter and decided to stay there—grateful for not getting beat up too badly through this section.

My home state was kicking my ass.

Total Weekly Mileage: 217.3

“Moving South”

Made it through the 100 Mile Wilderness and into Monson in short order. Resupplied, spilled my coffee all over the front stoop of the local market, bought my sixth pair of cheap gas station sunglasses, and swung by Shaw’s Hostel for some fresh socks. Poet, the owner, gave me a ride back to the trail. I hiked hard. The trail was decent, the weather good.

I needed to reach the Kennebec River by 1 p.m. the next day to catch the canoe ferry across. Hiked late. Up early. Made it. No one was there.

Backtracked to the road and started hoofing it toward the store that supposedly dispatched the paddle person. That’s when Cheryl pulled up, rolled down her window, and asked, “You the guy?” I was. I hopped in.

After the crossing, she gave me some advice only a New Englander could deliver:
“Be careful in the Whites. Don’t be stupid.”
Then she shoved off.

God, I missed the East Coast. Tough broads out here. None of that West Coast soft shit.

From there, it was the Bigelows and Saddleback before Rangely. The hiking turned rocky and steep—no real switchbacks, just straight up and straight down. The downs were slower than the ups. Quick in-and-out resupply in some small town, then my first taste of weather: light rain, fog, and slick rock late at night. I slipped, fell, bent my brand-new trekking poles, swore, and kept moving.

Next day: slipped, fell, dented my left ass cheek, swore, and kept moving. A couple more falls, some severe wind and cold, and then—Rangely. Met up with my buddy and my dad. We had dinner. They took off. Short visit, but I’d see them again the following week.

Now it was time to get into New Hampshire, over Mount Washington, and through the Whites. Getting there was brutal. The hiking slowed. My mileage dropped. My pace tanked. No use getting frustrated—it was what it was.

I could feel myself crashing. I hadn’t had a rest day since Montana—July 21st, I believe. If only I knew then what I know now, I would have hiked later and harder, because compared to the following week, this was easy hiking.

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.

Total Weekly Mileage: 230.2

“Beat Up”

Frozen and five miles before the road, I decided to call it. Chattering teeth, my numb, fat sausage fingers. The wind and hail were whipping my legs, but they were so cold I couldn’t feel them anymore. Above 12,000 feet in a storm, feeling the onset of hypothermia—pushing on would not be a smart thing. I’ve been an idiot plenty of times in my life, but this wouldn’t be a good time to prove it.

At the top of the plateau, there was a low spot 30 feet off trail. Enough room to pitch my tent and get some sort of reprieve from the storm. Cold and wet, the night was miserable—hardly able to move and only doing so when I started cramping up from staying in a single position for hours. I would have to roll over, cold and wet. This was the bivy situation I wanted to avoid, and I just kept thinking about staying at the Butterfly Hostel days before and how I could be out of this storm and in town if I hadn’t stayed there. I know the trail will bite you every once in a while, but my decision to be lazy and stay there created this frozen mess.

It was so hard getting packed up and moving the next morning, but I survived at 12,300 feet in the storm. With 5.1 miles to the road, I hiked hard. It was whipping wind and snowing for the first four miles until I started to descend. Funny—I ran into the two ladies I had met the morning before. They were doing a section, and I told them it wasn’t pretty up there. They said they’d check it out, and if they decided to turn around, they’d give me a ride down to Lake City.

I made it to the road at 8:30 a.m. It was raining now. As I stuck my thumb out, shivering, another poor soul came wandering from the parking lot on the other side. His name was Robert, a young kid hiking the Colorado Trail. He too was frozen, and we both stood there praying for the next car to pick us up. The next vehicle was a camper van that pulled into the parking lot across from us, did a loop around, and as they got to the exit, the driver gave us a peace sign and took off in the direction we needed to go. Really? You acknowledge us, see that we’re freezing, and take off in your big, overpriced Mercedes? I gave them the finger.

I told Robert about the two women I had passed on the hike. I was starting to lose hope after an hour. I should’ve scared them more about the weather and turned them around with me. At approximately 9:30, coming down the trail were the ladies—Kelly and Kathy. Lifesavers. They gave us a ride down, complete with all their hiker food, a free hotel room in town, breakfast, and a ride back up to the trail in the morning. Amazing trail angels. It’s crazy how quickly you can go from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs out here.

Back on trail about a mile later, I came upon a dead sheep. Fangs in the jugular—indicates a wolf attack. At least that’s what CSI has taught me. I lost Robert, a.k.a. Milk Man, a ways back, but I did run into the two Seths again. They didn’t want to do my pace anymore. After saying goodbye, I took off—back into the big mountains. A lot of hunters through here. The climbs were long, but that was fine as long as the weather held. 110 miles to Chama and lower elevation.

9,000 feet per day was average for ascent, doing mid-30s mileage. Nights were below zero. A lot of hunters—gunshots often. I wish I had brighter colors. Two hunters I met, a couple of Mormon boys from Utah, told me they’d killed a deer the day before. After field dressing it and carrying it all the way back to camp, they laid the meat out to dry, and coyotes had eaten the whole thing by the next morning. Somewhat demoralized, but they gave me food—including biscuits and gravy. They had a 10-hour drive ahead of them; I had 3,000 more miles.

Making it to the campsite and lake that night after a hard-fought 39-mile day, I came upon five more hunters chilling around a campfire. I stayed there that night and hung out with Colt. The other guys slowly pulled the Irish goodbyes—something my friend Bob Mickle has perfected over the years. Froze again that night, and after one more good 1,000-foot climb in the morning, it was a speedy 15 miles to Cumbres Pass and a hitch into Chama.

The feeling of relief to be out of Colorado and those big mountains in mid-September was amazing. A tough state. Add in the storms, and it was really difficult. I made it through relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, two young hunters died in that bad storm, struck by lightning as they huddled underneath a tree to get out of the weather.

It’s easy to sometimes think I’m doing this great American adventure, but then the reality of the situation comes back tenfold, and I have to refocus on what this is—what it means to be outside for over seven months and 95% of the time. It’s hard. It’s dangerous.