I woke up in the middle of the night to the soft rattle of snow on my tarp. I spent a good ten seconds on expletives, then gathered all my gear into the most sheltered corners. Not a big deal, I thought, it's been a bit dicey with the weather for days. It'll pass.
If it's started snowing unexpectedly, that means it can stop unexpectedly, I thought. I was to return to this thought several times throughout the night.
The wind picked up. I'd pitched my tarp correctly, and the wind was coming at the side I'd anchored into the ground. But the wind was getting brisk enough that crystals of already-fallen snow were being whipped up and lashed into my face. It took me a second, but I finally figured out I could just turn over. I ate a sleeve of Ritz crackers to make sure my body had adequate calories to keep warm. And then, unexpectedly, I fell fast asleep.
When I woke up in the morning, my whole field of vision was white. Dead white sky, snow blanketing the ground. Only the black icy water and trees stood out. And it was pretty damn cold, to boot. Navigation is going to be a real hassle today, I thought -- no tread visible. And, I recalled, my GPS unit had looked low on batteries at last use the night before. Also, no biggie, but my shoes and water containers were now all frozen.
But, I reflected, I am also Midwestern Tough and generally not prone to despair in moments when it might be appropriate. Let's get this show on the road, etc, etc. I breakfasted on coffee and little chocolate donuts and prepared to kick ass.
Or, maybe, have my ass kicked. Really it was a piquant blend of the two -- I would pick up the trail's scent, spying a log that had been cut by a trail crew's crosscut saw, or maybe an old axe blaze. I often resorted to the GPS, using it as a treasure map -- the trail should be twenty paces west, etc.
My big goal for the morning was to make it to the CDT, which would (I hoped) have some footprints in it. It took me hours, clambering over iced dead falls and wading through snow-covered alpine swamps (which demented/cheery map makers delight in calling "parks"). I snapped a trekking pole in a snowbank. My shoelaces became frozen and encrusted in ice. There was a lot of discomfort, but also a large portion of focus and determination. Just after noon, I found the CDT.
And, glory be, there were footprints. I yelped for joy, ate some more crackers, and set out along my old frenemy, the Continental Divide Trail.
The tread was immediately better built and clearer. The thing was blazed to death -- every fifty feet, someone had sunk a giant post with blue spray paint and a CDT logo. Pretty sure that wasn't here the last time I hiked through, I thought.
The trail started to descend through an open forest. Again, it was like a trailblazer convention -- you could navigate from one to the other by line of sight. My my, how things have changed, I mused. But to be clear: Thy've changed for the better. This trail used to be a real challenge to follow, kind of unnecessarily so.
The trail crashed down, past the line of fresh snow, then past the remnant patches of winter snow, then finally down to highway 96. I looked back at the San Pedro Parks and gave them the finger, crossed the highway, and resumed hiking.
The route took me along pleasant open forests and down into canyons. I made my camp along a lonely stretch of dirt road. I was low on stove fuel and comfort, so I made myself a campfire. I finally tucked into the bag at just before 9 and caught some much-needed rest.
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