In the days leading up to my arrival in Lander, I was worried two consecutive days off might sap my momentum. In fact, my body and mind desperately needed the rest and it couldn’t have come at a better time. The epsom salt baths, card games, mountains of food, and quality time with most of my immediate family were restorative. The only way it could have been better was if my oldest sister and her family had been able to join us.
Stuffed full of scotcharoos, snickerdoodles, and salsa from my beloved hometown food co-op, my parents and sister dropped .3 and I off at the trailhead. It was hard to say goodbye after such a lovely visit, but the trail was calling and I swear I could feel the late September snows falling in Glacier National Park.
Our next section is one I had been looking forward to since I decided to hike the CDT, The Wind River Range. Two years ago, a magical trip to The Winds made me fall in love with its alpine lakes, rugged peaks, and stunning, but sadly receding, glaciers. Though I had been zapped out of routine by a few days relaxing with family, I quickly fell back into the well worn grooves of thru-hiking. Much different than the AT or PCT, hikers on the CDT have a huge array of shortcuts, alternates, and add-ons in their navigational quiver. Instead of taking the relatively tame official CDT on the Western of The Winds, .3 and I decided to tackle a high route which included a lot of cross-country (no defined trail) travel.
The winding trail meanders it’s way slowly along a jeep road, transitions to double track, then morphs into single-track or no-track at all. We slowly gain elevation as our 12-inch wide dirt overlord snakes across the landscape. A morning of walking brings the first views of the biggest peaks I have seen since Colorado. The contrast from the flat expanse of the Great Divide Basin is startling and welcome. There is shade, and water, and trees to block the wind. Paradise.
The second morning brings another jungle gym of horizontal timber and progress is slowed to a crawl. Balancing on logs, squeezing under fallen trees, and pressing through dense piles of needly branches is novel for a while but grows old as I think about the distance I need to cover, and how much food I have left in my pack. The relatively small size of a recently added bear-proof kevlar food bag has compounded this stress at a moment when my stomach is as insatiable as a Sarlac pit.
When the tree scramble ends, I’m staring at a series of beautiful alpine lakes ringed in steep grey cliffs. From there, a long walk up a narrow river valley leads to our first rock scramble of the day. On the way to a nameless pass, I use my hands and feet and trekking pole to hurl myself, as quickly and safely as possible, to the top of the pass. Point 3 and I, together with a third hiker Magic hat, stop to enjoy the views at Deep Lake. Surrounding us are massive granite slabs, some with climbers attempting to scale them. For the first time in a long time there are day hikers and weekenders everywhere. It’s strange to see someone in the middle of a wilderness, who has no idea what you’re doing or where you’ve been. For the most part on this trail, most every face is one who understands why your body odor is so strong, and why you are guzzling bags of chips with a crazy twinkle in your eye.
From Deep Lake we skirt lakeshores and bushwhack through waist-deep, scrubby willows. The flies and mosquitoes are out in force. Two more passes, with the names Jackass and Texas (no relation), loom high above us with the Cirque of The Towers in-between them. The scenery, opaque through the layer of smoke, is so beautiful it is impossible to describe. Unruly mountains, deceptively calm meadows, and endless lakes full of clear water cover the landst as far as my corrective lenses can show me. By the time I wilt into bed, .3 and I have covered 25 miles and bullied ourselves over 3 passes. My calf muscles are threatening to exit my legs and my stomach is still worried about the contents of my food bag.
The sun is just starting to shine as I reorganize tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, and food into my backpack. Point 3 and I leave the CDT and make our way to the Alan Dixon High Route. For the next three days, we cover a significant amount of distance off-trail, navigating with maps a friend has made and some resources we pulled together at the last minute. The route-finding slows our pace, but in a place so beautiful, who would want to walk quickly? For hours at a time, I hop from boulder to boulder; sometimes moving along a Lakeshore, sometimes across steep slopes. There is something romantic about picking a line through a field of car-sized rocks, something artful. I’ve never been much of a dancer, relying more on enthusiasm than skill, but when I can find a smooth and efficient flow through a field of scree, I feel like I’ve just executed a perfect pirouette.
The miles come slowly, as I am constantly consulting my maps and looking for the safest and most efficient path through the varied terrain. Wildflowers confetti every possible surface in a palette of reds, blues, and yellows. In the descriptively, though not particularly creative, named Alpine Lakes area, we make the decision to stop early for the day and enjoy the views. Its the first time I’ve stopped before 5pm since I left the monument in New Mexico. I take a swim, do some writing, and enjoy not being on my feet well before the sun sets.
The third and final day on the high route was some of the most challenging hiking I’ve done. More of a scramble than a walk, I spent hours working up and down loose boulder fields. Each step had to be chosen carefully, so as not to slide off a slope or into a lake or kick rocks in .3’s direction. For the first time since southern Colorado, the soles of my trail runners find snow, initially on the steep ascent of Alpine pass then again as we walked up the rapidly melting Knife Point glacier. From the top of Indian pass, I booked a room in Pinedale and with visions of Chinese food dancing in my head, I hustle to the trailhead. Hitchhiking into town took less than an hour but by the time I stuffed my face and collapsed into bed for the night, it was far too late. Hoping to sleep in, I close my eyes and dream about the pint of ice cream I’m going to have for breakfast.
