Trip Report

Backpacking Solo Along the Continental Divide Trail
Weminuche Wilderness in the Southern Colorado Rockies

August 13 - 16, 1998

by Dale Barnard

Backpacking in the Weminuche Wilderness has almost become routine for me. One trip last summer and two trips within a month this summer. I almost decided not to write a report for this little four-day hike along the Continental Divide. What new do I have to say about hiking through the mountains? Should I bother to report on a trip that lasted only four days? Three weeks ago, I spent six days in the same Wilderness with a hiking buddy, and I chose not to write about it. What is the difference between the two trips?

On the second trip, I traveled alone, walking at my own pace, thinking my own thoughts, and resting when my own muscles beckoned me. I enjoy having company on hikes, and it nice to have someone who can restart my heart after I am struck by lightening, but when I hike with someone else, I tend to see only the facts. When I hike alone, I tend to see the possibilities.

Actually, I did not feel very alone, despite the fact that I did not see another human being for over fifty-six hours. My mind conversed with itself much of the time, a phenomenon that occurs when I reach a hiking trance. While in such a trance, the pain in my legs and feet fades away. The thoughts about how fast and where to step fades away. The awareness of surroundings, such as deer, whistle pigs, birds, and the postcard-perfect views also fade away. Two hours can pass without really thinking about where I am or what I am doing there. Instead, my thoughts take me far away, perhaps back home or toward new horizons. Suddenly, something can snap me out of the trance and I realize that four miles have passed in an instant.

It used to be that driving solo over long distances was the only way I reached such a trance. Now, I have discovered a new activity that allows for this productive, almost subconscious, thinking time. The more experienced I become as a hiker, and the less I have to think about the details of the journey, the more my mind becomes free to think about grander notions than the current time and place. When I do finally wake up to the here-and-now, can you imagine a nicer place to be than along the Continental Divide Trail?

Is it always true that the vastness and depth of beauty must follow from the risk and challenge in finding it? Would the Continental Divide look the same if I drove my truck up to a pass and parked at the roadside observation point? Would my own life feel as magical if I chose the path of least resistance? We see beautiful things every day, but do they impact us more when they follow from a struggle?

Along the trail, I sometimes felt tired, sore, cold, wet, uncomfortable, afraid, lonely, grimy, or distant. I felt rather humbled in these thoughts, though, when the sun would suddenly peek through the clouds and turn the cold, gray, falling sleet into bright, glowing balls of ice that quickly colored the landscape a beautiful white, setting off the greenness of the trees and the richness of the brown mountain sides. When I turned a corner and saw a clump of purple columbines standing proudly through the driving rain, I could not help but straighten up my spine a bit and feel lighter on my feet.

In the cities and towns, we often strive to control nature to the greatest extent of our imagination: Air conditioning; heaters; thick walls; heavy doors; level building sites; wide roadways; energy-hungry power plants. Along the Divide, little doubt remains as to who controls whom. The rain controlled me. The sun controlled me. The steep slopes controlled me. The lightning controlled me. Even the columbines controlled me. Why is it that the more these things control me, the freer I feel? Such a burden we carry when we believe that we must have control over everything in our way. Why is it that I feel like encouraging a senator or two to walk the Divide for a few days?

When we give up a little control, we realize that there are many ways to cross a mountain without cutting a tunnel through the middle of it. An aeronaut might build a glider and ride the up-sloping winds to the other side. A hiker might build a small trail through the trees that stops off at various viewpoints. A rock climber might climb straight to the top and rappel down the other side. A community builder might create places to work and rest along the way. A child might run circles around the mountain while waiting for the adults to go over the top. The possibilities are limited only by our imaginations, at least until a control-hungry politician decides to regulate it.

Last summer, I spent five days hiking along various trails that followed valleys. I avoided the Continental Divide Trail because it tended to stay above tree line with sparse water sources and dangerous lightening. With a little more time along the divide this year, I have begun to make peace with the alpine tundra. The trail occasionally dips below tree line, which provides for more water sources and lightning-safe camping spots. The trail climbs to nearly 13,000 feet in the Weminuche area, hundreds of feet above tree line. Several times, I found myself huddled under short pine trees, just below tree line, waiting for a lightning storm to pass, but storms rarely lasted more than an hour or two.

The first day, I camped at about 7pm after completing the twelve miles of hiking that I needed in order to stay on schedule. I selected a grove of trees about two hundred vertical feet down from the trail for my campsite. My knee had felt very painful the first day, forcing me to avoid bending it as much as possible. At night, I massaged my tired muscles in hopes that they would make a speedy recovery to get me through the next three days. It rained much of the night, but cleared by morning, which made it more comfortable to pack up camp and resume hiking.

I love the feeling of waking up when the sun has barely started warming the treetops, packing up a cold, wet tent, and hitting the trail with numb fingers and sore legs. Usually, within minutes, I find myself hiking through patchy sunlight, my fingers warming from the exertion, and my soreness giving way to strength. The blueness of the Colorado sky in the early mornings leaves a lasting impression, just as the starry night skies seem to glow more brightly than in most other places. I think of the Southern Utes and Ancestral Puebloans who lived in this area long before light pollution and smoky winter nights. They could never have dreamed that humans would one day obscure the crispness of the heavens.

On the second day, my muscles felt brand-new and my knee problem seemed to have miraculously vanished. I started at a slow, steady pace to test out my new pain-free knee. After a nice day of hiking, a 5pm storm forced me to huddle under a tree, sitting on my foam sleeping pad to insulate me from potential nearby lightening strikes. The storm produced marble-sized sleet balls that soon turned whole mountainsides white. After about an hour, it turned to rain and quickly melted the sleet. By 7pm, it showed no sign of clearing so I hiked down the hill about a quarter of a mile and set up camp in the dense, safe forest. I cursed the elements a bit for restricting my hike over the next exposed ridge, limiting me to a ten mile day

I had hoped to complete my hike in four days, but I needed to complete twelve miles each day in order to do. Because of the storm, I now faced the possibility of either adding a fifth day or making up the two miles. The next morning, I forced myself out of my warm cocoon into the shivery morning to hit the trail early. I packed up my soaked tent, numbing my fingers from the cold in the process. I started out at a swift pace, feeling more confident that my knee would feel good, and knowing that I needed to complete fourteen miles today.

Right away, I fell into a hiking trance. By the time I awoke from it, it was after 11am and several miles had passed. For the first time on the trail, I found myself short of water. I had stepped over several streams while in a trance, not wanting to wake up long enough to fill a water jug. Now, I stood on a bald ridge that felt like the top of the world, with no higher ground from which a stream could flow. I hiked another six miles before water sources became abundant again.

Several times this day, I fell into a nice trance, allowing mile after mile to pass without much awareness. I had completed fifteen miles by 5pm, but the trail continued along an exposed series of ridges for three more miles before descending to the safety of trees. At 7pm, after eighteen miles of hiking, I found myself at Squaw Pass standing in the very spot in which I had stood three weeks earlier. On the earlier trip, I hiked up to Squaw Pass and followed the Divide Trail westwardly. This time, I approached this point from the east. Now, all that remained was an eight mile hike over familiar trail to the trailhead.

I had far exceeded my needed fourteen miles in order to stay on schedule, but I still felt strong enough to continue. With only two miles to go before reaching a nice round number, I decided to go for it. I hiked up another steep mile to the top of the world and then down the other side. Once on the other side, I had my first encounter with another human in fifty-six hours. Shortly thereafter, when I reached my twenty-mile goal, I found myself at the very same camp spot that I had used three weeks earlier. For old times' sake, I used it again. I pitched my tent in the all-but-gone sunlight and laid down for the night. Every muscle in my body seemed to ache, especially my feet. As usual, I used a leg and shoulder massage to speed up the healing process.

The next morning, I felt great. I had only six downhill miles to go before reaching the trailhead, where I had left my truck four days before. I enjoyed sleeping until 8:30am and then spending the next hour-and-a-half drying my tent, sleeping bag, and rain gear in the cool morning sun. I reached the truck at 1pm at the base of the Cimarrona Trail, enjoying having logged forty-eight miles of trail since I began at Wolf Creek Pass. I drove to a nearby fishing lodge for a soda. After four days of iodine-treated water, a bubbly orange soda hit the spot. Still not ready for civilization, I parked my vehicle beside the road and worked on writing a song for a couple of hours before making the drive back to more familiar ground.

As I returned to civilization, I found myself thinking about my next hike. The Continental Divide Trail runs from the Mexican border to the Canadian border, over 3000 miles in all. In my three hikes, I had completed only about 65 miles of it. Most of my trail miles seem to be spent on getting to and from the Divide. The Weminuche Wilderness contains no roads, so accessing the trail can sometimes take two days. The next section that I would like to complete runs from Wolf Creek Pass southward to Cumbres Pass near Chama, New Mexico. The trail is reportedly sparsely marked and difficult to follow at times, but quite wonderful nevertheless. Few people complete this section of trail because it remains very remote for seventy-six miles.

On each trip, I increase my knowledge and confidence, which in turn changes my perspective a bit. Last summer, when I backpacked in Colorado for the first time, I hiked too far, too quickly, without giving myself a chance for conditioning. I ended up with severely irritated feet and knee pain that lasted for months. This summer, my first hike started out with six-mile days and worked my way up to twelve. On this latest trip, I hiked up to twenty miles in a day with no ill effects. Experience has lent a hand, and as a result, I spend more time thinking about my next hike rather than pondering my wounds from the previous.

I feel no fear that this backpacking hobby will lose its momentum if it becomes routine. Instead, I find myself setting my sights on greater challenges with each hike. With six or eight long-distance trails in this country, I run no risk of running out of new trail in my lifetime. The more routine the backpacking becomes, the more my mind can wander and ponder.

I know that some people primarily backpack to enjoy the fantastic views. I think that I most enjoy getting to think new thoughts and seeing new possibilities for my life. The journey along the seemingly endless Continental Divide Trail acts as an external metaphor for my internal journey. Can ordinary life really live up to extraordinary experiences such as hiking along the Continental Divide Trail? Lately, it seems that it can. Will these grand thoughts that I have along the trail ever be realized? Absolutely. Nearly every day, I can see my footprints along my path of heart, indicating my progress. It is certainly not the path of least resistance, but even as I struggle, I see more beauty along the way than ever before.

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