STATS: 18.5 miles; 4,489/-2,036 feet
We started hiking early again at 6:00 a.m., and I still took every second of my allotted hour and fifteen minutes to pack up (but I made it!). Shortly after setting out, we passed two cyclists working on completing the CTR. It was the first duo we’d encountered, and it appeared they’d been sleeping on a sloped patch of dirt beside the trail in their rain gear. The night was dry as a bone.
“We tried riding into the night, but I kept falling so we decided to get a little rest before I got hurt,” one of them explained. They appeared to have a few years on Chris and me, and I was so impressed they were still plugging away at the miles. Something about them felt like me and Chris—two friends undertaking a gutting endeavor, doing whatever it took to both get through it. A dirt nap in their rain gear would hopefully be enough. I said a silent prayer for their success, preferably with a few sleep-deprived laughs when they needed it most—the magic elixir that never failed to restore Chris and me during our Smokies 900 FKT.
As we descended to Buffalo Creek, a fox crossed the trail in front of us and glided silently up a hill. I can usually count on one moment like that during a backpacking trip to make the long miles worth every step. Soon after seeing the fox, we encountered a backpacker heading uphill in the opposite direction. He was wearing a Hyperlite Mountain Gear (HMG) pack with multiple Sharpie signatures on it. This was the first HMG pack I’d seen with signatures—I didn’t know it was a thing but I loved the concept.
After refilling our water bottles in Buffalo Creek and making a pit stop at the campground’s bathroom, we began our biggest ascent yet—over 3000 feet of climbing from a starting point of 7300, cresting at 10,600 feet. Amazingly, I felt like I always do during a long climb—that a climb with a fully loaded pack is difficult, no matter the altitude.
Gunshots from a nearby range filled the otherwise quiet air between us. Memories of my childhood, doing homework at a local trap and skeet range while my father practiced for competitions, flooded me. My father has had a myriad of hobbies throughout his life, mastering each and every one before growing bored with it and moving to the next.
I’ve never mastered a thing in my life. Standing in his shadow has often fed my insecurities—how can one person become so maddeningly proficient at so many things? Sometimes I think it’s one of the reasons backpacking has come to mean so much to me—at the end of the day, it really just amounts to walking a lot, and that’s something I’ve gotten pretty good at doing.
As Chris and I continued to climb, we crossed signs with another CTR competitor. He signaled for us to pass as he dismounted his bike, but not without stopping us to vent first. He was visibly exhausted as he explained that he hails from four feet below sea level somewhere in Louisiana, and starting the ride from Durango injected a mighty dose of altitude sickness in him initially. “I was vomiting constantly for about 12 hours. I couldn’t sleep, I was being chased by thunderstorms constantly. And then I missed the window for my last town resupply because I got there too late at night. I’m so glad I can check this off my bucket list because I’m never doing this shit again!”
I asked him if he needed food—I was happy to offload some of mine to see him through, knowing I’m prone to overpacking it and selfishly wanting to lessen my load. He told us he was ok and proceeded to pull out a gallon Ziploc of shredded chicken, rice and carrots from one of his pannier bags. “A woman in her camper van saw me on the side of the road and asked me if I was ok. She gave me this food and filled my water bladder with almond milk. I’ve made do on less,” he explained. I couldn’t fathom drinking warm almond milk on a hot day, but I also couldn’t fathom what he was doing at all. He continued giving us blow-by-blow accounts of his toughest moments. We walked away from the encounter feeling like he needed this trail therapy session, and we hoped venting to us for a bit lessened his pain. Probably not, but at least he got a few minutes of rest.
After we finally reached the top of the climb, we entered the Lost Creek Wilderness. We quickly dropped to an expansive meadow that stretched for over six miles ahead of us. The terrain looked cruisey in comparison to our long climb. But for the third day in a row, since we didn’t have time to acclimate to the thinner air, we opted to stop hiking earlier than our norm, this time around 4 p.m. at the Brookside McCurdy Trail junction.
There were multiple campsites on the edge of the field, including a couple of car campers who traveled on forest service roads to get there. It was highly unusual for Chris and me to have ample time in camp to unwind and relax. Neither of us knows what to do in that space.
“You know what I’m gonna do with all this free time?” I asked Chris. “I’m gonna go walk into the woods a ways and wipe the stink off. I smell like a rotten onion, already.” I replied, while heating up a pot of warm water for the task.
I found a secluded spot away from our campsite and stripped down to the basics before wiping myself relatively clean with a moistened compressed towel (a.k.a. “butt coin,” per Chris) to which I added a couple of drops of Dr Bronner’s soap.
The evaporative cooling effect in the dry, cooler air of the higher elevation gave me goosebumps. It was heavenly, my backcountry spa experience, even when I realized I was completely surrounded by moose scat. “You’ll sleep better after a warm bath,” I heard my mama whisper. I smiled at the memory of her words.
When I returned to camp, Chris and I invited “Dudley Do-Right,” a fellow CT thru hiker we met during our lunch break who was camped nearby, to our site for dinner. We shared our meals and backgrounds, learning that Dudley is a retired journalist from Falls Church, Virginia. We planned to make bigger miles than him each day, so we doubted we’d see him again. We also recognized the trail has a way of reconnecting people, despite their different paces. So instead of goodbye, it felt more appropriate to say, “See you later.”
We turned in early again. The next day would be a big one and our first surpassing 20 miles, assuming we fared well through the night with less oxygen to restore our tired muscles.
Love reading your blog posts Nancy!! Question, do you have a P Style? If not, you should try. Love mine, no more moon!! And no leaving the tent at night. Just use it with a gallon zip lock bag. Easy to use.