95% of reported thruhikers choose to do the Gila Alternate rather than sticking to the designated CDT, and I was no different. It cuts off an incredibly long, dry stretch of the CDT and winds it's way through a breathtaking canyon, offers exploration of cliff dwellings, and invites hikers to soak in the natural hot springs.
But it started with a 5 mile road walk. I made my way into the hills, watching the scene transition from town to countryside to forest until it finally diverted onto a trail. The trail was lovely as it crested a ridge with incredible views, then merged with a winding bike path among the pines. I took a three hour siesta in a parking lot as dayhikers came and went, then continued onto an old forest service road- bumpy, rocky, and washed out. A hot, steep uphill gave way to a long down, and soon the trail paralleled shallow pools of water. I joined some other hikers as we found a place to set up camp near an abandoned cabin.
I was drifting off to sleep to the sound of crickets when a cow scream echoed up the canyon. I bolted awake. "Mroooouuu!" It sounded like it was dying. I heard the cow and his herd coming closer, tripping on the rocks. Immediately my mind went to the worse-case scenario of the cows trampling over my tent, crushing me in the process. I peeked out as the others shined their headlamps on the beast. They were cowboy camping and had full view of the action. The cow squared up, looking angrily at us as if we had intruded on its favorite stomping grounds. It seemed to be debating how much energy he wanted to expend on destroying us. With one more "Mruuu" he gave way and went around us.
Another beautiful ascent and slippery steep descent had landed us at the Gila River, and we began the first of many river crossings. The ancient river bounced its way in between steep cliffs which forced a trail to pass through the river as it tried to find stretches of land to cross. If I found the right path it was pretty well traveled. Otherwise I was wading through stiff grasses that brushed my sun-burnt legs and pushing through willows as I searched for the trail. I welcomed the water crossings. In the hot sun, the river was refreshing and my pack light without the three liters of water that usually accompany me in the desert.
Miles went by quickly, as the crew leap-frogged around each other. Finally we made it to the hot springs. A small trickle of earthen water filled a pool just big enough for five people. After cooling off in the river, the warm water was inviting. I ate lunch as I dried off, the cool wind balancing the hot sun to perfection.
We weren't as deep into the wilderness as it seemed. By the end of the day, we departed from the depths of the canyon and emerged onto a road. A couple mile road walk put us at Doc Campbell's Trading Post where I grabbed my resupply package, topped of my batteries, and rested in the shade. I took off as the sun set to finish the road walk to a campground where I set up neighboring an old dwelling and some pictographs, a small taste of the history I would be walking into the following day.
The Mogollan cliff dwellings did not disappoint. We climbed from forest stream to cliffside as we ascended into the past, exploring the thousand year old ruins of the Mogollan people. Six to eight families made their homes in the depressions of rock, building protective walls and entering from the roof as was traditional style for their people. At only four feet tall, it would have been easy to squeeze through the narrow passages and nimbly climb along the cliffs. I imagined kids running around playing games against the valley backdrop until mothers called them in for a dinner of corn cobs that now lay scattered on the ground. I could almost hear the clunk of rocks as the men shaped arrowheads and see the families crouch through the small doorways as they made their way through the maze of structures. No one knows why the people deserted their homes after only 30 years. Perhaps it was only meant to be temporary to begin with.
After the ruins, we took Little Bear Canyon back to the river, walking between pale gray walls of dynamic rock until we were spit back out on the Gila River. Towering cliffs welcomed us. Somehow the Gila had gotten more beautiful since we left. The trail led us to another hot spring; crystal clear water brimmed a picture-perfect pool. I relaxed in the 92 degree water until my skin wrinkled.
The sun ducked behind the canyon walls rather early which left me to hike and ford the river in the cool shadows. I took my time, marveling a the canyon walls, the trout and minnows, and plants along the trail. I joined some other hikers to camp by the water, the walls rising above us, river tumbling below, crickets singing their lullaby on such a perfect night.
It didn't stay perfect. I woke up every hour to add more air to my leaky sleeping pad. These weren't holes you get because you've been reckless with your sleeping pad. They were holes you get because the sleeping pad has been used beyond its short life span and the seams are pulling apart. I had managed to locate and patch one hole but after sinking to the ground again I knew there was a second hole I had missed. I resolved to just sleep on the ground on my thin foam pad which I had brought for siestas. It could have been worse, but definitely could have been better.
The sun took a while to peek over the edge of the cliff and I didn't get out of bed until about 7:30, unwilling to step in the cold water along with the cold air. I got on the trail by eight, moving slowly and yawning constantly. My coffee cliff bar seemed to help with energy and I slowly made my way up the canyon. The water was cold but soon it started to warm up as the sun hit the canyon floor. Dark pools hugged the cliff-side walls. Beavers had gotten to work and dammed up places of the river which made for deeper crossings and I had to be more careful and choosy as to where I crossed.
The sun and the grass worked together to try to destroy my calves, which felt tight and hot. The canyon widened which allowed for fewer river crossings and longer stretches of exposed fields. Sometimes the trail went under the cool shade of the pines which was a welcome relief from the burning sun. In total, I had crossed the river roughly 220 times over the last 55 miles. The river crossings ended unceremoniously as the trail crossed dam holding back a lake.
I imagined Snow Lake to be a crystal clear lake with large pine trees lining the shores, a sandy beach, and happy campers moving to music as they cooked so much food they were forced to share it with hikers to get rid of it. The satellites had shown nothing of the sort. Still, I had hopes. When I rolled up it was exactly as I thought it would be- a muddy lake with rolling grass fields. No happy campers. No lively music. No extra food. No clear water. Disappointing. Still, it was beautiful...a quiet beauty.
I crashed in the shade of the bathrooms and gutted my pack to grab my sleeping pad and find the hole. Pouring water on it, I saw the bubbles streaming out from a seam and patched it up. I hoped I would be sleeping well that night. I thought about staying at the campground for the night; the moon hanging in the sky, the birds soaring overhead, and the grassy hills stretched out beyond the lake rippling in the wind was serene. But it looked like finding drinking water was going to be a problem for the next few days. Choices were either a lot of dry camping, long water carries, or trying to separate water from mud.
We decided to make a few more miles and packed up, setting out into the hills. The trail followed a gravel road for a while then turned on to a rocky path where footing was harder to come by, and followed a shallow canyon. The beautiful glow of the sun cast the grasses into a warm orange color. Swirls of lava boulders sat perched on the hillsides. It was lovely hiking, but I had to work for the last five miles. I was in a bitter mood with painful feet by the time I joined a few others to camp by a cow pond. The sun had already set. My sad clump of noodles pretending to be spaghetti didn't help my mood.
Within minutes of laying down I knew my sleeping pad hole had indeed not been repaired, or rather, there was another hole. So I searched again, listening for the quiet hiss of air. I managed to find it and patch it up pretty quick but alas, the pad was deflated within 30 minutes. I couldn't locate the new hole so I settled for blowing it up every hour as the temperature is dropped further and I shivered under my quilt. Finally giving up, I allowed my pad to sink to the ground revealing my thin foam pad. It wasn't comfortable, but it saved me from the cold ground.
I heard the others get up before the sun crested the hill, but after such a cold night I was not about to emerge so soon into a cold morning, so I waited til the sun peeked over and warmed up before I stirred. My water had frozen chunks in it.
The trail ran up and over a hill first thing and I was met with sweeping views of prairies dotted with cows. Soon I was walking along a dirt road for miles and miles. It cut into the trees and then on to a gravel road and that's what I was on most of the day. I didn't mind it at first. It was quick going, but soon my feet started to tire. I found a spot under some shady trees and dug into a late lunch as another hiker joined me. My appetite was kicking up, but not to the level of hiker hunger. I was going to get to town with extra food.
We ended up camping at the last water source for 21 miles. To get the water from the spring you had to lift a heavy metal lid and dip a can 4 feet down into a well and draw it up. If the spring was overflowing, a pipe emptied the extra water into a nearby cemented tire for cows to drink. The well was so low the tire was dry.
As we ate dinner by the empty tire, a few cows cautiously approached to get some water. One mooed to her sister, trod a little closer, and stared at us apprehensively. "It's ok, we arent going to hurt you," we assured her. "There isn't any water in there though," I added. "Mooooove," she said. "Ok fine," I huffed. I got up and relocated so she would be more comfortable looking for the water. The other hiker followed suit. "Look for yourself," I motioned to the tire. She warily approached the trough and sniffed for water, and upon not finding any, looked at us accusingly. "Hey, I didnt drink it all." I told her. she walked off in a huff, calling us names.
I got in my tent before the sun set, eager for sleep.
I was so chipper in the morning when I woke up. I tore down quickly and took off up the road which was easy hiking in the cool morning. The road met back up with the official CDT, thus ending the alternate, and followed a beautiful ridge walk. There hadn't been a lot of recent maintenance so I spent time climbing over trees and stumbling over rocks, but that didn't affect my mood. It was a beautiful day, a beautiful time to be so alive.
At the bottom of a long hill, I was faced with another alternate trail option. It was about a mile shorter and avoided a climb. Originally I wanted to do the CDT route as it offered views, but I really didn't feel like climbing a hill as it was getting hot, and the views that morning had satisfied. The alternate led through a canyon. It followed very faint old road and then a dry creek bed which resulted in little bit of route finding. Definitely a worthwhile adventure. It was getting hot by the time I met back up with the official route and I stopped for a quick lunch. But with many miles to go I took off in the heat of the day, climbed up the remaining hill, and trudged to the water under my umbrella.
I made it to the water and joined some hikers in the shade. From there, I had 40 miles to Pie Town. I wasn't sure what to do about the route coming up. All the options of alternates were giving me decision fatigue. Up ahead, I could take the blue line trail for 40 miles and walk straight to Pie Town on old dirt roads, or take the official CDT which was about 42 miles of trail and ended with a 13 mile highway walk to Pie Town.
Pie Town is one of the places where it is necessary to mail a resupply package, as food options there are practically nonexistent. It was already late Thursday afternoon. I could definitely make it to town by Saturday afternoon, the problem was that the post office was only open for 2 hours in the morning. If I didn't make it in time I'd have to wait until Monday morning when it opened up to get my resupply package.
I considered taking the CDT and then hitching the highway, which would actually end up being a little bit shorter but that relied on a hitch to get me to town on time. I considered the blue line trail (which was the old CDT route) and the long dirt and gravel road walks that it promised. In the end I decided to do blue line, as it was shorter and it seemed like that's what everybody else was doing. The route settled, it was only a matter of making miles. We hiked until the sun set and then beyond, the dusky light making it hard to see but the road was wide and easy. Our eyes adjusted under the full moon. I started to get sleepy after an hour or so, and when we made it to the water source I decided to stop for the night.
It was around 10:30 when I crawled into my sleeping bag. I had a bed of soft pine needles under my foam pad to help cushion me. I would need to push a big day the next day.
The morning hike was cruisy. Cresting the top of a hill I found a bunch of packs on the side and discovered there was a fire tower nearby. As I approached, I could see people looking through the big windows. I climbed up the nearly 100 year old tower and met the friendly staff who talked about life as a watchman and the tools of the trade. At 10,000 feet of elevation, I could see for miles. He pointed out an active fire (I had seen the smoke the day before), the road that we hiked up on, and Pie Town- a big shiny blob that seemed way too far away. I made my way back down to start chipping away those miles.
After the fire tower the road turned into a very rocky, old forest service road and it was difficult to find good footing. My feet started to hurt. Thankfully it didn't last forever, and turned onto a better maintained dirt road. I saw a truck in the distance and when he approached I pulled over to the side to let him pass. Rather, the truck stopped and rolled down the window. "Hey," an older man missing his front teeth, with sun-weathered face, scraggly hair, and and a joyful gleem in his eye waved me over. "Here you go," he held out a bottle of Powerade. I thanked him greatly. I'm always marveling at how willing thruhikers are to accept food from strangers.
I made it DaVila Ranch, a glorified shelter with electricity, running water, an outdoor kitchen, and wifi. I wasn't able to stay long, as I needed to get closer to town to make the morning walk to the post office possible, but I was able to enjoy some good food and a charge. We set off as the sun sank lower, finally calling it good for the day and finding a place to stealth camp. We had done nearly 29 miles that day, and I felt it.
Unfortunately I didn't get much rest from those miles, as I couldn't get comfortable on my thin foam pad and it was cold. I set off on achy feet for the last six miles to Pie Town. I made it in time to pick up my package and check into Toaster House, a hostel with limitless character. Hikers lounged on a hodgepodge of chairs on the back porch. Stickers and notes and art adorned the walls. Packages lined the walls and cabinets. Typical town chores followed, including eating at every restaurant in town (a total of two) and sampling a slice of pie. Games lasted into the evening and I curled up on a cushion bed, eager to finally get some rest after so many sleepless nights.
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