HUMANITY HIKER

As a long distance hiker you hear things about those who have hiked the trail before you.  I knew that lack of water along the Nevada ADT occasionally forced hikers to take an alternate northern route along US 50 instead.  We ended up taking an alternate route into Ely, Nevada as well, but ours was a southern detour caused by too much water.

On the third day of our seven day stretch heading out of Carvers, thunderstorms and my continued lethargy from bad water caused us to stop short at a backcountry campground, featuring the grand attraction of an outhouse to accommodate my frequent visits. The next day I felt better but more thunderstorms plus, um, backtracking from a wrong turn caused us to stop short again. More thunderstorms caused more setbacks, creating a dilemma.

I was scheduled to present my second talk to a Lions Club in Ely, Nevada.  At our current pace I would miss that talk, with the possibility of more thunderstorms and obscure routes preventing us from arriving on time.  Heading south to US 6 would add miles, but we would be able to make up ground quickly by walking a reliable route.

We passed an outhouse early in our detour.  Though the outhouse was private I could not resist making a contribution, still afflicted by intestinal difficulties. The owner of the small ranch came by and, rather than scold us, invited us to lunch and to bathe in the hot springs on her property.  We learned we were not the first ADT travelers she encountered, though personally I had not heard of anyone taking a southern detour before.

Our goal for the southern detour was US 6, which we would then follow into Ely.  A watering trough for cattle awaited us there, allowing us to take a lunch break and fill up with water, knowing that this would be the last source until we reached Blackrock Station in the middle of the next day.  Actually, we did encounter more water that afternoon, in the form of yet another thunderstorm.

At a turn out in the road, featuring a large gravel pile, we huddled with our packs under a groundcloth.  After waiting out the storm for over an hour we made camp behind the gravel pile, the only feature in the open desert that could block our view from motorists.  Not that we had much to worry about.  When we hiked along US 50, the alleged loneliest highway, a vehicle would pass us about every 5-10 minutes.  Along US 6 the gap was 15-20 minutes during the day and at night I doubt more than a handful of vehicles passed our “campsite.”

The next morning the lack of traffic became a problem.  With Blackrock Station still a couple hours away we ran out of water.  We could have hiked two hours without water even in the desert, but memories of heat exhaustion along the Pony Express Trail forbade me from risking that.  Whenever I saw or heard the sound of a vehicle I held up a water bottle as we continued hiking.  Three vehicles passed us without stopping, then I figured that my gesture might have been mistaken for a sort of “toast.”  I instead held the water bottle upside down with the lid open and the next vehicle stopped to give us water.

Blackrock Station on US 6 was a far cry from Middlegate Station on US 50.  At one time the Blackrock Station provided gas and supplies to motorists traveling between Tonopah and Ely, but now the one building there was a single family residence for the owners.  Fortunately, they were home and provided us with water and snacks.  I also used their landline to call Ky and tell her that Blackrock Station was our new rendezvous point.  During our seven day stretch Ky had returned to California to spend time with her sister.  We camped on nearby BLM property that evening.

We slackpacked the 75 miles from Blackrock Station to Ely in three days, with Ky meeting us along the way.  After a couple days without thunderstorms the occasional puddle greeted us along the side of the road, though midafternoon temperatures surpassed 100 degrees.  Thankfully, when a thunderstorm did occur we now were able to wait it out in Ky’s camper.

As each vehicle that passed us was miles away from the next vehicle, we got a good sense of which drivers were friendliest to vagabonds on the (real) loneliest highway.  All truckers gave us a wide berth, which usually was sufficient to avoid blowing off our caps with their draft, and honked their horns in friendly greeting.  Motorcyclists were the next friendliest.  Cars and pick up trucks seemed not to even notice us and sometimes tested our nerves.

My Lions Club contact in Ely was also the high school principal and allowed us access to the school during our rest days there.  We “camped” in the school foyer but could use the showers and other school property during a window of hours.  The talk went well but, as was often the case, I learned as well as presented.  I learned about Ely that a former boom and bust mining town revived itself by diversifying its economy.  After witnessing the devastating effects of boom and bust economies across the state I retained this lesson on the importance of diversification in my memory banks.

Nothing noteworthy about Cindy occurred during this stretch.  I continued to set up the tent, cooked the meals and recalled each day’s events for her journal.  Fortunately, she was able to use the showers at the school without my assistance.

Week 06 found us heading into the mountains of central Nevada, namely the Arc Dome Wilderness area and Jefferson Summit.  The wet weather that took a break while we hiked across the desert returned to us in the mountains.  The straightforward route finding was replaced by trails hard to find and hard to follow, and the day packs were replaced with full packs.  As I reminisce about this week, what sticks out in my mind are three campsites and one very special day.

The ADT route suggested a jeep road into the Arc Dome wilderness, but our FS map showed a parallel trail.  Hey!  We’re hikers!  We are going to hike on trails when available!  That is when I received my first lesson about alleged Nevada “trails.”  The trail petered out to nothing, leaving us to traverse the rugged side of a ridge like billy goats. With evening approaching we headed down to a willow-choked creek for camp.

The next morning made this campsite memorable.  As a light sleeper I am awake at first light.  Around 6:00 am, when Cindy first began to stir, she asked me if I heard two women talking as they walked by our tent.

I pointed out the folly of how we arrived at our isolated campsite, literally as far off the beaten path as possible.  Could she imagine two women choosing a route that traversed steep, rocky ridges and/or slashed up through willow choked creeks for miles as part of their daily morning walk?  We both had a good laugh at that.  I sometimes share the story as an amusing anecdote, while yet wondering whether Cindy’s condition accounted for such a hallucination.

The next day we made our way back to the official ADT route, which now followed a trail, a designated National Recreation Trail in fact.  As we hiked up through a narrow, V-shaped valley the trail doggedly stayed in the creek bed.  The overgrowth of willows and other vegetation suggested the trail had not been maintained for years, maybe decades.  The frequent crossings of the creek, a definite hindrance to hikers, suggested the trail was created for horse riders.

We crossed the creek almost twenty times in just three miles.  The water was often knee high or higher due to all the wet weather the west had been having.  Eventually we just left our boots on for the crossings, instead of wasting time constantly taking them off and putting them on.  The wet vegetation soaked them anyway.

Rain came down intermittently while dark storm clouds blanketed Arc Dome and the high pass towards which we were heading.  We stopped hiking early when we hit the upper limits of shrub sized vegetation, avoiding the exposed higher elevations before the impending storm let loose.  That turned out to be the right call as thunder exploded around us that evening and during the night.  In the morning we awoke to ice and snow outside the tent.

A few days later we camped just below a pass near Jefferson Summit.  After a long day of ascending out of Carvers we stopped at a high altitude grassland, near a small stream and with an open view towards the setting sun.  I spent the evening taking pictures of the scenic panorama while Cindy wrote in her journal, sitting comfortably amidst the grass.

Our campsite embodied the purpose of our trip, providing a stress free environment for Cindy, surrounded by the natural beauty and wildness she loves.  I suspected this campsite would rank in the top five for our trip; in hindsight I was right.  Yet in order to write in her journal Cindy needed my continual input as to what happened the past couple days.  In essence I was writing in her journal for her.

Our route the next day followed dirt roads up over the pass, down to a high desert and on to a campground.  As the day was Saturday, July 3rd we encountered a surprising amount of recreationalists for backcountry dirt roads in Central Nevada.  As the day came at the tail end of a heat wave, the majority of those recreationalists stopped to offer their assistance.

I subsequently referred to that day as “Trail Angel Day” in talks and writings about the ingredients that elicit kindness.  Backpackers across a desert on the last day of a three day heat wave engages people’s empathy.  People recreating on a Fourth of July weekend were not too hurried by their busy lives.  As they encountered us separately from each other there was not the diffusion of responsibility that occurs in mass societies and urban living.  The result was gifts of water, food, smiling encouragement and even a monetary donation!

My intestinal problems that day may have contributed to a pathetic look that invoked empathy.  I believe in the well-supported hygiene hypothesis, which essentially claims that the immune system benefits from a workout like other parts of our body.  The hygiene hypothesis provides an explanation for why the Spanish flu perplexingly ravaged younger adults instead of old and why hygienic city folk have more allergies.  The hypothesis explains why people get sicker when they drink bad water the more they try to prevent the possibility through filtration.

In 1975, the year of my first long distance hike, my “filtration system” was dipping a Sierra cup into whatever lake or small stream I encountered.  No one filtered back then, yet no one in my circle of hikers became sick.  By the 1980s the comeback of beavers and the increase of a bacterial infection known as “beaver fever” led to the common practice of filtering water.  For many hikers this meant filtering all water; for me that meant assessing the surroundings and filtering only when I thought prudent.

Over 20,000 miles of backpacking later, after drinking from countless sources of unfiltered water, I have felt ill three times from bad water: once on the Continental Divide Trail in 1985; once on the Wonderland Trail in 2005; and now on the ADT, likely from water in the Arc Dome area.  Two of those three times I suspect, from the symptoms of extended lethargy and diarrhea, that I had “beaver fever.” However, each time my symptoms were mild enough to allow me to continue hiking without any medical intervention or prolonged rest.

Upon looking back, I now realize that Cindy was with me on each of those occasions, drank from the exact same unfiltered sources and never got sick at all.  I realize as well that Cindy seldom suffered from colds.  Her immune system appears to be mightier than mine, yet not mighty enough to ward off dementia.

To start our fifth week we headed into the expansive and usually dry Great Basin. For the next two months we would be hiking through high desert … during July and August!  My focus shifted from “How well can Cindy handle this?” to “How well can we handle the hottest, driest hiking we likely will ever experience?”

Why on earth would we choose to hike the desert portion of the ADT during the summer months?  Deciding to start west and hike home, and to do so over the course of a full calendar year, led to our May start date.  Our experience with blizzards in the Rockies during our Continental Divide hike made September 22, the date the first blizzard trapped us at 10,000+ feet in the Arapaho Wilderness, as our target for being well beyond the Divide and heading into Denver.  I was more apprehensive of autumn blizzards in the mountains than summer heat in the desert.

Most of our previous desert hiking occurred during cooler fall temperatures.  Between the two of us Cindy tolerated heat better; I better tolerated water scarcity over long distances.  Neither of us previously suffered heat exhaustion from hiking.  That was about to change.

Our route early on followed the historic Pony Express Trail.  The original users of the trail had the advantage of riding horses as “the mail must go through;” we had the advantage of meeting Ky, allowing me to wear a daypack and resupply our water at the end of the day.  I filled my daypack with water bottles, but lacked a tent, tarp or any other means of creating man-made shade.

We met our first desert trail angels, Matt and Miriam.  Every year they arrive from Switzerland to explore a historic trail in America, renting a Land Rover to aid in their exploration. After having met they turned into trail scouts for us.  Once we arrived at a dirt road junction just as they were backtracking from taking the wrong turn.  Another time they drove back a considerable distance just to advise us which route to follow.  They also left us a gallon of water.

Even with the additional water I misjudged how much water Cindy needed, essentially providing the same amount for both of us.  Towards the end of that first shadeless day Cindy had a touch of heat exhaustion.  The next day I made sure she drank enough water, but I experienced heat exhaustion instead.

Towards the end of the day, after going over a slight rise in the topography, our destination of meeting Ky at US 50 came into view in the distance.  The Pony Express Trail intersected the major road at an angle, like the hypotenuse of a triangle from where we were. My heat-addled mind opted to head on a right angle to US 50, a deviation that in theory would add slightly more miles to the overall route but end the current day quicker.

Unfortunately, I had not recalled the lesson I learned from my previous desert hiking, that distances in the desert deceive.  The distance from our position to US 50 was at least three miles over salt flats.  Having drunk plenty of water that day, Cindy comfortably eased into the lead over the salt flats while I plodded along behind, my foggy head acting like an autopilot to force me on.

Once on US 50, billed as the loneliest highway in America, we continued to day pack until we reached the “town” of Middlegate Station.  The “town” consisted of a rustic motel, an all-purpose store and a few trailers in the back.  Yet every Saturday evening bikers flocked to Middlegate Station for their all-you-can eat steak barbecue and live entertainment.  Guess which evening we managed to arrive there.  There is nothing like an all-you-can eat anything for long distance hikers.

We considered our good fortune in Middlegate State as a reward for surviving our first excursion through the shadeless desert in 100 degree heat.  Our desert tribulations were not quite over, though.  Heading east from Middlegate Station we alternated between ridges and ever higher desert.  We still were day packing, had plenty of water and the temperature was a little cooler, but often found ourselves heading into a stiff 30-40 mph southerly desert wind.

I never had a problem with chapped lips before, despite hiking over snowfields at 10,000+ feet, despite never using chapstick.  By the time we reached Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park, from where we would acquire our full packs and start heading into mountain wilderness, my lips were chapped and bloody.  Cindy, with sensitive skin normally prone to sun and heat afflictions, spared herself a similar fate through her habitual application of chapstick.  Another week down, another week during which Cindy overall fared better physically.

We had not intended to stay in Foresthills.  Instead, we packed with the intention to meet Ky four days later, on the other side of the Sierra Nevada.  As we reached the outskirts of town we encountered Mary in her yard, who hailed us over for a chat.  She marveled at an older couple hiking together wearing full backpacks and lamented never yet having with anyone the kind of relationship we had.  We went no further than Mary’s yard that evening.

The next morning she drove us to the ranger station in town, where we learned about the 15-40 foot snowpack in the Sierra Nevada on June 14.  Hiking on top of spring snow presents only a mild obstacle.  Hike too early in the day and the snow is icy; hike too late and the snow is mushy; a little inconvenient but not a big deal.  The problem with large snowpacks are the large snowbridges that one might fall through.  We eventually caught up to an ADT hiker who reported falling through a 12 foot snowbridge, passing through a week earlier than us.  That was not a chance I could take with Cindy.

Assisted by the rangers and their maps, I first devised Plan A and B to avoid the heavy snowpack.  Unfortunately, this meant crossing the American River, now raging from the snowmelt.  That led to Plan C, then Plan D, which we intended to follow when we left Foresthills.  One day out of Foresthills, beginning the fourth week of our hike, I needed to devise a Plan E..

Plan E brought us on a trail to cross the raging American River over a sturdy bridge, after which the trail ascended steeply for over a thousand feet.  Clouds of mosquitoes fueled by the spring snowmelt shortened our one break to catch our breath.  We were now headed northwest, north of I-80 even, away from our eventual destination and adding miles.  Yet a combination of trails, obscure roads, railbeds, power lines and cross country work kept the snow we faced to a minimum.

At one point during our cross country work we came to the intersection of a rocky crag with I-80. We could struggle over the crag or cross the guardrail onto I-80 and run like hell for about 50 yards.  We chose the latter.  Later that day we came to the road that would bring us south of I-80 again and on to Donner Pass.

We stopped at a Forest Service campground our last night of the four-day stretch.  The campground was still closed for the season and we had an inclination to move on, but a sudden cloudburst found us scrambling to throw a ground cloth over ourselves and gear.  When the storm ended we decided to “make camp” in the concrete entrance way for an outhouse.

The whole four day stretch, with its maverick route finding and unconventional camps, hearkened us back to our Continental Divide Trail journey.  Forty percent of that trail was unfinished when our group thru-hiked it in 1985 with Cindy becoming the first woman to do so.  Our group recommended to the Continental Divide Trail Society that existed at the time to never finish the trail, to preserve the pioneering element of such a journey.  Those were the good ol’ days!

My foot felt better due to the shorter mileage days, but our support person Ky had a physical mishap while we were day packing towards Lake Tahoe.  While pursuing her hobby of geocaching a pointed stick got the better of her shin.  She came to meet us and have us treat her.  

Ky declined to seek a doctor’s help, as none of us had health insurance during the journey.  Cindy’s specialty certification as a nurse was wound ostomy; a couple years ago she would have been an ideal choice, better than a doctor.  The task fell upon me instead.

Mindful of everyone’s lack of health insurance, I aggressively cleaned out Ky’s deep puncture wound, using iodine in liberal qualities, while Ky stoically sat through the ordeal.  She suspected I was having too much fun, but I just wanted to prevent infection, knowing as well the apprehension she felt from lacking health insurance.  One month into the journey and even the support person experienced greater physical difficulties than Cindy.

A glorious day greeted our entry into Nevada, going up and over the Carson Range.  Snow blanketed the top of the range, but not at the depth of the Sierra Nevada the week before.  Instead, just enough snow provided glissading fun in forested areas, but mainly disappeared when the forests did.  With only fourteen miles intended for the day this was shaping up to be the greatest day of hiking on the journey … until I made a navigational error.

We went three miles too far north near the crest before I concluded “this is not right.”  I recharted a course to head cross country down to a FS road, from where I knew how to get back on track.  In total we added about 5-6 miles to our “relaxing” day.  Once we were on the FS road I cussed myself for my blunder and apologized profusely to Cindy for making our day so much longer.  She interrupted me during my tirade to calmly say:

“I’m not worried. You’ll find the way. You always do.”

Cindy once used maps and compass to navigate the unfinished Continental Divide Trail on her own, though whenever we hiked together I navigated.  One consequence of dementia is not being fully aware of one’s new limitations.  Though Cindy no longer could navigate with map and compass, she likely was not aware of that. Her expression of complete trust was one of the nicest things she said to me … and a sign to me our journey alleviated her stress.