Section 3: Flagstaff to Pine
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkk!"
What's up, you cool baby? I'm in Pine! The section south of Flagstaff was mostly boring roadwalks and cow water, nothing much to write home about. However, the last day into town was… interesting. This is a longer than normal letter, so get a cup of coffee and settle in!
October 20: The morning was growing warm, and I paused for a moment to remove my fleece layer and pull my hair up more comfortably under my hat. Constantine, 30 seconds ahead, disappeared into the oaks around a corner, but I wasn't worried. I tuned out, focused on an exciting chapter in my audiobook, and suddenly - no trail. I was on a lightly wooded hillside, good steady walking, and I had somehow missed a turn without noticing. Hmmm. This was the first time this had happened to me on the Arizona Trail, which is well travelled and frequently marked, but I've encountered no shortage of vanishing trails on the CDT and PNT, and I knew there was no need to panic. Consulting my map, I walked cross country to where the trail should be, and spotted a marker at the top of the rise. There we go! In my moment of confusion, I had lost Constantine completely and probably wouldn't catch him until the next water stop, so I took the opportunity to sit and rest for a minute.
I was feeling drained. I'm sensitive to wildfire smoke, and the prescribed burns nearby made me feel as though I was breathing through a thick scarf, sapping my energy. Roadwalking is easy for a little while, but the repetitive stress of taking the same footstep over and over builds with time, and my joints felt a little creaky. I was starting my period too, not a huge problem, but it does put a bit of extra strain on the body. I lose weight faster than any of the boys. Though I am taller than any of them at 5'10", I have less muscle and an inconveniently fast metabolism. When my fat reserves burn off, that's it. I eat at least twice as much as Constantine, who's 40 pounds heavier, but still shrink rapidly unless I pay close attention to my caloric needs. Eating on trail can be kind of a chore. I rarely feel as hungry as I should, but know that if I don't eat, my energy will bottom out when I most need it. I sat on a downed tree and forced myself to eat a bar, watching a pair of crows bicker and listening to the wind. I took a few notes, then set off uphill once more, paying closer attention to the switchbacks.
It was pleasant. I enjoy alone time on trail, and I like that my crew doesn't always hike in lockstep, instead meeting up at planned lunch and break stops which we discuss ahead of time in camp. I seem to be the turtle of the group this time, always bringing up the rear and often the last one into camp. I feel insecure about it occasionally (am I just the slow girl bringing everyone down??), but mostly I like the peace and independence. I can rest when I need to without feeling like I'm holding up the others.
I'd been off trail for a month before this, so my feet were complaining slightly as they rebuilt their callouses and small stabilizer muscles. About a week in is when the thrill of a new trail meets the reality of sustained effort, and I think this is why so many casual backpackers quit after their first week or ten-day trip. Just as your body is through the worst of the adjustment period, you're done! There's no opportunity to enjoy the newfound strength and endurance that comes after these two or three days of discomfort. I think many non-thru-hiking backpackers imagine that these long hikes feel the same as their last ten-day excursion, only much longer. It doesn't; once your feet break in and your joints grow accustomed to pack-weight, you're a walking machine. Anything up to 35 miles on flat terrain is fairly comfortable and routine for me, and the challenges of steeper climbs feel like a strong workout rather than a struggle. Today, though, my feet were not happy. I was going to be slow, and that was just fine.
It doesn't hurt that my pack is much lighter than a typical backpackers. I'm not ultralight for ultralight's sake - my baseweight hovers around 11lbs depending on how much extra cold weather or safety gear I need for a given trail. I generally don't find it useful to weigh the whole pack dry anyway. I know roughly how much each item in my pack weighs, and how it feels to carry it with different amounts of food and water, so I make my decisions based on my goals. My body's strong enough to carry an extra pound or two if it will improve my comfort while walking, but I don't spend enough time in camp to justify heavy luxuries like books or a camp chair. Still, I keep some things others might find impractical - the large syringe used to backflush water filters, my pocket notebook and a nice pen, a lightweight dress to wear in town, and extra first aid items to treat issues like chafe or minor infections. I'm more prone than other experienced hikers to pack out solutions for infrequent but annoying problems, and I end up lending these items out often enough that it seems worthwhile to be prepared. I rarely have to borrow from other hikers or make do with broken gear for want of a repair kit. There's a limit though - every pound on your back is multiplied in your feet, and I only carry things I'd be miserable without.
Around noon, I reached the meeting spot, but nobody was there. I was about forty minutes behind, going by the last trail register, and I wasn't surprised or put out that the boys had pushed on without me. My lungs were really suffering with the smoke, and my pace was slow. I took another break, longer this time, and drank some water while I let my heart rate recover. We had thirty-five miles planned today, and we were coming out of the flatlands and into the canyons. Thru hiking isn't all coyotes and rainbows. Every trail has relatively dull connector sections - Southern Oregon on the PCT, the Great Basin and Montanaho on the CDT, the long logging roads that string together the nascent PNT. My limited experience of the AT was just one long dull connecter section with the exception of Mahoosuc Notch, but that's a story for another time.
Today kind of sucked. I let myself acknowledge that I wasn't having a good time, then ate a handful of pretzels. Yep. Today sucks. Keep walking! I didn't want to. My break stretched past ten minutes, fifteen, then I decided to take my pack off and make it a full thirty minutes. Lunch maybe? Not yet. Pretzels. Water. I wanted a pizza. I wanted to be in town, watching tv on a nice soft bed. Keep walking! No. My body wouldn't do it. I had ten more minutes left of my break anyway. Sweat cooled on my body, and I would need to get up and move soon, before I got chilled. I wanted to take a nap. Ten more miles, you got this! My feet hurt. A bee buzzed in my face and I swatted it away with irritation. "I don't want to!" I said out loud to no one. Only way to get to town is hike. Only nine miles into town tomorrow, and no more water until the river ten miles away. Come on. You can do ten miles. You don't have to like it, but you have to get it done. I unstrapped my trekking pole for the climb up the canyon wall, then reluctantly rose after thirty-five minutes of rest. With my slow pace, I was now nearly ninety minutes behind and definitely wouldn't catch anyone until camp, nineteen miles away. Ughhhhhh. Hiking.
My mood didn't improve back on the flat plateau. I put on a podcast, but it was about Trumpian nonsense so I turned it off again. It got hot. I was cranky. I took another short break and ate some crackers. I had packed in the dark and all my good snacks were at the bottom of my pack. Restless, I checked my phone; no service. I hoped the boys weren't worried about me. I pulled the good snacks out of my pack, but I didn't want any of them. "I'm cranky!" I said to nobody again. Nobody answered either. I put the Trumpian nonsense back on. Now at least I was mad for a reason. Seven miles to water. Blah.
These kinds of days aren't anyone's favourite, but they're essential to the experience of a thru hike. It's a durational sport - hopping from highlight to highlight, you miss the sense of vastness that a long hike can offer, and the rewards of the good days aren't nearly as sweet. Thru-hikers call those who hitchhike past long roadwalks "yellow blazers" after the pavement markings on a highway, and it's a shameful accusation. If you're a real thru-hiker, you're in it for the long haul, bad boring days included.
To make matters worse, my guts started acting up around three that afternoon. Maybe I had accidentally dripped some cow water into my clean water bottle while filtering, maybe it was just my period being annoying, but either way it slowed my pace even further as I stopped to dig catholes in the rocky dirt. "THIS SUCKS!" I yelled at the trees, crampy and uncomfortable as I squatted over yet another hole in the hot ground. I had to get to the water, at least. I didn't want to night-hike or camp alone, but I'd have to choose one of those options if I kept going so slowly. I was hungry and tired and hot. I stamped my foot and sanitized my hands with more vigor than was strictly required. One nice thing about hiking alone, you can have a temper tantrum if you really need to. "I HATE HIKING! I DONT WANT TO HIKE ANY MORE TODAY!" I couldn't really afford to take another break, but I did anyway, shoving crumbled up cookies into my mouth with extreme prejudice. I didn't bring any animal crackers on this section - it was a shame. I would have liked to bite their little heads off. I grumbled to myself as I walked, fully embracing my bad mood. "This sucks, this sucks, this stupid trail sucks and I hate it. I hate cow water, I hate cows, I hate the sun, I hate this dumb powerline, I hate that stupid fence. Shut up, Preet Bharara", I muttered, switching from the podcast to my book about Antarctica. I'd get my revenge on the cows in town - I was going to eat so many burgers.
Maybe thinking about Antarctica cooled me off. I dropped into a second shallow canyon, and my mood lifted along with my pace. My stomach had dried up, but still ached so much that I left my hipbelt undone and carried my mercifully light pack with shoulder straps alone. Definitely contaminated water - I made a mental note to get new water bottles in town, and clean my filter thoroughly. The canyon was a cool green oasis, a pleasure despite my sore belly. The steep walls sheltered me from the sun, and the bottom was lined with ferns and friendly grasses, without the spiny seedpods of their desert cousins above. It reminded me strongly of the Gila River Canyon in New Mexico, one of my favourite places on earth. Here though, I didn't have to wade through shin-deep water, or fight through miles of vicious thorns. I wouldn't even have to climb out of this canyon! The trail followed its contour all the way into town. I had to stop and poop again. I tried not to mind - at least here, the soil was easier to dig. My final cathole relieved much of the pain, and I was glad to be able to fasten my hipbelt again. I felt a little bad for cursing out the trail before. "I don't hate you, trail." I thought, not speaking aloud this time. I was still very far behind the crew though, and the canyon walls would mean an early nightfall. Time to go.
The side canyon broadened and rose slightly as it opened into the wider space beyond. The Rio Verde Canyon marks the beginning of a section known as the Mogollan Rim. The trail above the river's source had been damaged by recent flash flooding, and was made hazardous by unstable rocks the size of soccer balls. I stumbled and tripped down the sandy slope, my wobegone stomach providing an amusing soundtrack to my pratfalls. Each time I caught myself on my trekking pole or front foot, the landing was accompanied by a sad trombone blast of wind. Despite my frustration, I couldn't help but giggle. Here I was, gingerly farting my way down an old powerline road in the middle of absolute nowhere. What kind of crazy life decisions led me here?!
The Rio Verde proper was lovely change of pace. Bursting from a hidden spring somewhere above, the abundant water nourished a novel assortment of plants. The ground was covered by a low ivy-like species I had never seen before, which seemed almost tropical with its dark, waxy leaves. Deciduous trees dominated the canopy, and I was surprised to see blazing red maples amid the expected desert oaks and aspens. Bushes and ferns shone with a bright kelly green, especially striking when contrasted against the rusty soil. The trail was paved with broad flat stones, so wide and well-maintained that you could probably navigate it with a stroller, or rollerskates. I half-expected to see placards bearing the names of the various plants as I walked along, like I was in a botanical garden.
My boys had again moved on without me - I checked the trail log at the bottom of the hill and discovered I was fully two hours behind Constantine and Sie, one hour behind Hardy. Dusk was on the way, and while I was feeling happier, my body probably couldn't handle another nine miles. I hadn't eaten much and didn't really want to test the limits of my digestion with a bacon-cheese tortilla, my only non-cooked option for a late lunch. They'd left an arrow made of sticks pointing the way at the last trail junction, so I knew they were somewhat concerned, but camping alone was looking more and more likely. I trudged past the trailhead to a clear spot on the rim, and caught a glimpse of the town eighteen miles ahead. Maybe that meant... I checked my phone for service and - yes! A message from Constantine. "Where are you?" I sat and filtered some water into my uncontaminated extra bottle while I tapped out a response. "5:45pm. Just made it to water, mile 309. Might camp early, took a wrong turn & got the bubble guts :( ". A short conversation later, the plan was set. They were going to make camp at mile 318 and have a short sprint into town for breakfast. I was going to go as far as I could and meet them in town sometime the next day. Except for me, the whole crew was feeling strong, and I was glad they hadn't waited. I felt embarrassed to be so slow, and would have hated to hold them back. I struggled on another two miles, then gave up and set up my tent at a scenic spot on the canyon rim. Only 28 miles over a full day of hiking - it was disgraceful for an experienced hiker like me to be derailed by such a minor, preventable ailment. I felt ashamed and defeated. But the canyon's beauty was such that I didn't want to night-hike and miss it all, and I was so very, very tired. I cooked a dinner of flavoured rice and bacon, and fell asleep in an instant.
I hadn't set an alarm, and I woke up the next day at the shockingly late hour of 8am. Something was tickling my ear - Constantine's beard maybe? I came fully awake and glanced over. Then I scrambled upright in bed, all thoughts of cuddling banished with a startled shriek. It was a HUGE tarantula! Okay, not actually that huge. The spider was equally startled by my movement, and took refuge in a corner of my tent, near the door. It was really just a baby, not much bigger than a quarter, but still. There was a tarantula in my tent! It had been on my face. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the plastic bag that holds my battery bank and prodded the spider towards it with a water bottle. It brandished its front legs menacingly at the bottle cap, then scuttled inside the bag. I unzipped the tent door all the way and plopped it outside, and the spider was off like a shot, scurrying away as fast as its little noodle legs would go. It was sort of cute now that it wasn't near my head.
The rest of the day was fairly uneventful compared to that. I saw some fresh bear shit, but no bears. The canyon view was mostly smoked out, and the sixteen miles to town went by slowly. Fortunately, my guts were well-behaved, and I rewarded them with more cookies and a candy bar on the descent. Finally at 4pm, I turned off the trail and slogged the final sweaty mile up Highway 87, to the cabin the boys had rented.
"I'm sorry I'm so late. I was so tired this morning, I can't believe I slept in til 8! And the canyon was HOT. Maybe I should just quit, I'm only holding you back. You probably all hate me now." I was feeling horribly depressed and slow. Constantine hugged me, smelly hiker clothes and all. "Don't be stupid. We all missed you! I'm glad you made it to town safe. You just need to eat. And a shower. You definitely need a shower." So I did, and I felt better.
What I'm listening to:
Aside from my sonorous cow guts and Antarctic memoir, I was blasting a lot of metal and punk through my headphones. This song seems particularly apropos:
From the crew:
Constantine's video is up - leave lots of comments asking about me, he's jokily complaining that everyone is too interested in this hot chick he's hiking with, and not at all in him! I told him he'd get more attention if he packed out a cute town dress too, but he's not about it.
The other boys haven't posted much, but as a reminder, you can find Hardy on Instagram as @dzpeebs. Sie's on YouTube as Sie So (check out his PNT summary video, it's great!), and on insta as @sie.so
Hopefully my stomach won't cause any more ruckus on the hike into Globe, AZ. There are actual mountains ahead, woohoo!
Talk soon, and take care.
-Magpie