[Day 27] Retreat

Today stung my pride.

After hiking seven miles to the end of the Ghost Ranch Alternate, the circumstances cycled in my head with grim analysis. I left Ghost Ranch knowing of no person in front of me who had made it to the next significant check point on trail; I heard only of people who back tracked this section due to deep slushy snow and/or the raging Rio Vallecitos.

As data from Postholer.com has suggested, the New Mexico-Colorado border has particularly received a dumping unlike previous years, while the San Juan’s of southern Colorado have seen a moderately high snow year. Time away from this section of trail to allow for melt is inevitable for most hikers. Though, I expected to at least reach the state border before breaking.

Ahead of me, the Rio Vallecitos — a river of Carson National Forest which trail crosses — is running high. The log crossing is destroyed — split in half with one part swept gone downstream. Purportedly, the river is running near abdomen level (obviously, individual physiques vary significantly). I am comfortable with flows at my waist button, but a river crossing above belly button with a concentrated vector flow is territory I hesitate to attempt alone.

The melt appears to be in full effect. Rio Chama was one indicator. The boggy, muddy nature of the more arid forests on the mesa heading towards Carson National Forest was suspect. Two hunters I met in the backwoods, who were startled and surprised to come across a backpacker alone and this early, confirmed that the surrounding waterways were swelling and Rio Vallecitos was a risky crossing in their opinion.

When I was at Ghost Ranch, my fervor to continue north was not shared by the few other hikers at the ranch. I suppose most of them thought I was unsound. Unofficially, I’ve been tagged as a “freak on a leash” by some surrounding hikers. I’d tend to agree with them — I’m definitely of a bizarre nature coupled with some convictions and morals that keep me from leaving the atmosphere. I suppose their doubtfulness of what lie ahead did subconsciously rub on me.

I sat in a beautiful meadow and contemplated my conundrum. With one bar of AT&T service, I decided to make some communication. I called the Chairman — a most memorable PCT friend and Triple Crowner. His consensus was to give the melt some time — even if I did make it past the river ahead and to the border, I’d reasonably want to wait out some melt of Colorado. I called my uncle, who made a similar assessment. He knew my love for snow walking and creek charging in the Sierras, but it’s been hard to gage how my beloved Sierra Nevada compares to a less maintained and less familiar Rocky Mountain trail. Lastly, a friend reached out to a double Triple Crowner (that’s right, he’s done all three trails twice over). In the bigger snow year of 2019, he crossed Rio Vallecitos at chest level, lost significant body heat from the event, powered his way to the state border, then moved north to part of trail in Montana to allow the San Juan’s to melt. This year’s snow has exceeded the season of 2019.

I sat in a gorgeous meadow, contemplating my conundrum. With all this data, I concluded to head back to Ghost Ranch and ship into Santa Fe for a few days to evaluate my next maneuver. Back tracking those miles were bitter, and I wanted desperately to put them towards forward progress north. I knew if I got to the river, I’d try to cross. Risk loomed over my continuation forward; I knew I couldn’t stop myself from attempting to cross. Whether right or wrong about my decision, there will be much reflection and learning to come. The 30 miles of wasted effort will be nothing more than a drop in the bucket of potentially a 3,000-mile journey.

I checked my watch — 11:37am. The bus schedule from Ghost Ranch towards Santa Fe reported a 4:37pm departure. I had five hours to haul 17 miles to the bus stop.

On my return trip, I ran into the hunters again on a side mission. They were scouting the higher elevations for snow conditions; I guess I got them curious. They reported three to four feet of slush above 9,500 feet. I’d expected this, though such conditions are hard to imagine with the 70°F weather and stellar desert views.

I arrived to the bus stop with 12 minutes to spare. The bus took me to Española for a layover to my next connection. A fellow travel offered me cigarettes and bud while he privately took hits from a crack pipe under the cloak of his LA Dodgers jacket. I patently, but kindly declined. I’m not quite sure why, but I attract interaction from strangers of all types.

My bus driver to Santa Fe was of native descent and told me stories of spirits and humanoid creatures that he and his family had experienced in the woods. He was convinced my soul was good since I not had any such strange experiences in all my time in the darkness of the woods.

I was dropped off at the New Mexico Capitol in Santa Fe. I walked through the boutique downtown area — it was a popping Friday night. I was so out of place. A dirty hiker straight out of the New Mexico backcountry with his life on his back walking through upscale Santa Fe. People were dressed up for a night out; I was getting stink eye.

I wandered my way to a Chipotle on the outskirts and had a pleasant meal. I continued out of town to a beat motel to room with another hiker for the night.

Bizarrely, I am going to very much miss waking up and hiking the woods over the next coming days. I expect to take maybe a week away from trail to receive snow gear for the upcoming San Juan’s and final miles of New Mexico, and maybe some family might come visit me in Santa Fe. I’ll additionally make plans for getting around Rio Vallecitos, should it still be high (I’ve already identified a detour on a bridge quite a few miles downstream on Forest Road 274). Anyway, it’s been a day full of travel, disappointment, confusion, sights, and even some bright points. Some rest is needed.

Signing off,

Zeppelin