CT Day 27: And Now for the Apocalypse

July 25

Miles: 30.5
Trail Mile: 462

The day didn’t start off like the world was going to end. Or if it was, it was going to be a slow death by saturation.

It poured all night. Rain was still coming down hard at 3:30am, going strong at 5:30. At 6 it’s more tree drips and drizzle, so off I trudge through wet grass soaking my shoes, to make a deposit in the Bank of Earth. As soon as I am all exposed the downpour starts anew.

Most of the rest of the day is in the clouds and the rain, though bikers racing the entirely of the trail provide some distraction. The ones we see today are the stubborn stragglers, well behind the pack but determined to race against themselves. Otherwise it’s mostly viewless ridges and even foggier passes.

A couple headed the opposite direction warns that there’s little water ahead. Begrudgingly, I fill almost 3 liters of water, the weight of which always seems a bit insulting when it’s pouring from the sky. Though my legs are far from tired, my heart isnt in this hike anymore. It’s drowned out by the rain, stomped on by wet feet. And the trail isn’t as social as I was expecting for something so established. I let slip a bunch of complaints out loud, which is terrible and basically breaking rule number one of thru hiking. But in this moment I can’t wait for this hike to be over. It’s so different from my relationship to the PCT where I bawl like a wee baby every time I leave and even tear up when we drive anywhere near it on the interstate.

There’s a lake ahead that ends the waterless stretch, but it would make for a 30 mile day. I say I am going to camp sooner, alone with my grumpiness. But then each extra mile sets me up to finish tomorrow and be done with the wet feet and general struggles. And so a mile more turns in to three and then I am up near the tree line late in the day. The shifting clouds and the evening light make for a pleasingly moody landscape. With blue sky ahead after so much rain, I assume the storms are done for the day.

And then, well above the tree line with nowhere to go but forward, I hear thunder in the distance. Right at the start of the biggest climb, heading toward the double high point of the day. At first I half laugh as it always seems to thunder when I have to cross something exposed.

By the top, it’s clear that the thunder is an intense storm that is coming this way. I keep moving, but assume there’s still enough time to get down to camp. By the second peak, getting off the high, bare ridges is becoming more urgent. Still, I pause to snap a photo of the first view of the lake.

But then I see the storm rushing toward our ridge and book it down. It’s mile 30 for the day and I. Am. Runnnnnniiiiinggggg!!!There’s a strange glow across the valley and I look behind: the dark clouds have caught the last of the sun and the sky is lit up with the pink-orange glow of the apocalypse. And there’s lightening. So much lightening.

I tear further down the valley, through waist high wet flowers. I toss my metal hiking poles away and crouch under some willows in a divot that rapidly fills with rainwater. All the while the sky flashes and crashes in such quick succession. This is the most intense thunderstorm I’ve ever been in. A whole month of lightening on replay in one spectacular show. Huddled terrified in a puddle, I am so worried for Steph and Jeff who were behind me on the ridge. How far back were the others? Are they safe? Could anyone NOT get struck dead up there right now?

Finally the storm moves on, fire-sky fading to darkness. I head back toward the trees looking for a campsite, turning on my headlamp hoping the others will do the same.

Immediately I hear Jeff – he’s OK. Then he sees Steph’s light across the way. All soaked and cold and relieved to be alive. “F*** this trail!!!” yells the always calm and accepting Steph. “It tried to kills us! “. Jeff has resolved to hike out tomorrow and to never go hiking again.

Somehow I am strangely reinvigorated by the power of the storm. In Yosemite too on the PCT, a similar experience jolted me out of my selfish inward spiral, to remind me how lucky I am to be alive, to be out here, to be strong.

A perfect crescent moon rises right over the very same ridge, if to signal that the show is officially over now. And with that, on my final night, day twenty-seven, I look up to proof that Colorado does indeed have stars.