“I’m not prepared for this,” I said, just before hoisting my pack and disappearing into the desert for six days.
But I was prepared. I had everything I thought I needed. I had plenty of food and a nifty trail app that would help me find water. I had sunscreen and rain gear and a hat for both occasions. I’d done miles and miles of training hikes. ‘Course, that was at sea level, but it wouldn’t take me long to adapt.
And it didn’t, though I admit my quad muscles were screaming for the first couple of days. Trail walking is far more physically demanding than road walking. The extra effort pushed me till every muscle and tendon tied itself in knots. Even my hands cramped up. Still, I never doubted my physical readiness.
What I wasn’t prepared for were the mental aspects of spending six days in the desert. It’s been a while since I’ve wandered out that way. The desert felt like a different world. I couldn’t remember the names of common plants. Hazards I’ve long known and accepted carried the added weight of uncertainty. The night before joining my friend on her journey, I couldn’t resist the urge to look up what to do in case of rattlesnake bite (short answer: don’t get bit).
But I shouldered my pack and ventured out into the wilderness, anyway. I figured it would all come back to me, once I got out there. In the meantime, I’d enjoy getting reacquainted with all the mysteries of desert lore and backcountry travel.
The first day was kind of fun. It wasn’t too hot yet – that would come later. We had plenty of water to start. The terrain was flat or gently sloping hills. Our pace was slow, which gave me time to look around and admire the scenery. It had rained two weeks before, and scattered flowers were beginning to bloom.
The trouble started that evening. I was getting low on water, but the nifty trail app suggested piped water flowing into a stock tank just a few miles ahead. Relying that, we passed up the muddy, cow-wallowing river beside the trail and headed for what sounded like the cleaner source.
Which of course wasn’t there. That piped spring turned out to be some three miles up a dry wash. Meanwhile, the sun had set and the daylight was getting thin.
We filtered the river water and found a campsite by flashlight. Last time I did that, an army of fire ants objected to my presence in the middle of the night. Fire ant bites inject something into your bloodstream that makes your whole body react. You break out into a cold sweat, and your skin itches and everything feels bloated and fuzzy, and the symptoms last for days. But this time, we avoided camping on any fire anthills.
Next day was hot. Like, find-some-shade hot. And the air stood still, as if the world had stopped turning. If we had stayed in reasonably level terrain, such conditions wouldn’t have killed us. Instead, we climbed.
And here’s the difference between me and my hiking partner: she lived in the high desert. She worked outside every day. She was acclimated to the dry conditions. She didn’t need nearly as much water as I did just to keep going.
I shed gallons of sweat climbing from 1,800 feet elevation to near 4,000 feet. With every short burst up a steep incline, my throat burned and I reached for my water bottle. My nose bled from the aridity of the air. My hiking partner generously shared her water, loaning me a liter and a half from the four liters she was carrying. She stuck to her slow, steady pace, but I knew everything depended on there being water at the next source, and I pushed on. We were aiming for a rain catchment system at the top of a mountain. It was a half-mile out of our way, and rain hadn’t hit that peak in nearly three weeks. If the tank was dry, we’d have a long way to go till we got to the next spring. Some of us might not make it. Meaning me, in case it’s not obvious. So I pushed on, knowing the situation could turn desperate and hoping for good news at the end of the climb.
The tank wasn’t dry. There was plenty of water, both for drinking and cooking. And the next day we got resupplied, so all’s well that ends with a pint of vanilla ice cream. But for me, that second day was brutal. Here’s how brutal it was:
My hiking partner, who’d never soloed out on Wild Side, told me she’d understand if I wanted to tap out. The whole reason I agreed to go wandering in the desert ten days before my own cross-country walk was to lend support and the benefit of my (rusty, underused, ill-maintained) experience to my friend’s efforts. And here she was, telling me I could back out. But that’s not how bad it was.
How bad it was is that I thought about it.
In the end, I stuck with her. In the end, it wasn’t a close call. And the rest of the trip never approached the level of difficulty that Day Two presented. Not even when I got buzzed by rattlesnakes twice in the same day.
In the end, I made it through six days in the desert, and maybe someday I’ll have a yarn to spin about that. Maybe it’ll be about all the ways the desert can kill ya. Or maybe it’ll be about how important it is to give yourself time to get acclimated to the local conditions. Or about being prepared.
Or maybe it’ll simply be about not quitting on a friend.
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