Muffy J. Davis

Body Image Advocate

Day 6: I feel strange on the drive back to Hart’s Pass.

I wake at 5:30 and I listen to Carrot and Bogwitch sleep. The dogs stir in their little beds. Carrot sighs a small sigh and rises to take them out.

With this, the wheels of the day are set in motion. I open the curtains and we start to pack our bags. I have a meticulous system: sleeping bag in its own trash compactor bag, in case it rains. Another trash compactor bag with my food bag, which contains my pot, stove, and spork, then my shelter and neoair, my bag of clothes, my ditty bag full of electronic things and toiletries. I stuff one hip belt pocket with sunscreen, SPF chapstick, my ziplock wallet and my headphones. I stuff the other with bars and a small baggie full of Wavy Lays. I drink a lot of cold brew and eat a vast bowl of Chex and almond milk and banana. We all do a lot of this and that, and then we are ready to go.

I feel strange on the drive back to Hart’s Pass. Do I want to hike the whole PCT? I’m still not committed to anything past Washington but I feel a lot of pressure to make a plan, figure it out, shit or get off the pot. I’ve never once played anything by ear and I don’t love the process, but what can you do? I have no idea what plan will guarantee the best combo of fun and personal growth! But who does really?!

Carrot drives us to the bottom of the road to Hart’s Pass and we try to hitch our way up. The road is sketchy and also crowded so why NOT avoid putting Carrot’s van through the ringer again? Not too much time passes and some old climber guys let us in. They’re going to Hart’s Pass too, going to bag a peak.

The men ask too many questions and I start to feel tired. The drop us at our ridge, where we see a huge group of hikers around a roaring fire, all talking and drinking tea. Broken Toe, a PCT hiker of yesteryear is set up there, with a van he built out and firewood and an entire custom made drawer full of tea. He tries to convince to stay, but I know if I sit down we’ll never hike. We wave goodbye and I feel a little wistful. He’s making roasted vegetables for dinner tonight. Hiking is sometimes all about denying myself things.

We climb up and up and up into the misty cascades. I am stunned and I am also thirsty, because I forgot to check guthook and there’s very little water in the first ten miles after Hart’s Pass. Bogwitch and I hit an actually large and slippery snow patch and I use my microspikes for the first time. I listen to the news, hear stories of Customs and Border Patrol running a Facebook group that hosts memes that depict Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez sucking President fuck face’s stupid dick. The Fourth of July is just around the corner and I couldn’t feel less patriotic.

6.4 miles in, we finally gather water and I eat vegan cheese it’s on the bank of the river. I am sad while I clean my chafe, a well of grump while I try to ground into the Earth, feel myself strong and solid like a tree, like a rock, like a forest creature, all welcomed and warmed in the late afternoon summer light.

We descend over 1000 feet in 1.5 miles to our campsite ten miles in. I make a pot of bean and noodle soup, explore my Guthook app, see that tomorrow we’ll need to go 21 miles. I feel dismayed. I remind myself that though it’s early in the journey, I can totally hike 21 miles, that Carrot has graciously agreed to make us dinner at rainy pass just as soon as we arrive.

I hunker down into my shelter, blow up my neoair and burrow into my quilt just as it starts to rain. Myself and my gear are 100% dry, and I am grateful for our timing, so happy we didn’t push longer today to make tomorrow shorter.

21 miles will be just fine I think. 21 miles will be just fine.

—


📍This section of the Pacific Crest Trail is on unceded Nlaka’pamux, Syilx/Okanagan, and Columbia-Wenatchi land.

Day 5: A zero in Winthrop

Bogwitch, Carrot and I wake up well rested and it feels fucking incredible. We eat cereal and almond milk and berries and tasty bites and fresh greens and cookies and jalapeño potato chips and brown rice pasta with marinara and kale and baked tofu. I drink kombucha and limeade and ginger beer and iced coffee and massive bottles of sparking water. We go to the weed store and I use weed salve samples on all of my aches and pains and they….disappear. But I am a lightweight, and so suddenly I am very, very high.

We talk about trauma but on account of the weed, the trauma feels funny instead of nightmarish, which is all one can hope for, really. Behind our motel there is a river and we meander down, find a hammock and some chairs and stick our feet in the water. It’s too cold to swim, but I content myself watching the tiny rapids, a hummingbird, a deer. I am happy, so happy with my snacks and my people and the dogs and the drugs. I know happiness is often clouded by anxiety for me, but this one is pure, complete and absolute.

I let it wash over me again and again and I am grateful.

—

📍This section of the Pacific Crest Trail is on unceded Nlaka’pamux, Syilx/Okanagan, and Columbia-Wenatchi land.

Day 4: a surprise Carrot

Picture by Bogwitch!

I wake up early and I’ve slept so well I can hardly believe it. Nine straight hours smiling in my sleeping bag, what a gift.

I put on my raincoat first thing. The condensation in my tent is so bad that with each slight movement, plump drops rain down on me. My quilt is soaked, my pack is soaked and the outside of my shelter is…dry. Cruel tricks of the universe! I’m a mouth breather.

Except Laurie’s tent is soaked inside too, and Sunkist’s, a nice lady we camped with. We each have different shelters with different materials, shapes, and floor situations. Condensation has us all in it’s grip.

We christen Laurie as bogwitch in honor of their particularly wet tent scenario. We all agree the name is perfect because it’s kind of scary and will freak out the squares.

I feel ready to hike today, the sun is out at last!!!! I tape my feet and notice some of the sore spots are not blisters. The pads of my feet are just a little bit purple. Actual bruises?! What a world.

Bogwitch hasn’t slept well and I try to keep my enthusiasm at a tolerable pitch. We hike out early, winding down and up and down and up, as Washington is wont to do. I sit and eat a bar. I wonder when I’ll get to pitch my tent to dry it out. I think about nothing, letting the sun warm my back.

We are a mile from Hart’s Pass, where we plan to grab our next stretch of food from the outhouse, drink a cup of tea by the ranger station, and take our respective shits. A man in florescent swirly gaitors stops us, asking if one of us is Muffy. I say Muffy is me and he lets me know that Carrot is at the trailhead, she’s heard about the weather, she has her warm van and the dogs and a cooler full of food.

I cry. Bogwitch cries. We all cry. My steps are faster now, more focused until I see Carrot in the distance. I half jog to Carrot’s arms, smell her nice smells, go into her warm van. I haven’t seen her in nearly a month. Things have been so hard. I can’t believe it.

We’d thought we’d hike 20.7 miles today, but instead we all drive to Winthrop. I’m dirty and chafey and my throat feels weird but I don’t even care anymore!!!!

We eat overpriced Mexican food, shower, change into loaner clothes from Carrot’s van. I kiss each dog and I curl in the arms of my love, falling asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

—

📍This section of the Pacific Crest Trail is on unceded Nlaka’pamux, Syilx/Okanagan, and Columbia-Wenatchi land.

Day 3: exhaustion

I wake up hungover. My whole body aches. My throat is on fire.

Well. I think, boiling water for coffee. Ain’t that some shit.

I eat slowly. I get dressed slowly. I pack up slowly. Above all, I put my feet in my soaking wet shoes and socks extremely slowly.

First thing, we pull ourselves up a mountain. It is a great climb back from the monument, six miles of stunning views and up, up, up. I feel off, strangely achey everywhere, but I still see the truth of what’s in front of me. This is one of the more beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

Our climb ends and I find Laurie on the vista, eating dried chili mango and staring into the abyss. Laurie feels off today, too— not in the same throat on fire way, just tired. We yardsale our things, drying them in the sun. We talk about our maladies, and two other hikers join us. By some stroke of truly bizarre, one of them is a housemate I had briefly in 2011. Neither of us were into thru hiking then, and now here we are. Imagine that!

Laurie and I pack up our things and head into another climb, this one with some fairly significant snow patches to navigate. Halfway up, I hear the hikers from the vista screaming my name. I’ve left my stakes!!! They’ve got them, they yell that they’ll meet me halfway. I’m horrified, I also lost all of Carrot’s stakes on the MRT, and I just ordered these new ones to replace the ones I gave her. I don’t want to be the lady always forgetting her stakes, and so I commit to trying harder.

We climb up and down. We weave in and out of Pine and Ponderosa Forest. I ignore my throat by losing myself in my audiobook, it’s called Queenie and it’s really good. I spend time looking at the mountains. I spend time asking trees questions about what I should do with my life. I spend time crying a little because this is hard, but real life is harder. I feel lonely. I miss my lover and I miss my dog. I feel homesick, I miss a place that feels so familiar that I can recall it like the back of my hand. That place doesn’t exist for me yet, but maybe sometime it will. I eat chips. I am a bottomless well of feelings and hunger.

I start to feel over warm and I can’t tell if I have a fever or if the sun is intensifying. My head is pulsing. I desperately want to sleep, but instead, I walk.

We make it to the campsite 19.8 miles away from where we started and I am destroyed. My whole body aches- the back of my knees, my ass, my ankles. I have bruises all over my legs, on my collarbones and on my hips. I have blisters, a lot of blisters in weird little crevices between my toes.

With my last bit of energy, I set up my shelter, I heat my beans, I blow up my neoair, and I climb into bed. I feel like absolute shit, and I know the best thing I can do is sleep.

—

📍 This section of the Pacific Crest Trail is on unceded Nlaka’pamux, Syilx/Okanagan, and Columbia-Wenatchi land.

Day 2 : monument

I sleep like I died. I wake up at five AM to birds chirping and hikers yelling as they pack up. Who yells at five AM?! When surrounded by other shelters ?

I don’t know what to do first. Everything is a little damp. My hiking clothes remain soaked, and I know I should preserve my dry socks, my puffy, my gloves and my leggings for sleeping. I am freezing, though, and can’t will myself to take off my cozy clothes and get into items that will surely make me miserable. I pray it doesn’t rain every single second today, that at some point I’ll warm up and feel okay changing. I pray there’s a window of sun to dry out my quilt and my tent. I am stressed and I haven’t had coffee yet. It’s too early in the hike for hypothermia edge play.

I make split pea soup and instant brown rice for breakfast. I drink my instant coffee. I think about shitting but do not shit. I just don’t have to yet, but if I know one thing for sure, it’s that once a thru hiker starts pooping, they never really stop.

By 6:30 I’m ready to hike. It’s drizzling lightly, but not too bad. Laurie and I check in and agree to meet at the monument 15 miles away, if we don’t see one another beforehand. Their puffy was stuffed in their mesh yesterday and it is deeply soaked. Everyone around us is a little on edge, too. We’re just all so…wet.

I set uphill through gentle pine forest dotted with Dr. Suess flowers. I’m listening to a book today, and I’m trying to zone out to it, because my body feels like shit. I am exhausted from head to toe, and my left ankle, knee and hip have a dull ache. I’m slow and I don’t want to be hiking. What can I do though? There’s nowhere else to go.

It rains, mists and drizzles, and every once in awhile the sun peaks through. I try to set my stuff out to dry when I catch the first rays, but soon it’s raining again, moistening my stuff once more. I worry about not being able to get my things dry, having a wet shelter and quilt and all wet clothes. I can’t stop obsessively worrying and it turns my brain sour.

I climb down patches of snow, some small and some so large I contemplate putting on my microspikes. Laurie helps me navigate some of the trickier passes and we note that the snow is the perfect hardness. Any slushier and we’d be slipping and sliding.

Eight miles in, the sun peaks through and after watching the wind and the cloud patterns, we determine that it looks like it’s gonna stay. We yardsale hard, even setting our shelters up so they dry as fast as possible. I am surrounded by each and every one of my items as they warm up in the sun and I feel almost happy. I’m wet now, but soon all of the things will be dry.

I force myself into my damp shorts and take my puffy off as a solid to future me, the one who will be cozy and dry in bed. I eat Chex and protein powder milk and I am crunching and smiling, able to relax enough to make jokes. The 21 year old be we got a ride in with heads past, already having tagged the monument and now moving South. It’s noon, and by our math he has already done a 19 mile day. What a little freak! I make him stop and dry out his stuff, concerned about his tiny little runner body in wet layers and gear. We chat about what the terrain is like the rest of the way to the border, and I get excited as sun fades in and out. It’s time to go!!!

We pack up our dry things and I feel renewed. It’s all downhill to Canada and I do something I haven’t been able to muster yet: I go fast, this time with a good attitude.

We pass our last camping option, a site 3.7 miles from the border. Once we go in, there’s really no place else to camp, so I mentally make note of our mileage. If we touch the border and come back to this site, we’ll have an 18.5 mile day. I feel like I can do this, like my mind is up to it even if my body isn’t quite yet.

We descend into thick lush rainforest, and it starts to pour. There are downed trees in the thicket, blow downs of all shape and size to crawl under, over and around. Overgrown flora gentle carresses my calves, my thighs and my waist. It’s all soaking wet, and very quickly I am dripping water from the waist down.

The monument appears and it makes me want to cry. Here I am, finally, and I don’t know what to make of any of it at all. I feel lonely, then, wishing for Carrot or my sister or a set of parents. It’s not my parents I want, but some different ones that would clap and share my monument pictures with their friends. Instead, my dad is a dead drug addict and my mom is both my abuser and a person who hates me simply for being born. I deserve better parents and I know it, but here we are.

I take my picture. I write “Muffy is here, figuring some shit out.” in the trail registry. I shoot a glamour shot for Laurie and I cheer myself up because I’m tired of being grumpy and sad, I want a new feeling.

Finally, finally I am headed southbound on the PCT. Let’s fucking go.

—

📍This section of the Pacific Crest Trail is on unceded Nlaka’pamux, Syilx/Okanagan, and Columbia-Wenatchi land.

Day 1: attachment styles

Laurie and I wake up on Madeline’s futon in Bellingham. I never sleep before a thru hike and this time I did. I’m almost shocked at my seven hours.

I drink coffee and Laurie figures out how to work Madeline’s espresso machine, so I pour an extra shot in. I take a few bites of my breakfast burrito, but I can’t really stomach it. I wash my face. I eat a bar. I use a toilet and I shit around on the internet. These are small luxuries that I will miss.

Our trail angel, Erika, arrives exactly at seven AM. Laurie and I load into the car and we’re sharing our ride with a 21 year old named Daniel and a 22 year old named Inge. They’ve both just graduated from college and their faces are so shiny and new!!! I feel old and young at the same time. Are we really that different, me and the young people? The answer is yes, but in this moment it feels like no.

On the way to Hart’s pass I am blissfully pacified by my phone, my excitement, my bag chips, the idea of resting my eyes. Our trail angel hiked great chunks of the PCT last year and she tells us about her favorite and least favorite days. I wonder which days I will like, if anything will feel hard after finishing the Mogollon Rim Trail a little more than a month ago. That route took every single thing I had right out of me both physically and emotionally. Anything’s gotta be better than that.

I miss Carrot. Things have been really hard lately, we have a difficult time communicating and hearing one another’s needs and we’ve thought maybe we’d give up a handful of times. I can’t give up on the idea of my relationship with Carrot, though. Because in the moments when I am on the precipice of great possibility, she is the one that I long for. We have so much trauma, our negligent and mean parents, our horror show circumstances in the formative years. I don’t care, though. I want to walk through our trauma together. I want to make it work.

Do you know about attachment styles? In queer world, we love astrology. Astrology is a system to codify our actions and behaviors, a rubric of explanations for why we are the way we are, why some of us are great to one another and intolerable to someone else. Attachment styles are kind of like that, except for that instead of being based on magic and planets and stars it is based on history and cultivated behavior. From what I understand, I am an anxious attacher. This means that I feel abandoned easily and when I do it feels like I am dying. Carrot tends toward avoidant attachment, which means that when I’m hurt and I cling, she feels like I am trying to steal her soul. These ways of being are because of neglect and abuse and we learned them from beliefs we cultivated when we were very small. I feel sad for us when I think of our attachment styles, wish she was in the car with me right this moment so we could brainstorm some strategies to keep the tiny flame of our love going, even in the emotional storms.

At Hart’s pass we hang half of our food in the outhouse. First we’ll go 30 miles North, up toward Canada so that we can get pictures of our smiling faces with the border monument. Then, we’ll turn around and come back to our hung food, praise the ripe stink of the outhouse for keeping our bags safe, and continue South toward Mexico. It is illegal to get to the Northern terminus from Canada, so even though this adds sixty miles of walking to the 2,650 mile journey, it’s kind of the only way.

Laurie is a therapist. We chat about attachment styles while we walk, and I am careful not to give too much personal information away. Carrots story is public, but the details aren’t mine to share (and besides, it’ll all be in her second book— which you should definitely read.) Laurie soothes me with her compassion and then we lapse into silence. The PCT Is so beautiful, just hanging out in Washington’s mist. The mountains occasionally have mild snow patches but nothing too bad. It’s lightly drizzling but nothing severe. Today, I think the PCT is perfect and I try to zone out.

At the 9.8 mile mark I wait for Laurie and we check in. We feel okay, we want to go further! It’s only 3:00 PM besides, there’s plenty of light left in the day.

Laurie and I separate and it starts to rain harder. Fat thick drops are cascading down the sleeves of my rain jacket, but the temperature is warm so I try to stay in my gratitude. I weave in and out of a burn, and I feel tired for the forest, sorry about all the humans. I climb over downed trees and I roll my ankle hard, falling to my knees. I am tired of rolling my ankles on long distance hikes, frustrated to note that though I haven’t done much in the way of training since the MRT, I’m still a little bit hurt. The rain intensifies. The temperature drops. I am officially grumpy.

I hike as fast as I can, and my pace surprises me.

I NEVER hike faster than when I’m cold and wet and today is no exception. I climb over rocks and snow patches and wild flowers and pass under thick tree cover. The rain turns to slushy snow flakes and I start to shiver. Snow?! On a long distance hike?! Again?! (I’ve hiked four trails or sections of trail this year, it’s snowed on all of them, how can I still be surprised ?!) I push as hard as I can, right up to the campsite at 14.6 miles. There are already a handful of hikers set up there and the snow is dumping. It is in this moment that I know I’m going to have to set up my shelter, lay down my plastic ground sheet, blow up my neoair, change my clothes, and cook my food as fast as I can. I am drenched and confused on the order of things, but shivering- I eventually do get it done. The pitch of my tent is laughable and much of my gear is very wet but in my quilt I am medium warm.

I heat lentils for dinner, toss a giant glug of oil in the mix to give it more sustenance. I wonder what I’m doing, if my ankle will be ok, how long it’ll take me to get back down to rainy pass where I hope to see Carrot. The wind whips but the rain subsides and I start to dry out, even with my shelter’s shitty pitch. Eventually, I sleep.

📍This section of the Pacific Crest Trail is on unceded Nlaka’pamux, Syilx/Okanagan, and Columbia-Wenatchi land.

Day 36: Finish

I wake up covered in sand.

There’s sand in my sleeping bag, there is sand on my pee bandana. There’s sand in my ears, there’s sand between my toes. I slap my socks against a rock and they spray great bursts of grainy sand.

We’re still in this canyon! The confluence of the two creeks both is and is not long. It’s just 12 miles! It’s 12 of the slowest miles I think I’ve ever done. I feel like I am in a fever dream, one where we’ve been walking in this water for lifetimes, generations, eons. It is almost laughable to wake and still be….right by the water.

We make our way up the canyon, its great walls shading us as we go. Our notes tell us that we may be able to pick our way up and out of the canyon early, and we want to, if nothing else than for a change of pace. Carrot reads topo lines much better than I do, and  when she looks at our maps she sees some suggestion in the gestures around Hobo Canyon. Maybe we’ll be able to climb up and out there?!

We try. We pull ourselves up and over great boulders, out of the shade and onto the ridges. The rock piles grow more and more vast and eventually we get rocked out entirely, unable to go up any more. We attempt to climb out again on some slopes down the canyon and soon it is so steep that I become afraid. We are hikers, not climbers! We gently lower ourselves back to the canyon again.

Damnit. We’re stuck.

Except we’re not! We walk through the water for just a short time more, and then we see the sign for the trailhead that is supposed to lead us up and out. The sign buoys my spirits, but there’s no real trail to go with it and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I fill up four liters of water before committing to a search, and silently I scream. MRT, you are such a motherfucker!!!!!!

Separately, we walk small circles and zig zags searching for the trail. Beads of sweat pour down my back, my mouth is completely dry. I begin to imagine scenarios where I just live in the canyon now, where I have no choice but to stay here forever and build an entire life. Eventually, I do find the trail and I start climbing.

Thank the fucking goddess.

Our final climb to the New Mexico border is rocky, steep, exposed, and relentless. The temperature in the closest town reads 90 degrees and I have no idea if that’s accurate here, but it sure feels like it. I try to both remember to regularly drink water and also not drink too much, too fast. Our only water sources from here on out are shitty stock ponds, and what I have in bottles may be hot, but at least it’s clear.

There’s hardly any shade and we eat our lunch cowering under a mesquite tree, trying to avoid the sun as it shifts toward us, ever creeping. Carrot heads out ahead of me and I text with Emma and Billie— our beautiful friends are picking us up, right at the Arizona/New Mexico border, just as soon as we can make it. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a thing but imagining them as we finish gives me a tiny bit of fire. I need to get my ass in gear or I am never going to see Emma and Billie.

I push. I push up the hill and I push my discomfort away. I look at the GPS and it says I’m off trail. I attempt to course correct and I find myself bushwhacking through dense hot forest, up steep ridges with no clear path in site. I feel like I can’t breathe. My tongue feels thick, I don’t know where the fuck to go or how the fuck to get there. I search my brain, sift through all of the skills I’ve built over the last 36 days.

I find nothing.

I sit under a tree and have myself a small panic. I sob, open mouth guttural cries of confusion and heat and frustration and something that feels so lonely it cuts me like a knife. I have no idea what’s happening, now or later. I don’t know what the future holds. I feel scared. 

I retrace my steps, go back to the spot I was at— the perfect trail looking line the GPS called “off”. I realize that my first path was probably right, that it was my track that was off, not my steps. I am a deflated balloon, climbing post panic. I know this will all be done soon, but I have miles and miles to go and I can’t imagine finishing. The concept just won’t crystalize in my brain.

Our climb unceremoniously ends. The trail is clear now, and winds downward through shady forest. I am mad at myself for not finishing this positively, and I try to barb the shitty thoughts from my mind. I know I don’t have to finish an extremely hard thing with a smile on my face! It sucks that it sucks, but I don’t have to make it suck more by being mean to myself. I want to be my own friend. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I think about that while I walk.

I find Carrot one mile before the state’s border and I ask her if she’d like to finish together. We’re both physically and emotionally exhausted, and we’re pretty quiet while we walk. Every once in awhile we talk about our dogs or what we’ll do in Tucson. The sun starts to set, painting everything golden. I feel emotional.

We aren’t sure where Emma and Billie are, but we climb a dirt road and turn around a bend. They’re there with a box of gluten free donuts and Billie’s dog, Frankie. Frankie bounds toward us, winding her tail in circles like a propeller. I am truly speechless.

I fold my trekking poles to put in the Suburu. I take my hiking shoes off, and attempt to shove my swollen stump feet into the slip on vans that Emma and Billie have brought me. They don’t fit of course, but I don’t care. We get in the car, talk about going to Carl’s Junior. We ask about our friends in Tucson, we drive on sketchy dirt roads.

I am happy and sad all at the same time.

—

📍The Mogollon Rim trail is on Yavapai, Western Apache, Hopi and Hohokum land. I am a grateful guest

Day 35: Narrows

I sleep a Sleeping Beauty sleep, and when I wake up I am reborn. 

I speculate that today will be a day full of wet feet. I have exactly one application of KT tape left for my ankle. I know it doesn’t stay well in water, but there’s no choice but to apply it now. I tape it and rub it hard, trying to secure it as much as possible.

I need you to last two more days I whisper. There’s gonna be a lot of water. I say this to myself fast, as if I am apologizing.

We set out early, picking our way through wide open forest separately. The trail is gloriously clear and then it is nothing. There is no scenery to orient to, no topographical change to guide us in the distance. I feel like I am going to die in the forest, walking around and around in circles forever. When I do make it back to the line that is the trail, it is reflected by absolutely nothing on the ground. This is the way of the MRT from beginning to end. An enigma, a mystery, a gesture, an idea.

I walk towards Carrot who is caw caw-ing for me in the distance and when I find her I sit down and grump my way through a granola bar. I am fucking irritated.

We continue cross country. We have lots of options today: the track Brett and Tree made, an alternate discovered by another hiker, a deviation Carrot is interested in exploring, a recommendation from the postmaster. Ultimately, we go with Brett and Tree’s line, we know it’s doable because a couple of other MRT hikers did it a couple of days ago, in the freezing rain no less. Carrot says if she doesn’t try it, she’ll always wonder.

We drop down into our first canyon of the day, Auger canyon. The canyon is wide and rocky, and dotted at first with shallow scuzzy pools and then with pools deeper and deeper, embedded in slick rock. It’s slow going and peaceful down there and very, very warm. We are considerably lower in elevation now (just 4500 feet when we’ve recently been anywhere from 7000-9000) and sweat drips down, braiding trails down my back.

As the pools get deeper and wider we debate whether or not we should try to avoid them. As a test, we climb up a canyon wall, then way down on an animal trail, to avoid the first one that looks deeper than is fun. I am sweaty and winded by the effort and it’s clear: avoiding wet feet is absolutely not worth it. Tacking on elevation gain and time to stay dry just isn’t in the cards.

We have our lunch at a pair of cabin ruins, one just a facade in the wash, sloughed away by the elements and one very obviously used and maintained. Inside we find mouse traps,  a pantry fully stocked with canned food, dish soap, wet wipes, dishes. We eat lunch outside, lazily shoving chocolate and chips into our mouths and marveling at all the different ways people can have a home. Carrot and I have lived together for the past six months, and we’ve decided it’s not ideal anymore. We are both very much in search of a home now, and we think about what we might like often. I don’t want a cabin in the wash, but I’d love something like this right in Tucson. Maybe in the backyard of some friends.

“I hate all of this food” I say— and I really do, too. 35 days of this and all I want is a vegetable. Okay, okay- also maybe a donut.

After lunch, we find a cairn marking where our trail picks up again and cut cross country up and over into a new canyon, this one a confluence of Dutch Blue Creek and Ash Creek. This canyon winds narrowly, pools of water unavoidable but pleasant enough. We’re walking almost completely in water, now. My KT tape is in tatters, but I am crossing my fingers. My ankle is either fine or not fine, and I don’t have much choice about whether or not to walk on it either way.

Thunder crashes and lightening rings out. Carrot and I chat back and forth over the roar. Should we be scared? We don’t really know. We decide not to be, the rain is light and a flash flood seems almost impossible.

Still, I toggle back and forth between enjoying the drama of the thunder and lightening and letting it freak me out. I have never seen anything like this in person, these secret canyon walls with their pools and their algae and their slick rock. The ground beneath the water is slippery and I try to glide my feet up the creek, going with the instability instead of working against it. I love this canyon. I hate this canyon. It’s beautiful! It’s never going to end.

We hike for 12 hours. We go 12 miles. An entire day of one mile an hour terrain— something I haven’t experienced before.

Tomorrow is our last day on the MRT. After that I’m going to sleep forever and ever and ever.

—

📍The Mogollon Rim trail is on Yavapai, Western Apache, Hopi and Hohokum land. I am a grateful guest

Day 34: Groggy

We wake up groggy.

It’s six AM. We are 2.5 miles away from the Blue post office. The Blue post office opens at nine. This morning, for the first time in a long while, there’s really no point in rushing.

And so we don’t. We meander through breakfast, take our time packing up. Our campsite is glorious and we take a few moments and appreciate it extra.

This morning just isn’t one for going fast.

Which is a good thing. I am exhausted. I am exhausted physically and mentally. I am finding it very hard to make myself go under the circumstances, even though we are walking a gentle dirt road, some of the easiest tread on the whole MRT.

We are three days from being done and I can feel every bit of the 450 miles aching through me. Some of it is in my joints, some scratches on my skin, and some deep in my muscles. There aren’t any words for it really. I’m just kind of…done.

The Blue post office is great. It’s tiny, fits no more than just Carrot and I in the whole dang thing. Mona, the postmaster knows Debbie and Aaron, our ride to the trailhead yesterday, and she was just waiting for us to arrive. She knows the Eastern end of the MRT well, rides it on horses. She tells us secrets of the land.

Once we’ve sorted all of our food (some into bags, some right back into the box to feed Mona’s chickens) we continue our road walk. I’d hoped the few hours of easy terrain would buoy me, but I am heavy and solemn, plodding along as I go. During lunch I shove salt and pepper kettle chips in my face and wonder what’s wrong with me. Maybe all the weird gluten I’m eating. Maybe not enough sleep last night. Maybe, again, I have PMS.

Our post lunch hike can be summed up in two words: a climb. We climb 2000 feet in 5 miles. Sometimes our climb is gentle forest, sometimes it’s exposed ridges. The trail, mercifully, is well maintained and I turn my brain off and just let my body do what it needs to do, so long as we still get the job done. I climb slowly. I climb taking a lot of breaks, sometimes with Carrot and sometimes without. I climb without paying a lick of attention to the scenery around me. I don’t have to feel good to climb up this hill I tell myself. And it’s true, I really don’t.

At the ten mile mark, I hit a saddle— and just like that, we’re going down. At first the trail is rocky and technical, but almost immediately it turns into a gentle pine needle covered downward slope. Storm clouds and deep thunder threaten, I stop and repack my gear into trash compactor bags before sealing it in my pack, and just as I cinch it closed, the sky opens up and thick rain pelts me. I’m two miles from camp and as soon as I’m wet I find it in me to pick up the pace for the rest of the way.

I never, ever hike faster than when I’m uncomfortable.

We were hoping to camp at mile 12.9 of section seven, but when I arrive there are five men and all of their horses in our spot. They have a rip roaring campfire before the sun has even gone down and loud country music playing. “I think that’s a lady!” one of them whisper yells as I pass and I want to gut him like a fish. Women hike, my dude. It isn’t so shocking.

Carrot is setting up the shelter, chatting merrily as she does, tolerating my sullen mood with nice jokes and compliments. I feel very close to Carrot, almost closer than we are in our regular at home lives, and I say so. She says she feels the same way, we agree that we’re so lucky to have hiked all this time together, to have become one another’s nature companions.

At last, my dark mood shifts. I feel warm and happy eating my transcendent pile of greasy noodles out here in the nature. Today, I didn’t feel like hiking, but probably tomorrow I will….right?

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📍The Mogollon Rim trail is on Yavapai, Western Apache, Hopi and Hohokum land. I am a grateful guest

Day 33: Introducing the Blue River

Debbie and Aaron saw us in the general store. They saw us write a note asking for a ride 30 miles south right back to where we bailed to get food. We said we’d pay 40$.

Debbie and Aaron are hiking types, so when we left, they discussed it and found us down the road. “We will give you a ride!” they said. “Keep your money!”

We’re so lucky to have found Debbie and Aaron. The next day at seven AM they drive us to our spot and tell us everything we could need to know about the area. They LOVE this little section between the Black and Blue rivers so much, they know it like the back of their hands. Debbie is a writer and tells us about the book she’s working on. We all debate the merits of self publishing vs. traditional publishing, the sky is blue and gold outside, and I am happy.

My pack is full with a lot of food and all of my new layers and I’m happy about that too. I’d been so cold and stressed last week, and just like that, I took care of business and fixed the problem. It’s very, very easy as a thru hiker to talk oneself out of getting the things that you need. Every single item for comfort is weight on your pack, so one is constantly debating NEED vs. want. But you know what? Fuck it. I’m almost 40 days into this hike. My back is strong. I can have an extra fleece.

We descend into Raspberry Creek first thing. The terrain is significantly easier today, maybe because it’s warm, maybe because this side of the trailhead is better maintained, maybe because I’ve had time to rest. We stroll casually on pine needle covered path and I zone out. It’s mother’s day, which is a hard day for me because my mom and I do not have a relationship. I wish I didn’t mind, it’s honestly much better for me to autonomously care for myself, but Mother’s Day always feels like a painful barb from the universe. Everyone posts their nice mom pictures and says their nice mom things. I, meanwhile, sit and stew. I remember how hurt I was by my mom. How much shit I’ll probably always have to work through because of it.

But today I’m free! I have no service, I don’t see a single person’s social media. Once we hit the creek, we find a mess of overgrown thorns and blowdowns, with the instructions to make our way down, whatever way provides the path of least resistance. We do just that, making an imaginary trail where there is none. It’s slow going, 1.5 mile an hour terrain and we are scratched, poked, grabbed and prodded by the flora as usual. I slip a lot. I feel clumsy but also like it could be so much worse. It HAS been so much worse. This is like a 3 on the MRT pain scale. It’s slow and it’s fine.

Just after lunch we climb steeply up above the creek, then descend steeply to where the creek opens up and meets the Blue River. All around are sandy plateaus, open rock fields, sage brush. The Blue River is very calm and clear and warm and low. We cross it a few times, and it is fine. Compared to the Black River, the Blue River is a kiddie pool.

Above the Blue, we hit a dirt road. A wide flat thing for easy walking, with perhaps some of the most stunning views we’ve seen since Sedona. Red rock spires! Storm clouds reflecting golden light! Secret caves! Rocks of unbelievable mass!

I eat snacks and I feel high off of all of it. The trail. My love. This fucked up country with its beautiful nature. The universe. So many things.

We’re tired! Our bodies feel ok, we could go farther tonight, but our resupply boxes are to be picked up from the town of Blue in the morning, and the post office doesn’t open until nine. The post office is on trail, and just a few miles away. We decide to camp early, to boil our water for instant refried beans in the sun light and marvel at all we’ve done and how little we have left.

52 more MRT miles ’til dogs. I cannot wait.

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📍The Mogollon Rim trail is on Yavapai, Western Apache, Hopi and Hohokum land. I am a grateful guest