Day 2: Traversing the burn

14 miles today. We wanted to get up at 5 and start hiking by 6, but we slept in till almost 6 and didn't break camp till almost 8. 

I had a restless night, my tiny Thermarest no match for a campsite I dubbed Lumpy Cactus. But the day was still cool when we set out across Gudy Gaskill bridge. Gudy just died, 3 days ago. She was apparently the toughest, most persistent advocate the Colorado Trail has ever known. This trail exists because of her. We should all be so lucky to be able to point to such accomplishments in our lives.

This section—section 2—is known for being dry, burned out in a fire years back, and devoid of any natural water source.

Our original plan was to dry camp tonight, but we're so ahead of our itinerary that we think we'll press on till we get to a stream. That means at least 13 miles today, maybe 16 if the intermittent streams are dry. But at least then we don't have to haul extra water for miles and miles. Water is one of the heaviest things we carry.

So we set out and things are not nearly as bad as I feared. The burn is actually lovely, and the 2,000 feet of climbing seems a touch challenging but not bad. We can see the landscape for miles, strange rock formations like massive alters. The view is awe inspiring and distant clouds pile playfully along the horizon.

We then enter a thinly forested area which has a slow climb dotted with ravines. We trundle up, chatting a bit but not much—Granite has always been comfortable in silence—and find a shady rock for a snack. I devour food and we chat with a man named Steve, who we met early in the day packing up his hammock and who passed us on the trail before we caught him here. Steve is from Colorado and has done the trail before (or at least sections of it).

We get up to hike again by 11 AM, and now it's getting hot. But the sparse tree coverage keeps us out of the worst of the heat. We leapfrog with Steve for a bit, but then find him struggling. He's got terrible nausea and needs rest. Apparently it started yesterday. I don't know if it's heat or altitude or electrolyte issues, but I give him some salted almonds and a few tabs of chewable pepto bismo, which he gratefully accepts. Granite gives him a liter of water. We leave him resting on the side of the trail, hoping his nausea will subside. I spend the rest of the day looking back over my shoulder, wondering if Steve is OK.

We arrive at a truly lovely vista—long, wide, sloping plains with dramatic rock formations, mountains in the distance. We can see for miles. But I barely appreciate it because my feet have begun to ache terribly. I think they are sore from yesterday, swollen from hiking and not accustomed to carrying a pack yet. But we are merely 8 miles into the day, and we don't have enough water to dry camp tonight. We have to go on to the steam. And truthfully the stream is the best thing for my feet—it will make the swelling ache vanish.

There's a road at mile 10.1, and we agree to try to reach it before breaking. We can see it distantly when I finally sink down under a tree. I lay out my sleeping pad and prop my legs upslope on my pack, achy feet wrapped in wet bandanas. I touch my feet and it feels unreal, both amazing and terrible. It's as if there's too much physical sensation pouring in through my feet, and my brain and body can't make sense of it. The skin is too sensitive, the ache of it unbearable.

I settle in for 30 minutes, figuring that will be enough time to let my legs drain of blood. Granite sits in the shade nearby. He is very easy going (except when he's not). I love that he can keep up with me, even though I'm sometimes annoyed that it seems effortless to him. I like that he lets me set the pace.

Low rumbles of thunder growl in the distance and bruised blue clouds begin migrating across the sky toward us. A few raindrops hit us, then a few more. I gather my things, stretch my cherry red rain cover over my pack and put on my raincoat, and we walk. But the raincoat is unbearable in the heat, and I take it off immediately, preferring the cool rain on my skin.

The next few miles are a challenge. For the first time, Granite shows some wear. He's a bit stiff, and he mentions that the section takes too long (it doesn't; we are coasting around 2 miles an hour and so we are hitting our landmarks exactly when we expect to). We finally enter segment 3, which is a blessing.

This segment is a dream for mountain bikers and we run into a few. Smooth dirt trail, curving and bouncing. I jolt along at nearly a jog, feet hurrying below. The rain comes and goes, gentle and intermittent. My feet begin aching again but I promise them it's just a few more miles. We find a beautiful outcropping of granite a bit after the first mile of section 3, and I lie down on it, throbbing feet on my pack, hoping the swelling will go down. Granite joins me and he rests his feet on his pack as well.

We look at the maps and Granite says there's a stream in .3 miles. 10 minutes! If the stream is there— it's seasonal—then I can soak my feet in a mere 10 minutes! I pop in my headphones and turn on an audiobook —Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson, which isn't engaging but who knows it might get better?—and let Granite take the lead. He hurries, big strides over the perfect biking path—and I'm nearly running to keep up.

We reach the stream and it's not a stream at all. It's a mucky dribble, slightly more than a puddle, and the mucky campsite by it seems like defeat.

"No," I say, "Let's keep going."

Granite turns and heads out, and I'm trailing but somehow it's not bad. I like moving fast through the woods, maybe missing a glorious section but I'm happy to coast and focus on moving. And maybe this audiobook is off to a slow start but at least it's something to distract from my aching feet, which feel like knives are shooting into them with every step.

We curve down a hill and hit a big stand of aspen. I slow, taken aback by how other-worldly and peaceful it is. Granite notices I'm lagging—he always keeps an eye out—and waits just after I walk through the long stand. We take a few more steps and we're at a creek. I drop my pack and start gingerly untying my sneakers.

Granite asks if I want to camp here. But I'm confused. I didn't see a campsite. He points it out—wide, flat, clean, with access to the stream, a fire ring, boulder for lounging, and aspen trees. I think it's lovely but I'll also keep going to Tramway Creek tonight, if we decide to do that. I'll be OK once I freeze the pain out of my feet with stream water. I ask Granite what he wants, and he decides we should stay here.

I slip my feet into the tiny creek and it's so intense I can't breathe. I can't hold my feet in for more than a few seconds, even in an inch of water. Could this be glacier water? I stick my fingers in and find it's cool but generally normal stream water. It's my feet that are abnormal. Hyper sensitive, swollen, achy, burning hot. I sink them in again and pull them out, gasping, shocked by the pain. I begin to practice holding my feet under the water—first for 30 seconds, then for a minute—until I can bear it for 2 full minutes. I pull my tender feet out and they're cool to the touch. I have blisters between my third and fourth toes on both feet.

I head back to the campsite and Granite has set up the tent. I filter water and prep hot water for dinner. I'm eating instant mashed potatoes with cheese and olive oil and broccoli. It's utterly amazing and I wish I had 2.

I mention it's not raining, which is a surprise because it had threatened all afternoon, and Granite says "No. It's the opposite of rain."

Steve arrives near 5 PM, after I'm done eating and while Granite's sitting down with his food.

"You saved me," he says. He thinks his electrolytes were out of whack—he's been drinking a ton of water but not eating anything with salt—and our assistance got him back on his feet. I'm beaming and Granite seems pleased. We invite him to stay for dinner but he wants to go a bit farther, I think so as not to intrude. He's planning on heading out at Bailey tomorrow to buy gatorade and see if he can get well again. We tell him about the backpacker hostel and how to get there from the trail.

"You two are so prepared!" he says.

"Not me," I say, feeling self conscious, "I don't have a map or compass or a knife."

"Yeah, but you brought him," he says, and gestures at Granite. We grin.

When packing for the trip, I tried to err on the side of minimalism. I downloaded the data book—which lists all the water sources, elevation changes, resupply points, and larger campsites for the trip —onto my Kindle. I put the Guthooks app, which has similar information and GPS, on my iPhone, which doubles as my camera. I brought the cooking gear while Granite brought the tent, I brought leukotape and tiny scissors while be brought a knife. Together, we have everything we will probably need. But if not, then there will be a mountaineering store in Breckenridge, about 100 miles into our journey. I figure that's a good place to add or replace gear, or drop gear I haven't been using.

Thunder grumbles and purrs through dinnertime and we pull our things into our tent—away from the rain—before 7.