CDT in Glacier: Pitamakin and Triple Divide Passes

For Day 1 between Two Medicine and Oldman Lake, click here.

The second and third days of our Continental Divide Trail trip in Glacier, Renee and I went walking through a gorgeous painting.  How can the peaks jut up at these incomprehensible angles? How can this possibly be real?

Above Medicine Grizzly Lake.

Glacier feels so alive and vibrant.  Almost like I shouldn't be here. What is our impact having?  Rather than feeling at home like I do on other trails, here I am constantly aware that I am just passing through.  This place belongs to the wildlife, not us humans.  It is wild.

Carved by glaciers

This area is known for a high concentration of grizzlies.  We make lots of noise, and I scan the trail and hillsides, ever vigilant. My voice penetrates the quiet, cutting through the birdsong.  Does Renee think I'm excessively paranoid with all my shouting and reminders to be alert?  I think of all the quiet mornings we've spent hiking together on other trails across the country, sharing peaceful sunrises.  Being with her reminds me of how different my mental state is out here where I'm not at the top of the food chain.  A deep awareness of what I give up to be here.

Taking a break, we finally sit quietly and watch the lake ice melting before our eyes as wildflowers dance in the breeze.

Sitting for an hour doing mountain goat or loon surveys provides a quiet counterbalance, stillness, and a way to cope with being in Glacier.  It makes me feel like I can help out the wildlife, in the small way that scientific research does, by raising awareness and deepening human understanding- I still believe this can make the difference, can't it?  Surveys also focus our observations, and makes us look deeper.  So if there is no tangible broader impact, at least the surveys change us in small ways.  Sometimes that is enough.

Renee spots goats and sheep at Pitamakin Pass

Sitting still, tracing the binoculars and spotting scope across the landscape.  Otherwise the landscape, and these problems, are just too big for my tiny brain. 

Marveling at how fast the mountain goats run across snowfields at Triple Divide Pass.

A tiny newborn goat follows behind its mama.  How they can be so agile on impossibly angled slopes?  How can they survive the winters here?  How quickly they disappear around the corners, out of sight. 

Distant waterfalls

Further on down the trail, two CDT hikers greet me, "Hello Joan!"  I'm surprised they recognize me-- we just hiked together for part of one day on the Pacific Crest Trail in 2014 near Sonora Pass (read about meeting them on here).  I remember being so inspired by them- how they were going off to hike the High Sierra Route, and how we had that sort of intense and real conversations that can happen out while backpacking.  But still, they must have had a good memory to remember my name!  I asked and they said, "Well you're wearing the same outfit too!"

Despite the new bear spray and binocular accessories, I've still got pretty much the same look.

We catch up on two year's worth of hiking and life.  (The Sierra High Route was incredible, they said.) It's old trail friend moments like this that make me want to do another long distance hike.  Oh how I've missed this feeling of instant connection, of being part of a community. 

Richness

The afternoon heats up as we descend into the burn area.  There is water all around, but there are times where it seems so far away.  Whenever we cross a stream, I soak my clothes and head and feet.  Not being adapted to these temperature extremes.

Water and green amid the burn

Whenever we pause, the mosquitoes descend upon us. At least one critter is glad we are here. I keep up my racket of announcing our presence into the wilderness.  We see no bears.

Even the burn has a beauty I wasn't expecting.  How life has recovered.

Bear grass and regrowth

A way across

At camp, we spend the evening talking to a couple who is finishing up their last section of the CDT.  Ah what stories they share.  A group of college buddies arrive later- obviously on their first camping trip.  They leave food out unattended while they go get water, so we all try to educate them about proper food safety and etiquette without being preachy.  It seems to come across well and they ask question after question about long distance hiking and how our packs can be so small.  This type of exchange is one reason I really like these shared food areas-- how wonderful to share and listen and educate, to inspire and learn from one another.

Evening at Red Eagle Lake Campsite

Route:
We hiked on the CDT in Glacier National Park on the Pitamakin Pass Trail from Oldman Lake to Altlantic Creek Campground.  Then, over Triple Divide Pass to Red Eagle Lake Campground.
Date hike: June 28-29, 2016

CDT in Glacier: Oldman Lake

A three night backpacking trip with Renee along the Continental Divide Trail in Glacier National Park. 

Among the many reasons I love hiking with Renee is that we share a passion for maps.

In preparation for Renee’s first trip in grizzly country, we went over proper use of bear spray the night before with some demo practice spray.  Hands-on demos are best for figuring out how close bears need to be before using the spray and how the spray acts in wind.  Learning how to put the safety cap on and off, and seeing just how easy it is for the spray to go off unintentionally, helps prevent accidentally spraying oneself or one’s hiking buddy.

Grizzly habitat.

During our four days, we completed five mountain goat and two loon surveys for Glacier National Park's Citizen Science Program.  Renee used her hiking umbrella so she could look for mountain goats into the sun using the spotting scope and stay cool for the hour-long survey.

More uses for the umbrella.

Our first survey yielded no goats, but a few miles down the trail, I spotted four goats way up on the hillside.

A sheep moth visits us as we are conducting our bighorn sheep and mountain goat survey.

I wasn’t sure if there would be trees for my hammock on this trip.  In Glacier, you have to camp within the designated sites.  Renee was generous in bringing both her tents so I could try them out.

Two tents, no hammock

Sleeping on the ground was awkward at first but it was enjoyable working on my ground-dwelling skills.  In the middle of the night, a powerful storm rolled through, but I stayed dry.

Using Renee's technique of using an umbrella inside the tent for protection from horizontal rain.

Oldman Lake was one of the prettiest campsites I've been to in Glacier.  Though perhaps that is something that I say at every campsite.

Oldman Lake

Route: 
From the Two Medicine North Shore Trailhead, the Pitamakan Pass Trail climbs 6.4 miles to Oldman Lake Campground.  Backcountry permits are required.

Day hiked: June 27, 2016

Last night (for a while) in New Mexico

All my stuff is packed into my small car back at the trailhead.  I moved out of housing this morning.  I hope my stuff stays safe while I’m out here.  Just one more night to watch the pink colors dance across Mt. Taylor from my perch above the lava.

Whenever I travel between new places, I carry my spare car key around my neck, until I get to my new place and can leave it with a neighbor.

My coworkers all say, “Aren’t you excited to be moving on?”  But I feel like I’ve only just found some secret trails that I want to explore, only just gotten a feel for the area, only just began to meet kindred spirits.

Climbing out to the tip of the rock formation they call Encerrito, for a view across the remarkably tree-covered lava towards Sandstone Bluffs and La Ventura Arch.

When I stopped at McDonalds to upload another blog post, a lady started talking to me.  “You’re not from around here are you?”  I get this all the time, no matter where I go.  Nope, I’m not really from anywhere.  As much as I come to love the places I get to stay at for a short while, I can’t call this place mine.  Will there ever be a time when I can feel like I’m from somewhere?

A minuscule legume I'd not seen before.

Textured resident lichen.

 I used to long for a home, for somewhere I will belong and be part of a community.  Like it felt like on the Trail.  Now, I think I’ve given up on the concept of home.

Except for maybe my hammock, which feels like the closest thing I have to a home anymore.

Watching the glowing sunset reflecting off Mt. Taylor from my hammock.

Lately, I have come to think of my relationship with place not as that of a resident, but rather as that of a guest.  If I work to adapt myself to a place, and dedicate myself to learning all I can from being there, I can stay for a while.  Maybe I will see something of its special nature.  But nothing belongs to me.  My presence is transitory.  Does anyone else feel this way?

A shadow passing through.

Zuni-Acoma Trail

The Zuni-Acoma Trail follows an ancient route build by the Ancestral Puebloans between Zuni and Acoma Pueblos.  Today, this 8 mile cairn-marked route is part of the CDT.

Following this ancient path, wondering how old the rock cairns are and how long it took the original people to cross the lava in their yucca sandals.

Lave bridges were built by piling up lava rocks into cracks to allow passage across the lava.  Some are hundreds (maybe a thousand) years old.

The lava flows this trail traverses are amazingly distinct— by hiking from east to west, you can travel back in time from the youngest to oldest flows.  The McCarty flow (3-4000 years), Bandera Flow (11,200 years), to the Twin Craters flow (18,000 years), and finally the El Calderon flow (<60,000 years)— what a difference a few thousand years makes to the amount of soil buildup and thus to vegetation types.

This shrub (what is is?) seemed to be found only in older flows.

It is one thing to read about geology.  But hiking this trail, you get to feeling geology with your toes— stepping through it, living it.  Scrambling across lava makes you want to go back to school and become a geologist, or at least take a few more classes to understand its fascinating formations.

What makes the lava do this?

It is a rare thing to find a compatible hiking buddy, especially so soon after moving to a new place. We stopped to look at *everything* which is pretty much the best way to experience this unique and beautiful place.  I felt so fortunate to hike this trail with someone who loves to explore, has a deep curiosity about nature, and even pulled out her hand-lens so I could look at the trichome structure on a small plant in the mustard family.  YES!

The lizards here have evolved darker coloration on the lava flows.

Reaching up out of the lava.

Mt. Taylor in the distance.

Overall, this was a rugged trail, but it didn't seem as difficult as I'd heard.  Maybe it was just cause we took our time and stopped to smell ALL the flowers.

Cactus about to bloom.

More Information

Zuni-Acoma Trail Brochure- available from the El Malpais Visitor Center or downloadable here.

Climbing Mt. Taylor

My plan is to take a little stroll on the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) north from Grants towards Mt. Taylor.  Even since arriving to New Mexico three months ago, I’ve been drawn to Mt. Taylor, a large composite volcano (similar geologically to Mt. St. Helens).  It’s a massive presence in this region, dominating the skyline. 

For three months I’ve watched sunsets glowing off Mt. Taylor’s snowy peak.  I’ve used it as a directional reference point on hikes in the El Malpais.  I keep the Forest Service map/ brochure on my bedside table along with the phone number of the ranger station that I call periodically to check on road conditions to the trailhead.  I keep waiting, but time is running out and I’m leaving soon.

The road up to the higher trailhead is still too muddy and snowy for my little car, so I must use the lower trailhead. I’ve just got this one day devoted to Mt Taylor, so backpacking is out. Even though I know the summit is too far away for a dayhike, at least I will see the lower stretches. I’m looking forward to watching the plant communities change as I climb.

Starting out amidst cactus during the shadows-creeping hour of morning.

I begin from what the Guthook’s Guide app calls the Mt. Taylor trailhead (the signs say Continental Divide Trailhead), just a couple miles north of Grants (elevation 6874’).  After climbing over loose rocks for two miles, the trail flattens, spanning open grasslands.  It’s real trail too, with actual tread.  Only two sets of footprints have passed this way before me (besides coyote and mountain lion tracks).  Otherwise this trail is soft and un-compacted.  Can the CDT really be so flat and gentle on the feet? Or am I in some dream world?

Mt. Taylor looks impossibly small.

Look a gate!  The gates here are real opening and closing portals to the other side of the barbed wire fence.  What wonders of modern technology!

I relax into my 12-hour pace, that comfortable walk all day stride.  Stopping for snack breaks every two hours, or whenever a beautiful ponderosa calls out for me come rest against it.  After all this is just a stroll— no destination, just the journey, etc.

Ponderosa reaching up into blue puffy cloud skies.

Getting higher and higher.

After 4 hours, FS #193 appears marking the start of the Mt. Taylor Summit Alternate.  Guthook says I’ve come 10.5 miles but that can’t be right.  I’m not at all halfway tired.  So I decide to follow the road towards the higher trailhead.  

Definitely my little car is not making it up this road.  Hiking was much easier.

I waiver at the turn off for Gooseberry Springs Trail #77.  Light flurries are falling.  Weather forecast shows a wind advisory with gusts of 45 mph.  I haven’t seen anyone all day (and I won’t for the rest of the day either). Should I keep climbing?  The best way to make a decision is sit and take stock.  I try to figure out how many miles I’ve gone, but I get confused with the alternate on my Guthooks app and give up. My paper FS map says three miles to the summit.  Do I have enough time?  What if I end up hiking after dark?  An inventory of my pack confirms I have my headlamp, SPOT, and enough food and warm gear to even spend the night if it comes to that.  Ever cautious, I decide to keep going only if: (1) the trail isn’t sketchy, (2) my legs don’t complain, and (3) the altitude doesn’t bother me.

Aspen are gorgeous, so I keep climbing.

The snow is slightly soft and covers the trail. Somehow I can tell where to go anyway by playing the “If I Were The Trail Where Would I Go” game.  Not sketchy!

Up above the aspen, the grass waves in the fierce wind, so I keep climbing

I keep expecting to turn around at any moment.  I am a turn-around kind of person.  What would it feel like to not turn around for once? 

I am very aware of the feeling of being up here by myself at this high elevation, with the strong wind gusts nearly knocking me off my feet.  I keep waiting for my legs to get tired, or to get dizzy from the altitude.  But as the climbing gets steeper, my legs fly with increasing determination.  Arms pumping my poles into jet propulsion mode.  Oh the climbing, how I love it— the way the thin air feels as it fills my lungs and I relax into the rhythm of high elevation climbing mode.

Through a lovely spruce/ pine forest glen, then around the shoulder and oh the views of a winter's worth of hikes.

I'll just make it to that switchback and turn around.  But then... the rocks were so colorful with lichen, and I think oh just one more switchback.

The wind burns my skin and threatens to knock me down.  Snot drips down my face and seems to freeze on my face- is that even possible?  I brace myself against the wind with my poles and adopt a wider stable crouching stance.  Half my fingers go numb from cold despite three layers of gloves, but I clutch my poles tight with the remaining fingers, and it is enough.

At the highest point on the CDT in New Mexico.

I can’t believe I’m up here.  Why did I not turn around?  Maybe I’m a keep going kind of person, after all.

I love this mountain.  So this is what it looks like, after months of gazing from afar and dreaming of what it’s like up here, this vastness, the grass, the wind, the rocks.  This is the terrain that I live for. 

Coming up this mountain seems like saying goodbye to my winter in New Mexico.  It is my way of saying thank you to these lava flows and volcanos and sandstone and all the amazing things that I’ve seen while I’ve been here.  How I will miss it here!  Everything is so fleeting.

I don’t last long in the bitter winds of the summit.  Down down down, flying down switchbacks, glissading over the snow.  Down past the gate, past the mountain lion scratches, past the flowers, past the views.  Finally, to the trailhead.

Back to my lonely car at trailhead before dark.

Why does the climbing sometimes seem so easy?  How can it be so easy to come to love a place in just a few months?  Why does the saying goodbye part have to come so soon?

I finally calculate the mileage.  15.2 miles each way = 30.4 miles total.  That can’t be right.  I’m not that tired.  I’ve never hiked more than 28 miles in a day, and that was when I was in thru hiker shape.  Guthook’s app must be wrong. 

In the morning I wake up and still don’t feel that sore.  It must not have been 30 miles.  I call the ranger station and ask how long it is.  The ranger confirms ~30 miles.  It’s the most I’ve ever hiked in one day.  And I didn’t even realize it.  Or maybe I finally hiked 30 miles precisely because I never would have hiked that far if I’d known.  Maybe it’s the power of this mountain.  Maybe I’m stronger than I think.

Getting ready to open.  It's nearly spring.

More information

Date hiked:  March  26

Contact: The Mt. Taylor Ranger District on Lobo Canyon Road north of Grants, NM.  They are only open during weekdays, but are located just a few miles south of the trailhead.

Trailhead: I parked at the Continental Divide Trailhead, just a couple miles north of Grants on paved Lobo Canyon Road (elevation 6874’). Guthook’s Guide app calls it the Mt. Taylor trailhead (mile 541.4)

Take the CDT north for 10.5 miles to Forest Road #193.  Follow the sign to the right and roadwalk on 193 to the Gooseberry Springs Trail #77.  There is an excellent trifold for the Gooseberry Spring Trail put out by the Mt. Taylor Ranger District with geological and botanical information, and a nice little topo map.

There is a 4431 foot elevation difference between the trailhead and the summit, but with all the ups and downs, no idea really how much climbing this involves.  Does it really matter?

Do cows bluff charge?

Roadwalking the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) up Bonita-Zuni Canyon, north of El Malpais National Monument, NM. The pounding makes me feet ache, and I can’t hike fast enough to get my heart rate up.  There are other trails around with fewer cowpies, rifle shells and beer bottles.  But like a bad crush, I can’t get the CDT out of my mind, and this is the next section north of where I’ve left off.

Roadwalking.

So here I am, on a dusty road.  A raven is dancing above a cow carcus.  Maybe it will get more scenic further on?

Be glad I'm sparing you the photo of the dead cow.

Nope.  Instead, there are cows.  Live cows.  At first, it’s just two.  They stand up and stare.  No, three— the baby wobbles to her feet.  All small mammal cute and fuzzy.  At least I try to pretend it’s cute.  But really I wish they would go away.  Which they do, running off, then turning to stare again. 

Lurking in the trees.

Round the bend, a swarm of cows spread across the valley.  They stand up, and walk parallel to me.  Then one runs towards me.  What if it keeps coming?  Do cows bluff charge?

She ends up veering off at the last minute.  But still stares at me.

I get mad that they make me so nervous with their running at me.  No one is scared of cows.  Cows don’t hurt people.  Its ok to be scared of grizzlies but not cows.  That’s just ridiculous.  I have thousands of miles under my belt, and I’ve faced all sorts of wild creatures of the night.  I keep hiking and pretend I will ignore the cows. 

Around another corner, three cows are running towards me.  Or really not towards me because I don’t even think they see me, but they are stampeding in my direction.  How can something so large move so fast?  This is not fun anymore. 

I’ve had enough. So what if I only hiked three new CDT miles today?  As much as I try to be logical, having large animals running at me has activated my sympathetic nervous system, and I can feel the norepinephrine mustering the troops and getting my body ready to RUN AWAY.

Which I do.  A fast walk for the three miles back to the parking area.  As I retreat, a term Jan uses comes to mind: cherry picking.  It means picking only the sections of trail that you want do to- for scenic reasons, or whatever.  I’m going to be a proud cherry picker today because it means no more horrible roadwalking among cows.  And no more beer cans!

Ugh!  I want a path lined with flowers, not trash.

Why am I telling you this?  I think it’s important to say: IT IS OK TO TURN AROUND.  Why not go find joy instead?  Walking through fields of cows is not my idea of a joyful experience.

The CDT continues across to the Zuni-Acoma Trail, so I head down that trail.  This is a sweet cherry of a trail for sure!

I spend a few hours flying across the lava. The lava is rough and sharp and it hurts and wares me out.  But also: I see flowers and my feet meet the lava with confidence and I feel agile and strong. 

Beautiful lava along the Zuni-Acoma Trail.

 This is joyful hiking.  Not because it’s easier (it’s actually much harder hiking that makes all the muscles in my legs hurt) but because it is that special thing that makes me feel free.  It is challenging in a way I believe is worthwhile (unlike walking down cow-filled roads, which is the opposite of worthwhile).  Most importantly, this hike that I choose is joyful.

Sunny yellow corydalis- this is why I love to hike.