Smooth Trail and Wash Bottoms: 5 Days Solo on the Arizona Trail Part 3

June 17, 2017 by Sabrina Carlson in camping, hiking

I launched from Bear Spring camp late and heavy. According to the map, the spring would be my last water source for 9 miles and seeing as I would be traversing high and dry ridges I didn’t want to toy with dehydration.

The camp had been lovely and I was somewhat reluctant to leave. Looking at the map I thought I might only need to cover 9-10 miles before reaching what appeared to be a flat spot near water where I could camp for the night. Thinking I would have fewer miles today didn’t help the motivation.

But finally I got my gear packed up and headed to Bear Spring to fill water. After two days of washes, creeks and slick rock pockets filled with crystalline sparking water Bear Spring was a bit of a let down. The spring was contained within a man made rock enclosure. It was still, stagnant, and cloudy. I immediately began thinking of it as “Bear Pee” spring. I was immediately thankful for my Sawyer Filter and glad I had not just brought chemical treatment tablets.

Most of the day’s walk was along ridge tops and high on the sides of looming transition zone mountains. Transition zones are biologically fascinating places. Not quite the high alpine of the more northern latitudes or high country altitudes, not really low deserts either. A mix of both where you might find yucca and prickly pear on a south facing aspect, a pine a few steps away on a shadier north facing aspect, and all the manzanita in between. The biodiversity of these places is breathtaking.

After only a couple of miles I had to stop to work on my feet again. Oh the feet. My aching, throbbing, angry feet. While I reapply blister care and tape it in place with athletic tape I really truly get it. The shoes. It’s these damn shoes. For most of my backpacking life I have worn trail runners for hiking. It’s what works best for me. Specifically I have worn last year’s trail runners. Fresh shoes were reserved for actual running. The shoes that were just a touch too old for running got downgraded to hiking duty. But I had to give up running a couple of years ago. My knees and adrenal system don’t care for running, so I had to quit. Rather than buy expensive trail runners for hiking alone, I had bought hiking shoes. It finally occurred to me that these damn shoes are the real problem. I have gotten blisters from them in the exact same places every time I’ve backpacked in them. No more. When I get home they are going in the trash. Ugh.

Along my hike I stood atop the highest point on my pilgrimage. I hit just over 7,000 feet on the knob of a somewhat unremarkable ridge looking out over some lovely views of corduroy mountains in the distance.

Highest point on the Mazatzal Divide Trail.

Continuing my hike I stopped to consider my location and have a snack. Two things quickly occurred. The first...I realized that my pace today was nearly double what it had been the previous two days. No, I don’t think I somehow walked myself into shape in two days. If anything I’m more worn down today and should be moving slower. The one thing that had changed was the trail itself. After two days of navigating the loosest, rocky rubble field of a trail I’ve maybe ever seen, today the trail was smooth and pleasant. My confidence was bolstered. It really wasn’t me. I hadn’t actually overestimated my abilities and potential trail pace, I had grossly underestimated this rugged, remote trail. Simultaneously I feel a little sheepish. Why had I allowed self doubt to so completely rule my first day? Maybe that’s another contemplation for another day. Another blog post. The second thing I quickly realized was the swarm of Juniper Gnats buzzing around the instant I sat down. Yuck. This would be no place for a snack. Keep moving lady. Keep moving.

More rapidly than I expected I rounded the Mt. Peely section of this passage into the cool pines. A quick stop to acknowledge the joy of passing out of the Mazatzal Wilderness and away I went, descending precipitously toward the Saddle Mountain passage.

Arriving at today’s 10 mile mark, I did find water. A tumbling, rushing stream in fact. But my hopes for a short day and an early camp were not to be. While I found the area that seemed to have a relative flat spot, it was choked with brambly bushes and dense vegetation. It was no place for a camp. According to the map, Mcfarland Canyon 3 miles away most definitely had tent platforms and it seemed that this might be my best bet. Oh well. What’s three more miles? Looking off into the distance I spotted a grove of tall fir trees at the mouth of a canyon. I was guessing that must be McFarland. It seemed dishearteningly far away, but also beckoned me on.

Much of the first half of the Saddle Mountain passage is rock hopping through a steam bed. Minus the water, this might be another tedious slog through a boulder field. But with the water brought from a wet, cool winter and spring, the path danced with glassy sunlight creating a magical fairyland oasis in the midst of the approaching desert lowlands.

Saddle Mountain passage was so beautiful. I could have spent days just taking pictures of inviting water pools and trickling creeks.

Arriving at McFarland canyon made the extra miles worth it. It was spectacular. Lovely tent platform and a babbling brook nearby to enjoy and refill water reserves. For tonight...I was home.

Just after dark I climbed into my tent ready for a solid night’s sleep. No sooner had I finished zipping the tent shut than the wind gusted in so hard I thought my tent might blow over. I hastily jumped out to check and re secure the guy lines on the sides of my ultralight tent. Once satisfied that they were secure I got back inside just as the sky opened up and began to pour. The tall pines above me creaked menacingly. In winds this high, it would not be out of the question for one of these trees to come crashing down on me in the night. Yikes. There went my hopes for a solid night’s sleep.

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Crossing Mazatzal Peak: 5 Days Solo on the Arizona Trail Part 2

June 03, 2017 by Sabrina Carlson in camping, hiking

I awoke to the sounds of a million birds serenading me from above. Their songs echoing through the treetops a sweet balm to my spirit after the rough day before.

All the previous day I had been mentally cursing the giant “sleeping bag coat” that I’d been carrying. Not because it really represented a significant amount of weight, but it was bulky and represented both the uselessness of my actual sleeping bag and a giant pile of ridiculous. I even worried a bit that it would not be as cold at night as I had feared and I would be carrying it for naught. But waking that morning my inclusion of the puffy pile of plumage was vindicated. It had been every bit as cold as it had been at the trailhead and I needed the warmth. As odd as it sounds, being right about that decision bolstered my morale considerably.

In every way I felt better after a solid 11 hours of sleep. I was calm, much more confident and ready to make a plan. I emerged from my tent to begin the process of coffee/food/pack-up and nearly fell to the ground. My feet. Oh man my feet. The bottoms felt simultaneously bruised and stiff. Every step felt like the bottoms of my feet were made of a stiff and crinkly paper that wrinkled and crackled with every step.

I somehow managed to limp to my food bag and get started fueling myself. I sat watching the pastel pinks, purples and blues of the morning sky through the trees and listening to the birds. It was clear that a change in itinerary would need to take place. Not only were my feet a serious problem, but I had struggled to make even 12 miles the day before, nowhere near the 18 per day I would have needed to do my original plan. Consulting maps and doing some mental calculations it seemed that slicing the trip in half would be the best plan. This would put me at an accessible trail head for my pick up and I should have time to spare. This was the right decision. The sensible decision. Even still I couldn’t help feeling supremely bummed. I was already a failure at executing my plan, and I was only on day 2. The trail had been rough. Really rough. But could I really blame my excruciatingly slow pace on that? In this moment, I blamed myself.

After filtering some water I headed out for the day. Not long after launching I saw a middle aged couple hiking up a side trail to join the AZT. There are very few of these at the moment as fire, flooding and subsequent overgrowth have obliterated most of the connecting trails from the Mazatzal Divide. I inquired about where they had been and they confirmed that it was the trail down to Horse Camp Seep, the place I had hoped to find to camp the night before. I decided to go check it out anyway. Wow. Just wow. Magical water filled oasis in the desert. Little waterfalls, miniature puddles in the divots of granite, huge pools big enough to swim in. All cozied up next to a comfy tent platform under the protective canopy of tall pines.

While reveling in the beauty of this spot, wishing I could stay here to play in these pools for days, it was tempting to be angry with myself yet again. This really wasn’t much farther than the ridiculous rock strewn bench I had hacked out to sleep on the night before. I could have made it here. But oddly, I really wasn’t. The fact is, the night before I was getting downright delirious when I stopped. I was starting to make questionable decisions and was “bending the map” (a term for when you begin imagining yourself in completely incorrect places on the map despite pretty clear topographical evidence to contrary). Had I continued to this place would I have even noticed the turnoff to the camp? If so, would I have figured out that this side trail was, in fact where I needed to go? Dubious. In reality, stopping where I did, when I did had been the right call. If you are too exhausted to make good decisions, food and sleep are the best choices.

A few hours later, when stopping for a sizable snack I contemplated the joy of getting a few more ounces of food off my back and into my belly. I stared at my bulging food sack and wondered, for the four thousandth time if i had once again packed too much. My food bag was heavy. Really, incredibly heavy. I half wanted to chuck it over the mountainside and try to become a breatharian for the rest of the trip. But that would not actually work of course. I changed out the blister dressings on my feet before launching again. The band-aid brand of blister cushions are usually my favorite, but the sweat and wool sock combo keeps pulling them off. Nevertheless, I reapply and hope for the best.

When I finally make it to the base of Mazatzal Peak I feel pretty excited and accomplished. There is it! The rocky outcropping the signifies I am more than halfway through today’s walk, and the pinnacle that this passage was named for. As I come to the end of the traverse across the bottom of the peak and round the corner I see...oh crap...THAT is Mazatzal Peak. What I had just spent an hour traversing was...some unnamed rock. Oh. Boy. At least I’m laughing about these things by now.

Walking the ACTUAL base of Mazatzal Peak this time I encounter a grizzled older hiker. He is wearing hiking clothes that demonstrate a number of miles on the trail and has one of those silver hiking sun umbrella’s rigged to his backpack so he doesn’t have to carry it. In the intense sun of this particular afternoon, this looks like an incredible system. He introduces himself as “Slow-Bro” his trail name. A little while after passing Slow-Bro, I encounter a young couple. The guy is blasting music from somewhere. The urban sounds seem so incredibly odd out here. The woman hiking behind him looks to not be having a very good time. They decline to stop and chat. I’m interested in the style difference between the two encounters. Slow-bro taking his time, quietly meandering the trail and smiling joyfully at everything, taking the time to visit with fellow hikers. Then the two with their loud mobile dance party sulking down the trail, too busy to stop and chat. I imagine both groups will get to where they are going. I make my guesses as to who is having more fun.

I cruise into Bear Spring Camp in time to set my tent and catch the fading sun bouncing red off the cliffs across the way. This camp more than makes up for the silliness of the night before. Lovely tent platform nestled under trees with a gorgeous view. I can’t ask for much more.

Settling in I begin to get that mama twinge of missing my Little Bear. I try not to think about it too much, but I can’t help wanting to take him camping very, very soon.

Are You Badass Enough To Hang With Me?

January 23, 2017 by Sabrina Carlson in Philosophy

Her matter-of-fact, straightforward words smacked me in the face like hitting the ground cheek first crashing my bike.

“I’ve missed out on too many opportunities to ride and have fun with friends because I was afraid I couldn’t keep up. I was worried I would hold everyone else back...you know?”

I could. Not. Believe. My. Ears. It’s not that I’ve never felt this way or that the concept was unfamiliar. Quite the contrary. This has been me nearly every group mountain bike ride I’ve EVER been on. Every time I’m invited to ride with someone I know is faster and/or more technically skilled than me. For sure everytime I’ve been invited to ride with a new person who’s rhythm I don’t know. In any given group, in any given activity, my inner critic shouts at me that I’m not good enough. I’ll never keep up. Everyone will think I’m lame. I will hold everyone back. The anxiety takes hold like you cannot believe.

No, it wasn’t the concept that floored me. It was the source of the comment. My friend who said this just happens to be the former professional mountain bike racer friend. You know, like US national champion pro racer, turned professional cycling coach. Fastest little lady on the mountain? Yeah. Her. SHE was the source of this comment. It rocked my world and shifted my entire perspective.

Wait? Do we ALL have those anxieties? Do we ALL worry that we will not be good enough, strong enough, fast enough, badass enough? Does it actually have NOTHING to do with our skill and fitness level and everything to do with some kind of inner itty-bitty-shitty committee? Really...it seems so.

Where does this come from? This notion that we must do a mental measuring of ourselves against everyone else, place ourselves into some badassery pecking order, and then apologize profusely to everyone we perceive as “above us”? Why do we think we can only hang with the friends who skill and fitness levels are exactly the same as ours? Why do we feel ashamed of our efforts?

Is this a female thing? Do men have this issue too? Maybe they do internally, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man giving a constantly rambling apology for how he is showing up to ride, climb, or paddle on any given day. Maybe a quick, “Dude. I’m so hung over. I’m gonna be riding like a little fat kid today” by way of letting his companions know where he is at. But not the nervous, apologetic, repeated self flagellation to make sure everyone is clear that he isn’t worthy to be here. But women? I hear it ALL. THE. TIME. I see it in her eyes, I hear the tremble in her voice as she dodges my invitation to join me for a ride. As she explains that she doesn’t think she can. That this might be way over her head. That she just isn’t as “badass” as me so she doesn’t want to hold me back. Do we feel this way because we are stepping into a formerly male dominated activity? Because we have internalized the messages that women are weaker, slower, or less capable than men? Have we had experiences of being put down by someone about our abilities and now feel like we must provide context for our existence every time? I’m not entirely sure where all parts of this attitude comes from. But dang it needs to stop.

This day. This ride. It was a shit show in so many ways. Bike issues. Shoe issues. But that doesn't matter. It was an awesome day because it was a day on the trail with my bestie. How far, how fast, how epic...unimportant. Image Credit to Kelsey Col… — This day. This ride. It was a shit show in so many ways. Bike issues. Shoe issues. But that doesn't matter. It was an awesome day because it was a day on the trail with my bestie. How far, how fast, how epic...unimportant. Image Credit to Kelsey Colby

Mama, let’s clear some things up. If I have invited you to come play with me, that invitation is without condition. I didn’t invite you with a “but only if you can keep up with me at every moment” clause. You don’t need to feel badly about yourself or excuse your existence, your value, your worth. If I have invited you to play with me it is because I want your company in the beautiful outdoors. Because I want to share an experience with you. If you fall behind, I will wait for you at the next intersection and cheer for you when you come into sight. I will help you learn the skill you are lacking, or more likely, we can both laugh at our shared difficulty with that particular skill.

Listen, I am no olympic athlete. Heaven knows the chronic illness of the last 3 years has left me unequivocally in the worst physical shape of my life. If I thought I couldn’t keep up before, I really can’t now. But you know what? It’s ok. I still get to hit the trails, the slopes, the crag and I get to do it without hand wringing and self deprecation. And so do you. Yes, inform your adventure buddies of where you are at today. It’s important to know if one party was planning an 8 mile trail run and the other was thinking 2. But once we are all clear on what we are doing today, can we just go have fun together?

Yes mama. You ARE badass enough to hang with me. If you are getting out there and doing it...it counts. There is no pace or special trick required to be in this club. The outdoors welcomes everyone. Whether you can hike 2 miles or run 20 is irrelevant here. You are out there. You are showing up. You are lapping everyone who is on the couch. And you are a stone cold badass.

And if you have friends who do try to make you feel bad about where you are in this journey? We need to get you some new friends. Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat.