Bringing It Home: 5 Days Solo On the Arizona Trail Part 4

August 14, 2017 by Sabrina Carlson in camping, hiking

Somehow I survived the howling gale that buffeted my tent and no trees fell on me in the night. Phew. I was well rested and ready for my final day of hiking. Since I cut the trip short, I would no longer need the last full day of hiking, and at that point I was pretty fine with that. My feet. My poor suffering feet were so completely done.

I was reluctant to leave the lovely McFarland Canyon. It was so incredibly idyllic. I took my time with breakfast and spent a little time checking out a short exploratory mine shaft and photographing rusting metal mining tools.

As I was packing up, a middle aged couple hiked in with what looked to be very heavy packs. They told me they had recently retired and were working on doing the whole AZT section by section. They were having a great time learning to backpack together and exploring the state. They marveled that someone my age with a toddler was able to get away for 5 days to hike this far alone. That just wasn’t something they would have thought was possible when their kids were little.

Leaving McFarland Canyon, the surface water became less abundant but the evidence of a record setting winter was everywhere. The desert was exploding in shades of green and the profusion of flowers was a sight to behold. At one point I rounded a corner overlooking a grassy field to hear so many crickets you’d have thought I was in Louisiana or something. It was amazing.

With the trip almost over I had some time to contemplate this journey. To think about my experience and reflect. I chuckled a bit inside remembering how nervous I had been about launching this thing. Especially the navigation part. Navigating 100% on my own really gave my head a spin. But why? I guess we all have our things that we are less confident about, for me navigation is it. Maybe its because I can never remember if you add or subtract to adjust declination when going from map to physical world, or physical world to map. Or maybe its because I spent the previous 9 years partnered with a man who seems to have a GPS chip implanted in his brain. Seriously, his ability to know exactly where we are in space and precisely where to go without so much as a consult of the map or check of the compass is something to behold. As much as his skills are impressive, it can leave a girl feeling pretty inadequate in that department. But now, coming to the end of it, I find my confidence has risen. I trust in myself, as I should have all along. No, I may not be a human GPS, but I do know what I’m doing. Apparently I just needed to prove it to myself.

The last 4 miles were the longest 4 miles of the trip. Not only was the scenery a bit less remarkable, but after hiking 12-13 miles per day, 4 miles SOUNDS like basically nothing. I mean, I was practically done right? Yeah. That’s a head game that does nobody any favors. As soon as you decide you are basically done, you just want to be done. So the last miles stretch on fooooorrrrrr evvvverrrrrr.

When I finally arrived at the end of the passage, which ends under a highway bridge, I found another hiker basking in the late afternoon sun. We struck up a conversation and found that we had met once before in our hometown and had some friends in common. We spent a pleasant evening chatting and comparing destroyed foot stories from our respective hiking adventures. Once his ride arrived, I set up my tent to go to sleep. Yep. Right there. By the highway bridge. For some odd reason the trailhead is really not near where the passage actually ends and there is no signage to indicate which direction on the highway the trailhead is. I was tired and all done with thinking. I figured a night by the bridge like a hobo would refresh my senses so I could think straight the next morning. Plus, finally having phone service, it WAS kinda fun to text a few friends to tell them you were spending the night under a highway bridge.

Turns out, oddly enough, that a highway bridge isn’t exactly the most restful place to spend the night. Even though my tent couldn’t be seen from the road, and this particular spot was quite far from city centers (hence, interactions with other humans was unlikely) it was unnerving to sleep alone with the sounds of humanity so close by. As a solo female hiker, I’m not worried about bears or mountain lions. It’s other humans, particularly in the places where frontcountry and backcountry intersect that makes me nervous. It didn’t help that every time I was about to drift off to sleep a long haul trucker would clatter over the bridge and startle me awake. Oh well, live and learn.

The next morning, after coffee, a quick check of the map made clear which direction to walk along the road to get to the trailhead for my pick up. It was funny how much I struggled to see it the night before when it was quite clear now.

As I rested in the shade waiting for my ride it occurred to me; I am not particularly special. I’m not a sponsored athlete. I’m not especially fit or fast or noteworthy in any way. I won’t be setting any particular records for anything. I’m just a regular person. I’m a mom with a job and a mortgage to pay and chronic health issues that hold me back in a big way. But yet I’m here, doing what I can. Making it happen. But maybe that is precisely why I actually am, kinda awesome.

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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.

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.

Self Doubt and Blisters: 5 Days Solo on the Arizona Trail Part 1

April 23, 2017 by Sabrina Carlson in camping, hiking

The plan was 79 miles in 5 days. Solo backpacking on some of the most remote passages of the Arizona National Scenic Trail. Mazatzal Divide, Saddle Mountain, Pine Mountain, and Four Peaks Wilderness. I was banking on averaging 16 miles per day to make this distance happen in the time allotted. I figured that was ambitious for my current fitness level, but not totally off the wall. Still very doable.

In my planning stages I was excited. Stoked to get a chance to knock out four passages of my goal to complete the AZT section by section. I read the passage descriptions, downloaded and printed the topo maps, and started collecting my gear. Transport from my endpoint back to my car was arranged, a new headlamp was purchased.

The night before I was set to leave home and post up at my starting point I suddenly was overwhelmed with panic. Was this a big mistake? Could I even do this? It hadn’t occurred to me until this exact moment that this was the longest, farthest and most remote solo trip I’ve ever attempted. I had to sit with that a minute. 1. How had it not occurred to me before that this was such an extensive project? 2. How have I been adventuring this long and not done anything this long alone until now? The answers to both were intertwined. The thing is, my husband and I have been together nearly a decade. One of the reasons I married him was that he was my favorite adventure partner. For whatever parts of the last 10 years I haven’t been pregnant or recovering from becoming a mom, longer adventures had been with him. Because, of course they have been. We enjoyed that time together and there was no compelling reason to do it any other way. Prior to that, my adventuring had been more focused on mountain biking than anything else. Backpacking only really happening when a friend suggested a project.

It was somewhat comforting to realize that my lack of longer distance solo adventure had been simply incidental. It’s not that I have been incapable or too inexperienced until now, I just haven’t had a compelling reason to. Now that we are parents, longer adventures almost have to be solo. This was why it hadn’t occurred to me that this was the first time I was attempting such a big endeavor alone. Because it wasn’t like I was setting out to do some new, more advanced thing on purpose. I was just setting out to do something I would have done before with my partner. It's just, he couldn’t come this time.

Even reasoning this through however, I was still suddenly sweaty palmed about it. The first passage I was to tackle is one notorious for difficult navigation. I had good maps and compass (and know how to use them), but I would have no GPS back up. (My phone has decided to give up all GPS related functioning for some unknown reason and Verizon has yet to sort it out for me.) It was silly really. I plan and lead expeditions with teenagers for a living. I literally never get this nervous while leading other people’s children through the wilderness. Why does alone feel scarier? I’m not sure. But it felt very committing. No one else to consult with. No one to check my ego with. All decisions 100% on me, for right or wrong. I was equal parts worried and franky pretty embarrassed for feeling this way. I became so nervous I even began to tell myself the story that I would miss my Little Bear too much. Maybe he’s still too little for me to go away for this long. (Nevermind that I do trips longer than this for work several time a year.) Thankfully my husband was having none of that. I would go, dammit, and I would like it.

After setting my water caches at various trailheads, I settled in at the City Creek Trailhead outside of Payson, Arizona to spend the night before starting out the next morning. It was in locating this trailhead that my adventure hit its first glitch. In planning my mileage I had not noticed that the trailhead I was beginning at did not actually intersect with the Arizona Trail. In fact, I would have a six mile, straight up hill slog to begin my hike that I had not planned on. In all fairness, the trailhead description was the only place this info was listed and why would I have read the trailhead descriptions until I needed to go to the trailheads anyway? Still, missing this detail made me second guess my entire planning. What else had I missed? Had I been too cavalier in my planning? Assumed too much? What other surprises might be in store for me? The self doubt redoubled its efforts. Oh well...I guess this means a longer daily average would be needed. Now aiming for 17.5-18 miles a day average. The 15.5-16 I originally planned already felt big for my current fitness level, this increase might just put the whole thing out of reach. But, I was still eager, still game.

That night brought another snafu. I. Was. Freezing. Like shivering in my bag all night freezing. My ten year old down sleeping bag, it turns out, has lost enough fluff to be only good for full summer-only duty. The only reason I got any sleep at all was that my huge thigh length down jacket (which I affectionately call my “sleeping bag coat”) was in the car. I put that on my upper body, wrapped my legs in my fleece, then put the whole works inside my dying bag and was able to stop shivering long enough to catch some zzzz.

(sigh) My poor bag has been shedding feathers like this a lot lately. I guess it finally caught up with me.

As morning crept in, with my tent surprisingly wet inside from my breath, I sipped my instant coffee contemplating the best thing to do next. I’m in a bit of a canyon, so sunlight to dry this tent won’t be here for a while. My bag is insufficient. I knew I would spend at least two of my next four nights at higher elevation than this. Driving into Payson to buy a sleeping bag was not a realistic option. Even if it had a gear shop (which it doesn’t) that detour alone would cost me too much time. And the only place to really buy a sleeping bag in Payson is Wal-mart, which would yield me something bigger and heavier, but not any warmer than what I already had. Risking hypothermia on a remote mountain range was also not an option. I would have to carry the sleeping bag coat along too. Great. More bulk. More weight. So I packed up everything but the tent and then hiked my tent up to the side of a the canyon to find a patch of sunlight and dry it out while I ate some dry breakfast.

Already so many issues and I hadn’t even started hiking yet!? Yeesh!

But away I went finally, walking away from my car with 46 pounds on my back. I launched with WAY too much water. Way. I had 7 liters I hauled up to the ridge. This, in retrospect sounds extreme. But this is not an area of the world know for its abundant surface water. Quite the contrary. Stories of helicopters plucking lost, dehydrated hikers out of this exact section of wilderness are not difficult to find. I was sure as hell not going to be a news story. I could see the headlines now “Professional Outdoor Educator Needs Rescue After Getting Dehydrated In The Desert.” No siree! Not Me! My 7 liters was, it turns out, not necessary. I was hiking into one of the wettest springs in recent memory. Oh well. Hindsite 20/20.

Compared to the 60lb packs I learned to carry in the 1990’s when I first learned to backpack, 46lbs wa practically featherweight. But compared to my fitness level after battling chronic illness for the last few years it was a lot. Nevertheless, I made it, after 3.5 hours, to the actually Arizona Trail! Horray!! It was one part victory and two parts frustration that it was now basically lunchtime and I was only just now arriving at the place I had anticipating starting. Good Grief Charlie Brown. What next?

Feet. That was what was next. My feet were already a mess. Blisters, Blisters, everywhere and they ached so bad the pain shot up into my hips, searing, taking my breath away.

I ate. Bandaged my feet. Texted my husband and my BFF. Carried on. My roughly 1.5 MPH pace for the hike up to the trail had me even more bummed and even more doubtful.

On I went. Self deprecating thoughts swirling in my head the whole time. I’ve done enough of this kind of thing to know that the absolute worst thing you can do is have a bad attitude. The. Worst. Yet, my badittude was persistent. Ugh...get off me grumpy lady!

After a while I finally got the constant barrage of negative self talk to slow down. Not quit but at least I could just focus on walking for a while. The day was cool and overcast. Then, in a moment, the snow began. It was beautiful. Refreshing. A brief moment of peace that cooled my agitated heart. I hiked on.

About 2:00 I had my first of many encounters with other hikers. Hiking from north to south meant I was more likely to see lots of other through and section hikers since south to north is the most popular direction. Around the corner came a grey haired woman hiking alone. We paused to chat. She told me her plans and asked about mine. When I answered that yes, I was hiking solo, she became excited to the point of nearly squealing. She exclaimed, “Oh! I just LOVE seeing other women out solo! Isn’t it a wonderful way to travel!?” Indeed! She acted like I was the only other solo female she had seen like...ever. She had been the first other hiker I had seen today and she was female and alone. Could it really be that rare? (I would later learn just how rare the solo female backpacker actually is. She was the only one I encountered the whole trip. But this is a topic for another post, another day.) In any case, that interaction gave me the boost I needed to get my head out of my backside for a bit and feel more cheerful for a while.

As the day went on my pace did not improve. In fact, it slowed. A lot. There were times I was moving at about .5 mile per hour. I was feeling really down on myself. Angry to be attempting this on so little fitness, and even angrier that what I thought was challenging but doable was turning out to be just not doable in the time I had given myself. The trail was rubbly. Soooo rubbly. A never ending ribbon of sharp rocks poking my sore feet and trying to roll out from under me. Sprained ankles and injured knees taunting me with every step. But despite the challenging terrain, I still blamed myself. I couldn’t believe I was moving so slowly! What the heck was wrong with me!? Ugh!!

This...was....what most of this day looked like. I don't much remember the scenery from this day. I do remember the tread. It was rough.

By 6 PM I was utterly spent. I could feel myself getting frantic because my exhaustion was leading to a lot of serious second guessing of my navigation. I thought I was maybe only a mile from a campsite listed on the map. But I was so unsure of my pacing, I wasn’t totally certain about that. And even if I was that close, how long would that take me? 2 hours!? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I found a place with water nearby and a slight bench in the trees just barely flatish enough to hack out a spot to plop my tent (huge immovable rock in my back not withstanding). Food was consumed. I contemplated the reality that a change of plans was imminent, without being completely sure what that would look like. But having made it about 12 miles on day one and feeling like a mess, there was no way this trip was going to finish as planned

I passed out before the sun fully faded from the sky. Rock at my back be damned.