A Modest Folly: Silverton to Durango (Tuesday July 27

I woke up the next morning and pack by daypack for a hitch into town. I’d finished my book and needed at least one new one, and my journal was about full, to boot. I left my tent and pack behind in my reasonably well-hidden campsite off the beaten path and got to the highway. It’s about 4 miles into Silverton, if I recall correctly, and I didn’t want to walk the whole way on this little highway if I could avoid it, so I started thumbing. There wasn’t much traffic, but I eventually got a ride with a fella from Durango who dropped me off at the main intersection in town. Fortunately, again, Silverton is tiny and quite manageable.

I spent a day in Silverton, looking for new books, the post office and a buffet. I think I forgot to mention at some point in this jumble of sillyness that, in addition to all of the other ridiculous stunts I managed to pull on this trip, I left my cell-phone charger in Salida. While I was in Creede I’d manage to get ahold of John at the hostel who offered to mail it to me at the P.O. in Silverton. The post office didn’t open until a little bit later, and some asking around helped me find a breakfast buffet being run out of a hotel on the main drag. I went to the hotel and asked how long the buffet was open, and decided to go back to the post office so I could at least, hopefully, charge my phone while I ate. I got all my stuff from the P.O. and went back to the hotel to eat until I burst. I never did manage to burst, but I got my money’s worth. I charged my phone, made some phone calls and then found the local library to do some internetting. They had a shelf of books for sale in the little lobby (this is a tiny library, like most of the ones is town of this size, but their value is huge. Not just to me, but to the townspeople as well, obviously.) and I found a couple of books that looked good and paid the .25 cents for each one at the counter. Henry James’ The American and some Faulkner short stories. I left the library and went through town and got some postcards and I traipsed along and found a little cafe to have some coffee while I did some writing.

I went to the outfitter to snoop around and found another book on a rack of used paperbacks (this time for the outrageous price of .50 cents a pop) and decided to go ahead and hedge my bets and get one more. This one being, humorously, Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I did a little more ambling about town that afternoon, finding the Silverton Brewery and enjoying one of the best IPAs I’ve ever had. I talked with a guy there about the region, about the stupidity of the train (he lives there and can’t afford the $75 per person to let his kids ever get to ride it. That’s pretty pathetic of whoever’s in charge of that racket), and the awesomeness of the Silverton Brewery.

On my way out of town it starts to rain and I head to the grocery store to stock up for the rest of the hike and to get something to eat for dinner. Pitifully, this store is just another racket where everything in it is vastly overpriced and seems to be run by some kind of cult. I go to the gas station for groceries and tobacco and ask the guy where people who live in town get their food, and he says they have to go all the way to Durango as it’s more cost effective to drive the multi-mile round trip than to go to the so-called grocery store in Silverton. Thank you, Mennonite grocers (or whatever your weird cult is), for ruining the quality of life for the locals.

There is no rolling tobacco anywhere in Silverton. I’m going to be forced to smoke ladies’ cigarettes, the filtered kind that suck all the vitamins out of the tobacco. Silverton is not working out for me in many ways. In the end I get some burritos to cook over a fire at the gas station and some fig newtons and anything else I can think of to pack out.

I walk out of the gas station as it continues to sprinkle and stick a thumb out to get back up along the highway to my campsite. Gloriously, the first car picks me up and takes me up to the turn off nearest to my campsite. I get back to my camp in a hurry to try to beat the rain so I can get a fire going to cook my burritos. I throw some stick in a round of rocks and get one going quick enough to get it started and grab my aluminum fry pan and olive oil and get ‘em going. Dinner is a bag of Fritos and burritos. Not my idea of a good meal, but at this point it’s all about the calories. The rain picks up as I’m finishing dinner and I get my dishes cleaned up as the fire sizzles out from the rain.

I’m in my tent, eating what’s left of the Fritos and begin reading One Flew Over… It’s an easy read and I’m flying through it, following quite easy the insane logic of a man who’s willfully in a mental institution. At this point, it’s not such a hard thing to relate to. An assessment of my own state is thus: I am tired, hungy, and ready to get to Durango. This has easily been the best hiking trip I’ve ever done, but it’s taken its toll and I’m looking forward to the end of it. Not in a bad way, but finances are on my mind as is my health. I still feel good, as my health goes, but I know that sooner than later I’ll be underweight. There’s still some fantastic area to go through and I do look forward to it.

I wake up the next morning and shove off, going through Molas Pass and beyond Molas Lake. I go along several miles and start ascending up beyond treeline again as clouds form yet again. It has rained a lot on me, and it’s been very tough. That’s also why for this last segment there’s just not many photos it rained all the blasted time. As I get up nearer to my first pass of the day I take a break on a rock and notice a man off a little ways up on the hillside with a bucket collecting rocks. I figure it’s some guy looking for gold or silver or some kind of odd thing, and as I get closer I ask him what he’s up to. “Oh, just doing some trail maintenance. I’m not some nut or anything.” We both laugh and I tell him you just never know around here to which he readily agrees. I thank him for his work and move on up the pass and go by more trail workers who are all busy at it. This is something that I’d really like to do some day.

I make my way around the hills and finally get to a great campsite underneath some trees with a ready-made firepit along the gurgling Cascade Creek. I take the opportunity to make the most of the break in the weather and take some pictures of flowers, and take many of them. Good thing, too, as this would really be my last opportunity, weather-wise to do so. This area is beautiful with many many different flowers and a waterfall, the water itself clear enough and far enough away from any horses to where I feel I can drink it straight without treating it. I get my fire going and have my dinner as it starts to rain some more. I hunker down to read and write. At this point I’m out of journal space and am tearing pages out of Kesey’s efforts to turn them into an effort of my own. I finish the book before finally calling it a day.

I get up the next morning and go around the bend and pass by a guy sitting on a rock completely exhausted. Sometimes you see people doing the oddest things, made even stranger by their location in the world. It starts to rain early again today, and this whole area feels completely wild, like I could be an explorer in uncharted lands or something. It’s a very tough region to get to, and it’s not hard at all to imagine people who’ve been here for thousands of years exploring the area.

The rain keeps on steady as I’m coming up a hill to another pass. I see a guy sitting hunched over himself underneath a tree and I ask him if he’s okay. He’s not okay, actually, but he does not complain about his condition. He keeps throwing up and can’t keep any food or water down, but he’s not sure why. He’s been out here many times, and his theory is that he got up to altitude too quickly, even though he does live in Colorado already, albeit along the Front Range which is considerably lower in altitude than where we were. I get over the pass and to my next campsite, marveling the entire time at the whole thing. The San Juans are just huge, so huge that there’s some debate over if it’s not actually more than one range of mountains. Regardless, it’s massive, and it feels massive to boot. I make my camp in a grove of trees, tired of being wet. I search all around for firewood and finally get enough to make it worthwhile. The sick fella finally shows up, and we talk about cows, horses, people, Montezuma, Aztecs and how his car is parked not too far away and that he feels like he’s really got to get there even if he just sleeps in his car. I feel like he’s making a good decision, as difficult as it is for him to keep going.

He leaves and I start my campfire, looking forward to another night alone in the woods, this one among my last for the journey. I’m having my dinner and reading a book (I’ve now onto The American) when I’m startled by someone walking up the trail towards my camp. It’s a dude named Wyatt, and he offers me a can of beer that he no longer wants to carry, a beer which I gladly accept. We talk for a little bit and he decides to push on a little further. I’m in my tent reading a little later on when I’m once again startled by a passer-by. This one is Mark, and he offers me another beer, of which I again gladly accept. He asks if he can camp nearby, and I’m glad to have him as company. He’s a good guy, and we get the fire going again and sit around and talk for a good while, about what lays ahead for me and what he’s got coming up. He’s done this trail before in both directions and absolutely loves it. He’s completely hooked. I understand.

I get up the next morning, and Mark is already up and about and takes off before I do. It’s wet and raining everywhere. My goal for the day is Taylor Lake. I’m hoping to get into Durango on Saturday afternoon as my friend Calixte is leaving for Santa Fe on Sunday morning, and it’d be a shame to not see her after all this. The hike, though drizzly, is still a wondrous thing. It is very easy to imagine the Indians developing these trails, much easier than anywhere I’ve been before. I can’t overstate the awe and splendor of it all. I know that up ahead there’s an exposed ridge walk I have to get over before I can get over the final high point of the trail and then finally descend into Taylor Lake. I’m walking along at a very high altitude as it drizzles. There’s no water along this section, a thing I was aware of, but had heard about a cache of water left by a kind-hearted soul in Durango familiar with the potential struggles inherent in this section. I hear a knock of thunder in the distance, quite sure that it’s straight where I’m headed. I sit on a log in a small grove of trees, hoping that it’ll pass. It’s only ten in the morning, and it’s an easily doable distance to the lake, but not in this weather. The rain never stops, but I still have to keep moving. I continue on as it rains, the trail turning into a river as rainwater runs through it, seemingly in both directions. My feet are wet and I’m hungry. The temperature is cold, and with no sun to keep me warm, moving along is really the only option I have. I know the final ridge I have to walk is very exposed and above treeline, but I’m not sure exactly where the trees run out and I don’t want to get stuck camping out exposed again, not when I’m this close to Durango. I keep moving on, my shoes squishing like a sponge as each step forces water out of each one and lets it all back in as my stride shift from foot to foot. Around 2.30 in the afternoon I call it a day. There’s no way I’m going to get over the ridge today in this weather, and what I could really use now is some food and rest.

I pitch my tent and crawl in. I get warm and doze off. I wake up later, around five o’clock, and it’s still raining. I start eating anything that doesn’t need to be cooked, not caring anymore if I’ll even have any food left for the last day of my hike. At some point the rain abates enough for me to open up my tent and cook just outside of it. One thing constantly on my mind is bears, as this is certainly bear county. You can tell by the scat left along the trail. I’m still smart enough to not leave food in my tent and, even in the rain, make sure I hang my food a good distance from me.

I read a lot more of The American and sleep sleep sleep.

I wake up the next morning very early, around 5.30 or so. At this point I don’t take for granted that it’s probably going to start raining at 10 in the morning and the only thing keeping me from getting over that final ridge is my own dilly dallying. I pack up quickly, put my soaked shoes and socks back on and hoof it. I go higher and higher over the hills. I have 3 ridges to get over before Turquoise Lake, and I don’t really know how many miles it actually is before I get there.

I go and go, higher and higher and am eventually out of tree line and coming up to the first saddle. The willow bushes are thick and there’s bear scat everywhere, and I know that willows are favored places for bears to hang out. I make all the racket that I can as I get near them and as I go through them. The trail is right along the edge of the cliffs and it’s an amazing sight down the sides of these ridges as I go along. I’m coming up to the next ridge and am gaining the second saddle. As I keep moving, I see water vapor rising up along the cliffs and forming little clusters of clouds beneath me. I do anything but slow down now. It could turn on me at any minute, and as I go the fog rises quick like smoke, curling around itself as it licks the tops of the mountains before continuing on into the sky.

I am now on what I think is the third and final ridge, the one that will get me over and down off of this plateau and down near lake. Over in the distance I see another ridge, and I begin to think I’ve lost count and that I have to go all the way over there and ascend even higher than I am now. It is now cloudy over head, and the plumes of vapor are thicker on my left now. I stop for a second and turn around to know what going on behind me, and not even a hundred yards back the entire area is covered in a dense fog/cloud system. I fear that any second now it’ll gain on me and I’ll be up here on this ridge in the heart of a cranky thunderstorm. I’m all but running now, trying to escape this. I get over the ridge and start going down the saddle a bit fully expecting to go over that next ridge way over there when I get to a trail junction. To my left through a break in the clouds I can see Turquoise Lake, and I’m stunned and infinitely relieved that I made it.

I start going down the side along the trail and take some time to say hello to a family out for a little weekend trip. I keep going, past the lake and get to the trailhead here. Suddenly, the clouds have vaporized and it’s nice and sunny. My shoes are still wet from not being able to fully dry out so I sit on a pole near a little parking lot to eat something (anything! What on earth do I even have left?) and see a guy in full camo carrying some kind of massive instrument over his shoulders. I ask him what it is and he tells me how he’s a hunter and he’s scouting for elk before hunting season starts. He tells me that he saw me going over the ridge just ahead of all the clouds and that he’d never seen anyone move so quick. We have a good laugh about it all and I get going. Something inside of me tells me that I have to get all the way to Durango by nightfall. It’s all downhill from here.

I’m very very tired at this point. That last part was a doozy. I start the massive descent. The first part is brutal and it’s a lot of broken shale along the side of a steep ridge. I just keep moving on. I pass a majestic waterfall and eventually get to the river that runs through and down into Durango. I have a lunch spot determined where I plan to eat my last batch of potatoes, and I finally get there. I sit down and get everything unpacked, have a smoke and get ready to make my lunch when all of a sudden the weather turns and it starts raining again. I skip lunch, having no real option, and just start moving. It’s really raining now, and there’s thunder and lightning and I’m just glad to be unexposed. Of course, lightning can still get you, most notably by hitting a tree near you or something along those lines.

I slog on through all of the weather and at one point as I’m rounding a corner I get a big whiff of pine, and as I make the turn I see a tree, shattered not long before by lightning and laying over the trail. Timing is everything. I go on, passing Gudi’s Rest, and by now it’s dusk and I only have few miles to go before finally getting to the end of the trail. I take a moment to call my friends in Duragno, hoping that they I can see them in the morning before Calixte take off for New Mexico. We make arrangements for Benjamin to pick me up in the parking lot at the trailhead at 7 in the morning. I want to camp as close as possible so as to not be late for the rendezvous. By now I’m tattered. My clothing is in shreds. My shirt is full of holes and my pant torn from a very aggressive stick jutting out of a tree. I’m brown, from both the sun and the dirt, and my ankles are chafed to a horrible extent from being forced to hike so aggressively downhill in wet shoes, the dust from the trail making a kind of cement around them. But I feel good. I feel great!

By now it’s dark enough to be hiking with a headlamp, and I eventually make it to the end, and come to a parking lot. I inspect the area to make sure that there’s no other parking lots where Benjamin might expect to meet me. I hike back up trail a good ways and find a decent campsite.

The next morning I get up at six o’clock and take my sweet time breaking camp. Around 6.30 a park ranger comes by as I’m stowing gear and asks me how I slept. I tell him I slept fine, and tell him about how I just finished the trail. He keeps asking me odd questions, this little do-gooder, and because I have to go soon to meet Benjamin, I ask him flat out if I’d done something wrong. He tells me that you’re not supposed to camp within 8 miles of the trailhead and that there was a sign back at Gudi’s Rest that says this. I tell him that I saw no such sign at that Gudi’s is only about four miles back anyway. He goes on to say that there’s a hundred dollar fine for violating this rule and that there’s a zero-tolerance policy on it. In short, all of the yuppies in Durango want this part of the trail to themselves and don’t want homeless people or anyone else bothering their gas-chugging SUVs with their Thule or Yakima things on top of them. I tell him this doesn’t matter much to me because this is National Forest, not Durango Forest and I don’t really care if the rich folks hate the non-rich enough to pass an unconstitutional ordinance or not. This is for everyone, regardless of any so-called laws passed. I give him my ID and tell him he can give me a ticket if he wants but that I’m not going to pay it. I’m pretty mad at this point and am seething to have come so far to end up in this situation a few hundred yards from the very end. Ultimately he relents and tells me he’s just going to let me off with a warning (a warning! Ha! Not only is the USFS, but this is not a zero-tolerance policy at all. This selfish policy is clearly designed to further marginalize people, as far as I’m concerned) and so I finish packing up get to the road to wait for Benjamin. At the road I see a sign that says there’s a campsite a mile up. I yell over to the ranger asking if I could’ve “legally” camped there last night and he says “oh yeah, you could’ve camped there just fine.” A waste of tax dollars if there ever was one.

At seven o’clock Benjamin shows up and we go back to their house for pancakes. In the car I see some rolling tobacco. It’s nice to have a non-ladies cigarette and I can feel my blood fully absorbing all of the delicious vitamins. The hike is over, but the trip ain’t done.