After the added challenge of snow and elevation in the San Juans, I felt the need to slow down. The daily freeze-thaw cycle in my shoes, combined with regular creek crossings, had wreaked havoc on the pads of my feet. There are many joyous moments in thru-hiking but the feeling of skin sluffing off in ones shoes, is not one of them.

On my second day in Lake City, I took my time sipping hot coffee, doing laundry, and lounging in the town square. Anything I could think of to convince my legs they would be ready for the next stretch of trail. I had slept in a soft bed the previous night and picked up a fresh pair of shoes. Things were looking up.

Ohm, Carrot, and I decided to thumb a ride up to the pass after a substantial dinner of fried food at Southern Vittles restaurant. With a stomach full of catfish, french fries and okra, we walked to the end of town closest to the pass. Then it started to rain. Taking cover under a gas station awning, I kept asking myself why I was heading back to trail tonight. Why was I denying myself another hot meal, a comfortable place to sleep, and the joy of watching a Minnesota Loons soccer match on a big screen TV. Just as my motivation to leave town was slipping, Landon skidded into the picture on his dirt bike.

A twenty-something, with the kind of energy that assures you he wouldn’t back down from a dare, Landon asked us where we needed to go. At the mention of Spring Creek Pass, he told us to sit tight and popped a wheelie as he blasted off down the quiet Main Street. A few minutes later we scrambled into the bed or his Ford Ranger.

Landon dropped us off and we bedded down just off the trail, near the top of the pass. A cold rain blew in just as I closed the half-moon zipper on my tent. It felt good to be tucked back under my quilt, knowing I’ll wake up before the sun and keep walking North.

Over the next three and a half days, Carrot, Ohm and I climbed to the top of Snow Mesa, summited 14,014 foot tall San Luis Peak, fought dusty ranch roads, lost staring contests with a moose and a beaver, and flowed along ridgetops as we swatted the first batch of mosquitoes to burst from Spring meltwater.

On my fourth day out from Lake City, before the display on my Timex read 11:00am, I arrived at Monach Pass. An early alarm and a desire to eat ‘all the food’ found me 15 miles north of where I had slept the night before. While the thought of walking another 1,800 miles to Canada feels monumental, abstract, and potentially hazardous, the thought of walking 15 miles to a hot meal seems reasonable, possible, and likely to end in Calzone.

I ordered a quick hitch down from the pass and to my surprise, Stuart delivered. He dropped me off at a local Pizzaria/Brewpub where I found a Calzone and quality pilsner. After a restful night in the local hostel, I’ll resupply and head back out. With the Calzone conquered, it’s time to tackle that 1,800 miles to Canada.

For the first time on this trail, leaving town was hard. Pagosa Springs had good coffee, better baked goods, and, most importantly, snow-free walkways. Despite the short walk into town and a good night’s sleep on a soft bed, my back, legs, and lungs remembered what I had asked of them and we’re looking for a reprieve.

Ohm and I decided to stick together for the 118 mile stretch to Spring Creek, a distance I would typically cover in 5 days. As we exited the back of a pickup truck at the top of the pass, my backpack straps strained against 7 days worth of calories haphazardly stuffed into it. The extra days were insurance against trail conditions likely to test my physical and mental endurance. Our co-pilot for the trip up to the pass, an excitable pit bull named Doug, gave me some good luck smooches as we left. I hope I don’t need them.

While some hikers elected to take a short cut in this section and save 100 miles and lots of elevation gain, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to walk through the Wemenuche Wilderness. In hindsight, it was the right choice. The first 3 days were covered in soft cold snow. Imagine walking through fields of unflavored Slurpee for twelve hours a day. My feet were rarely dry and only warm if I kept moving. Some of that slush covered steep hillsides and required each step to be taken with care. The sun beat down on us from clear blue skies, melting snow and reflecting hot rays onto every inch of exposed skin.

Despite the challenges, we were in an incredible place. Deer, elk, marmots, pika, rabbits, and chipmunks animated the landscape. The first spring flowers poked up in scattered patches of thawed earth and imposing peaks burst from the horizon; a preview of what is to come. In order to cover significant distance before the regular afternoon thunderstorms, an alpine start was necessary. Each morning, my 3:30am alarm would roust me from under my down quilt and push me to the trail by 4am. The sun would poke it’s head out an hour later and if we were lucky, would remain into the early afternoon. If all went to plan, I’d be napping under my tarp as the mid-day storms rolled through, catching up on sleep and resting my feet for the walking until sunset.

But things rarely go to plan and on the 4th day out, we were pushed off the exposed ridge as an unexpectedly strong storm system blew in on a cold wind. The low-route alternate followed Pole Creek and paralleled the divide in a valley a few hundred vertical feet below. The thunder and the rain came and went without sending any lightening across the sky but I felt much safer on the valley floor.

Five and a half days after leaving Wolf Creek Pass, Ohm and I crossed the 13,271 ft high point of the Colorado trail and cruised the remaining 14 miles down to Spring Creek Pass. As the days thunderstorm rolled in, I stuck my thumb out in the hopes of a ride to Lake City and a truck pulled over to help make my dreams of BBQ come true. As the truck wound down the mountain, we swapped stories with the couple in the cab and, while I grabbed my pack from the bed of the truck, the driver handed me a $50 bill. Lunch was on him today. Some folks really are too kind.

Not 15 minutes after I stuck my thumb out at Cumbres Pass and I found myself transported into a spotless Ford F-150 headed for Chama. Highway speeds always feel a touch unnatural after a month of moving at three miles per hour but my host was kind and I was excited for the comforts of town. First stop was the post office, where I collected a package mailed to me by my parents. It contained my lightweight ice axe and microspikes, for the snowy trail ahead, a bundle of thoughtful and healthful snacks, and two cans of Spotted Cow beer. As I sat in front of the Post Office, looking a bit like I was having an impromptu yard sale, a couple walked past and, upon confirming my hiker status, handed me an apple and two fresh apricots. No matter what the news reels say, there are good folks in this world.

I enjoyed the fruit and connected with some other hikers at a local coffee shop. A group of 3 had an extra bed in their hotel room and offered me a place to crash for the night. With my package acquired and lodging sorted out, I took care of laundry and a dinner, and retired to the motel porch for a cold Wisconsin-brewed beer.

The following morning, Twain made breakfast for all of us in the little studio kitchen and I baked a round of cinnamon rolls from a tube. If hunger is the best chef; hiker hunger wins James Beard Awards.

A group of six hikers hitched a ride back up to the pass with Scotty. Crammed into his Suburban like sardines, he regaled us with tales from his time on a volunteer Search and Rescue team and left us with a single piece of advice: stick together.

For the past month, the topic of conversation at every hikers coffee klatch has been snow. Specifically, the snow levels in the Southern San Juan mountains. How fast is it melting? Do I need an ice axe? What is the earliest date it is safe for me to start the section? For me, the answer to these questions has been: not fast enough, yes, and around June 7th. Fortunately, the snowmelt has been cooperating and I felt confident as I headed north of Cumbres Pass into the San Juan Wilderness area.

The first day I covered 12 miles and it was immediately obvious the stakes had changed. The trail quickly rose above 12,000 feet and occasional banks of snow covered the trail. The group I had left the pass with was quickly spread out over soggy, slush-covered, slopes. While south facing aspects had mostly melted out, north faces still held significant snow.

Over the next four days I spent every moment carefully placing each foot fall. Hoping my size 13 Hoka Speedgoats would live up to their name and manage to stay on top of the snow instead of post-holing through it. They didn’t. Each morning started with crisp, hard snow pack, easy to walk on top of in flat sections but less fun on steep slopes and passes. As the temperature rose in the early afternoon, the snow softened and slowed my progress. The cold slushy snow sucked the energy from my legs. At times it felt like I walking up the down escalator, needing to put in twice the effort to cover the same amount of ground.

On day two our little group fractured. Ohm and Dharma Bum, two guys who had joined the post-holing party late in the day, wanted to cross the next pass and tack on a few more miles, while the rest of the group decided to make camp for the night. With plenty of daylight and a little Snickers-inspired energy in my legs, I decided to join them.

In the mountains of New Mexico, even above 10,000 ft, I would typically cover 25-30 miles per day. My third day in the San Juans I managed 15 miles and plopped into my sleeping bag at the end of the day completely exhausted. While traversing a steep snowy slope, Dharma Bum had slipped and taken a 60ft fall. He wasn’t carrying an ice axe, The fact that he was able to stop his slide down a steep snow chute with trekking poles was nothing short of a miracle. I would later learn that three search and rescues had to pull hikers out of this section.

Walking through southern Colorado in early June is tough but, as is often the case, also incredibly rewarding. Each day, I saw the sun rise over snow covered ridges, spotted elk and mule deer in alpine meadows, and drank in the colors of the first mountain flowers.

The last two days to Wolf Creek Pass were a little less eventful. There were still a few steep snowy traverses, lots of elevations to gain, and plenty of opportunities to trudge through valleys full of snow. My wet shoes froze solid each night and putting them on each morning was an adventure in and of itself. Though the going has been hard, it has also been a beautiful challenge.

I arrived at Wolf Creek Pass just as Carrot was unloading his gear from his dad Dave’s suburban. Last night had been spent just three miles south at the top of Wolf Creek Ski Resort, with a view of the chairlift and an excellent sunset. Dave and his highschool pal Steve had made the westward trip from Michigan to provide some trail magic for Carrot and spend some time on their motorcycles in the Colorado mountains. They were staying in Pagosa Springs another night, and with Carrot back on the trail, offered the spare room to Ohm and I. As my dad would say, “It’s better to be lucky than good.”

Leaving town to head back to the trail is sometimes hard, fortunately this was not one of those times. After a few days of relaxing in Santa Fe, I was chomping at the bit to get moving again. My body has responded well to the daily pounding of trail life and I have thouroughly enjoyed exploring New Mexico on foot. The walking has been, at times, a bit challenging but changes in topography, plants and wildlife, and a steady diet of podcasts and audiobooks have kept my mind occupied when the road-walks don’t.

Sock Drawer, Red Stripe, and I resupplied and caught a bus from Santa Fe to Espanola. From there our plan was to walk to the intersection of Hwy 84, stick our thumbs out, and hope that someone would gather us up in a pickup truck and drop us at the trailhead. If fact, this exact scenario came to pass, except we did not even have to stick out a thumb. A woman who had hiked the PCT in 2011 recognized our situation and scooped us up on her way to a nearby reservoir.

My pack felt heavy, despite the very reasonable amount of food and water sloshed into it in front of the Sprouts grocery store in Santa Fe. The patch of wet shirt beneath my pack grew as I crawled up one of the last canyons in New Mexico. I found a rhythm and looked for mushrooms, while enjoying an audio book.

Over the next two days, the terrain morphed from a thirsty, sandy, desert, into lush stands of aspens and pinón pines. The trail, no longer sandy, absorbed footprints into stiff mud. Having spent the last few days in close quarters with other hikers, the quiet routine of the trail felt like a hug from a good friend. As I walked into the weekend, I stubbled into groups of family’s car camping on Forest Service Land. Some folks were friendly, even offering cold beverages and snacks, while some seemed to wish I hadn’t walked by at all.

On the third day north of Hwy 84, with 667 miles on my feet, I finished my first month on the trail. Thirty-one cold windy miles, hard won in steep terrain, clicked off as the dark sky threatened thunder and lightening. This first month on trail flew by like a long-haul flight, with minutes ticking by slowly and hours disappearing into days as if they never happened.

As day broke on the June 7th, I covered the last few miles in northern New Mexico. One state down, four to go. Next up, snowy Colorado and the San Juan Mountains. In Chama, NM I’ll pick up my ice axe and microspikes, reload on calories, and get ready to play in the snow.

Cuba was a double-nero for me. Which meant I hiked close to zero miles for two consecutive days. The first day into town started in a cow pasture, continued on a road walk, was interrupted by a large breakfast, and concluded with town chores and a pile of hikers sharing a hotel room of questionable quality. The second day brought a lazy morning, a grocery store resupply, and a lunch of fried chicken before an early afternoon departure.

Carrot and I walked out of town on the shoulderless road, stepping into the rough grass every time a car drove past. We turned north toward the divide and noticed a small fire burning to the west. My heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t find any information about the fire on the usual hiker channels, so I called the local USFS office and was told it was burning far west of the CDT and shouldn’t be an issue.

From the road, the trail wound itself up over 10,000 ft and it felt like I had finally left the desert. Tall pine trees, purple flowers, and soft grasses were all around. I could feel the lushness in my sinuses. A quick dip in San Gregorio lake washed the sweat off my skin and the cold energized my legs for the last few hours of the day. Camping in a meadow, with small melt-water creeks running all around, it’s feeling like Colorado is getting much closer.

The following days forecast for rain and scattered thundershowers proved correct. After a long decent through groves of aspen trees a cold rain came bellowing out of the thick dark clouds. I was far below the ridgeline and well protected in the trees, so the thunder and lightening weren’t as disruptive as if I had been more exposed. My dyneema poncho covered the most important parts of me and my but my legs and feet were quickly soaked through.

The rain let up after a few hours and I continued to loose elevation as the Rio Chama, my destination for the day, grew closer. After crossing the river, I set up camp with Red Stripe, Sock Drawer, and Carrot. We found just enough space amongst the cow pies to set up our shelters against the cold and wet.

The morning valley was filled with cold, damp, fog, and the first three miles of trail rose steeply to the top of the Mesa De Los Viejos. My soggy sleeping bag and damp tarp tent weighed down my backpack, but the warm sun and lifting fog helped propel me north. The remaining 12 miles along the edge of the Mesa delivered near-constant views of the Abiquiu reservoir and the Rio Chama watershed.

As I walked up to the road that would take me into Santa Fe for a few days off, I thought of the friends I have made on the trails over the last decade. Whether running or hiking there is something special about the relationship that forms on a narrow strip of dirt. Maybe it comes with the sweat and suffering, or perhaps with the monotony and simplicity two-legged locomotion? Whatever the reason, I consider myself blessed to have made lifelong friends on trail. Especially those who will belt out the lyrics to”Ironic” by Alanis Morissette while struggling down a muddy trail.

Current Earworm: “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass

The first night in Grants was spent in a hotel room with two other hikers. I took care of laundry, ate a boatload of pizza, and watched a few hours of mindless television. With snow levels in Colorado still well above hikeable levels, the decision was made to take a zero and stay in Grants a second night. The town is thinly spread on the remnants of Route 66 and has not aged well. For Sale signs occupied every other store front and sun-bleached neon indicated services not offered for the last few decades.

Situated just of the trail, the Lava Flow Hostel was a bright spot in the dilapidated town. For $10, I booked the BYOB (bring your own bed) option and managed a few hours of sleep on the living room floor. A gaggle of hikers occupied the Hostel’s three buildings. The hum of conversation meandering around snow levels, wildlife sightings, and plans for the next segment of trail.

As luck would have it, a friend from my 2011 Appalachian Trail thru-hike was in town with his wife. Matt “Sweet Tea” and Emily “Eagle Eyes” Brown had just finished the Mexico to Grants section of the CDT and were in the process or re-working their summer adventure plans. In possession of a rental car, the Browns scooped me up and we spent an afternoon catching up over lunch and a few local beers. Though a decade has past since we walked 2,000 miles of the AT together, Sweet Tea and I picked up right where we left off. It was a joy to see the last ten years hadn’t changed the humble, kind, and thoughtful man I walked all those miles with in 2011. He has lived in a few different states and is now married to the wonderful woman who was the voice on the other end many a phone call all those years ago. I cannot wait to see where we meet up next.

An afternoon departure, a stomach full of chimichanga, and a paved road walk left me feeling a bit sluggish strolling north of Grants. By the time my shoes hit dirt, I was ready for the long ascent toward Mt. Taylor. While scrolling social media the day before I noticed a post by NPR about a super blood mood and lunar eclipse taking place the following morning. Figuring the summit of the tallest mountain on the New Mexico CDT would be a cool place to see a lunar eclipse, I hiked within four miles of the summit and set my Casio watch alarm for 2:45am.

A dense bank of clouds covered the second half of the lunar eclipse but the moonlit ascent of Taylor and stellar sunrise filled me with gratitude. Wrapped in my down quilt on the summit, fellow hiker Carrot and I waited for the sun to rise. Though I was still groggy from a restless night, the symphony of colors was worth the effort.

The remainder of the section to Cuba was some of the best hiking up to this point. Not to say there weren’t any more road walks, long hot waterless sections, or cow-pie filled fields but there were also beautiful canyons, regal volcanic features, and breathtaking views from arid mesa tops. I’m footsore, smell like football locker room concentrate, and have been eating junk for the last 3 weeks but I wouldn’t want it any other way.

After a lazy morning, a breakfast burrito from the local diner, and some route planning for the next section, a pile of hikers headed north from Pie Town. The eight of us, ranging in age from 23 to 66, made easy work of the dirt road walk and landed at our destination by dinner time. The TLC Ranch, located right on the trail, is a rustic stop for hikers where water, fresh fruit, and sometimes dinner are provided. Our humble and incredibly generous hosts, Larry and Charity, moved to this parched piece of land a few years ago and have been hosting travelers on the divide ever since.

We quaffed lemonade, and ate biscuits, smoked chicken and baked potatoes to our hearts content. The pieces de resistance, though, were a Baileys Pecan  and blueberry cream cheese pie. Though hikers and their hosts kept their distance as a covid precaution, the meandering after-dinner conversation reminded me how much I have missed random encounters with strangers while traveling.

The next 100 miles of trail followed the Chain of Craters trail through the El Mapais national monument but about half of the hiker bubble opted to hike the Cebolla cutoff, which added beautiful canyon views and cut the distance to grants by 25 miles. Myself, Peaches, and Sock Drawer set off together and decided to stick to the trail, which rolled through dusty cow pasture, rough lava flows, and over rocky volcanic formations.

The three of us ended up pushing three consecutive 30+ mile days, so we could arrive in Grants before dark on the last day. The allure of town food and cold beverages was strong, though the last few miles of asphalt road walking had me second guessing my choice to push through.

So far the CDT has met my expectations. It’s been beautiful, rugged, and occasionally difficult to follow. At times I have been isolated but there have also been piles of hikers at random intervals. Despite a 9 year break, my brain and my body feel at home on the trail. The steady rhythm and routines of the daily walking are a welcome change from the preceding 16 months of uncertainty.

The day off in Silver City was rejuvenating. Vegetables were consumed, real coffee was drunk in unreasonable quantities, and I managed to take in a Minnesota Loons soccer match of TV. All signs of a quality rest day.

There were a dozen, or so, hikers at the hostel and as my Casio watch alarm beeped, I hoped I wasn’t waking up too many of them. In typical fashion, 5am had arrived like an unwanted party guest; too early and without any ice cream. I downed a quick breakfast and some watery coffee while I packed my bag then set off to meetup with the Gila river 29 trail-miles north.

Instead of following the official CDT north of Silver City, I decided to hike an alternate route along the Gila River. When I heard there were natural hot springs on the alternate, the choice was easy.

After a dry week in the New Mexico bootheel, laying eyes on the Gila River felt like a religious experience. I caught up with a hiker named Red Stripe at the river and we guzzled water while swapping tales from our hikes on the Appalachian Trail. The long climb from town and steep descent to the river took a toll on my feet and back. Crawling into my tent, grazing cows mooing in the distance, I fell asleep instantly.

Over the next three days I crossed the Gila River many dozens of times. Majestic canyon walls, an endless supply of fresh water, and lush vegetation made for pleasant walking. The countless crossings kept my feet soggy and my shoes full of so much sand, I could have started manufacturing hourglasses.

On the second day of the section I stopped at Doc Campbell’s Outpost for resupply. Wanting to get a few more miles after loading my pack with ramen noodles and instant potatoes, I set off north with a 34 year old environmental policy researcher named Peaches.

From Doc Campbell’s, Peaches and I hiked 125 miles over the course of 4.5 days. The hot springs did not disappoint and did wonders for the aches of a body adjusting to a new normal. We climbed out of the river valley and back into arid pine forrests and dusty grasslands, leaving behind the security blanket of constant access to hydration. At an afternoon stop near a cattle pond, as a lunch of ramen noodles cooked in my pot, I dropped my nearly clogged filter into the murky green soup. The unfortunate clumsiness and stark contrast to the cold clear waters of the Gila nearly set me to tears. Fortunately, I had enough water, and would be able to wash my filter at a potable source a few miles north.

The push into Pie Town started with a 5am alarm and ended at 10:45 after 14 miles. After a quick stop at the famed Toaster House, where hikers and cyclists can take refuge for a donation, Peaches and I made out way to the 1 restaurant in town. We proceeded to stuff our faces and even managed to snag a slice of pie.

Being back on a long trail feels a lot like breaking in a new pair of shoes. Initially everything is awkward and a bit uncomfortable but after a while it can be hard to remember ever doing anything else. My feet are fatigued from long hours of walking each day, most places that can produce chafe already have or will in the near future, and I can’t seem to settle on the optimal pocket for snack storage. The break-in period is ongoing.

The hiking in New Mexico’s boot heel has met my expectations. It’s hot, sandy, and windy as hell. The trail, where it is defined, is easily lost as it winds through a maze of jeep roads and cow pastures. There’s a barbed wire fence to crawl over or under every few miles, and a generous group of folks maintaining water caches to make to heat more bearable, or at least, less likely to kill you. Miles have been ticking by quickly as I listen to audiobooks, podcasts, and bad 90s pop-rock.

From my hotel room in Lordsburg (Mile 84) I am feeling optimistic. Tomorrow I’ll get up before the sun and trundle through the desert while doing my best not to get sunburned or kick a cactus. I’ll share water troughs with cows, consume potato chips in unreasonable quantities, and start working my way through the third audiobook (suggestions please!) of the journey. With a little luck, I’ll be in Silver City in a few days.