Travel: Hiking the divide

What happened when Jennifer Hanson decided to walk from Mexico to Canada

The best advice we heard before backpacking 2,414 miles from Mexico to Canada along the Continental Divide Trail was that thru-hiking follows the 80/20 rule. Twenty percent of the time the hiking conditions would be perfect; we would be on a well-defined trail winding through a mountain pass on a warm, summer day. But 80 percent of the time we could count on it being too hot, too cold, too dry or too wet. Knowing this ahead of time made all the difference.

Three miles north of the Mexican border we turned off the highway and plunged into the desert flats at the base of the Florida Mountains. The temperature climbed into the 70s as the sun rose in an azure sky. Prickly Pear cactus, Mesquite and Old Man Saltbush were scattered across the desert floor. Hours later we were heartened by the sight of 'our' windmill breaking the horizon: long blades spun lazily above a large, rusty tank that captured the pumped water. My husband, Greg, climbed to the top and pried open the hatch.

Water!  Warm, greenish, wonderful water.

Five weeks and six hundred miles later we had visited the Gila Cliff Dwellings, hiked past the inactive Bandera Volcano, and chatted with a Navaho sheepherder. We had climbed to 9,000 feet in the Carson National Forest when we hit the snow-line. We weren’t prepared. Having just left the desert, we weren’t yet carrying our snowshoes, warm clothes or tent.

The deepening snow

We trudged through the deepening snow with low-cut boots; swept it aside to light our stove; and packed it down to lay out our tarp. The next day, the snow lay in deep, wet blankets everywhere. By late afternoon, the morning drizzle had become a steady rain and we were sloshing through streams of icy water that covered the top of Mogote Ridge. We were exhausted and drenched. That night we made the difficult decision to leave the mountains and hike on the road to our destination - Chama, New Mexico.

North of Chama lay the Colorado Rocky Mountains, which in mid-May, had over a nine-foot base of snow with more to come. We would give it time to melt down while we hiked through Wyoming’s Red Desert. To cross this 90-mile stretch of sand dunes and oil rigs we cached water jugs in 25-mile intervals. Though we weren’t lucky enough to spot any of the wild horses that lived there, we saw plenty of pronghorn. Their reddish-brown hides and white bellies were vibrant against the muted tones of the desert. Their sudden high leaps, quick turns and abrupt stops delighted us as they grazed.

Risk of avalanche

After following the 130-year-old Overland Stagecoach Trail across southern Wyoming we entered Colorado from the north and spent the next three weeks snow-shoeing over high mountain passes and hiking through the valleys of northern Colorado.  We were on the top of 11,460 foot Bowen Pass when we had our first avalanche scare.

I had just tucked away our camera when Greg bounded into the southern bowl with a cheer. Whoosh!  Half the slope suddenly collapsed a foot. Greg froze, terror written across his face. We didn’t know what to do. He was in the middle of a huge slab, poised to begin its tumultuous descent. We waited long tense seconds while chickadees chirped nearby. Nothing happened. Greg took one cautious step and waited. No snow movement, more chickadee calls. He took another step and another, and then walked gingerly towards the nearest edge of the slope. He climbed off the slab where we hugged fiercely before making our way carefully down the mountain.

Shaken by the deteriorating conditions of the snowpack, we left the Colorado Rockies and tackled the last three hundred mile section of northern Montana.  The rugged mountain trails of Glacier National Park soon took their toll and in mid-August Greg was forced to abandon the trail due to severe nerve damage in his left foot. I set out to finish the remaining eight hundred miles alone.

Going solo

My first solo section was along the border of Montana and Idaho, through Yellowstone National Park, and down the spine of the Wind River Range. I often hiked two to three days without sight of another person, relying heavily on map, compass and GPS as I made my way south-east along elk, cattle and mule deer trails. Finding myself suddenly immersed in the Yellowstone crowds of tourist was surreal, but I soon returned to the back-country as I ticked off 30-mile days in an attempt to finish the hike before the winter storms.

During my last section, southern Colorado, I met my first fellow thru-hiker, Aaron Shaeffer. We traveled off and on together for the next eight days. Since our paces were different, we rarely walked together but often camped at the same site or perhaps shared a snack or lunch.

Chased off by lightning

That afternoon, dark clouds and thunder rolled in as I was climbing a long ridge.  It started to hail. I threw on my rain jacket and quickened my pace. The lightning became louder, more distinct. I collapsed my metal hiking poles and kept climbing. When the lightning cracked overhead, I started to run. The stubby pine trees that had given me courage began to thin out and I felt terribly exposed. Splashing through the muddy torrents that streamed down the mountain, the trail finally reached the peak and I darted down the other side. Aaron caught up and we laughed and shouted as we ran to the bottom of the mountain.

After six months and one week on the trail, I hiked into Chama, New Mexico from the north and completed the Continental Divide Trail. Though most of the hike had been too hot, too cold, too dry, or too wet, it had also been spectacular and fabulous and life-changing.