Day NinetySeven, September 22, 22 Miles
At Mile 1947, Poptart 716/1000
Dreams of Lil' Wayne and Drake (yeah, I know) as football stars destroying whatever team I apparently support were interrupted by rain. That was 4:30 this morning. That was when it began. We'd been told by many a local that rain in Colorado "never lasts more than a couple hours", and up to this point that statement had proven true. Not today. It began. With this in our mind and the rain not too heavy, I almost enjoyed the early, exposed trail as the clouds rolled through and over exposing little pieces of the world here and there.
It got heavier.
I didn't want to go to town today (gotta save $$$$$).
It got heavier.
It wasn't stopping.
I gave up.
"Hey RT, I'm thinking of death marching..."
"I already am."
"I'm in then. Kombucha... Death march?"
"I'm in. Hey, TimTom! Death march!"
"Yep"
And so it was.
Finally dropped down to trees, hoping for a little shelter from the heavens. But no.
It got heavier.
Stopping to get some food and add a layer of clothing to my already soaked and rapidly cooling body everything got a little more wet. My jacket is waterproof enough, usually. Pack cover waterproof enough, usually, and my pack stops the rest. Today was not usual. I was starting to get worried about some of the more valuable and water unfriendly items in my pack but the rain never stopped and I just wanted to get to that highway. Moving fast, but with no idea really how far to go (maps were buried in my pack) I eventually spotted the highway. Should be a couple miles and all down now I think? By this time even my usually impenetrable rain pants had given up. A piece of exposed plastic on the heel of my falling apart shoes was diving violently into my foot making flats and downhill painful. I was chaffing like crazy making uphills an awkward, painful waddle. I was exhausted making the act of walking itself painful. And I've been drier while swimming. Then the trail went up. And away from the road. I began swearing. A lot. Myself and RT hit an unmarked junction. The obvious answer was to go right, downhill and towards the highway. We went left. After half a mile I looked up, out of the gloom leered a radio tower. Wrong way sucka. I swore. Loudly. "RT, radio tower!" He didn't hear me, but looked up about the same time. He swore. Loudly. We turned around and that's about when my body gave up. I started to get very, very cold. Hypothermic cold. Hands, numb. Face, numb. Legs, numb. Not good.
We hit the road.
Dangerously cold, we weren't even waiting for the other two. They knew where to meet us. Then they appeared. Four wet hikers do not get rides. After about half an hour a kind soul finally stopped for us. We crammed in and she blasted the heat. My right calf cramped hard but I began to warm a little. She knew Pagosa Springs and dropped us off at the hotel we wanted. Even after showers we were shivering. Checking the damage in our packs EVERYTHING was wet. Camping tonight would not have been fun. Waterproof is only so waterproof. Luckily everything water damageable survived, except Kombucha's Ipod, which may need a bit of working. Dan, Anna and Myke appeared with DIY and complained about how hot our room was. At this point I was still shivering on the bed under my damp sleeping bag. Eventually we warmed up, had some food and watched the Food Network for a couple of hours. All was well again.
I thought we'd escaped.
I thought we'd be warm and sunny and dry.
The San Juans always, always win.
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