The CDT at 64: When listening to the body is not enough

It was in the Wind River Range where my left hip finally forced me off the trail. The problem had started weeks before, on the outskirts of Lima, a small town in Montana. Until then I had been doing very well. I was sixty-four years old, walking through CDT SoBo and keeping up with Blackbeard, a sensible, good-humored twenty-something I had partnered with in Glacier. We had covered miles and my body was behaving better than I would have expected. I wasn’t the old man holding us back. I felt strong and bulletproof.

Until five.

The road to the city was just over the border in Idaho. It followed a grassy ridge with gentle curves offering panoramic views of a flat-bottomed river valley, but underfoot it was steep, rocky and brutal. The day was hot and the flies were relentless. I stumbled, sweated and cursed under a merciless, sun-bleached sky. When we got to Interstate 15 and got into the motel owner’s car for a ride, he was beyond tired: he was in pain. When we got out at the Beaverhead Inn and RV Park, he was limping. It was the kind of deep pain that resisted ibuprofen, and I worried it might be something I couldn’t let go of.

We were both exhausted and I was relieved that Blackbeard wanted to get to zero. It meant I wasn’t the one making us stop and I didn’t have to explain how much my hip hurt.

Listen carefully

In the weeks that followed, as we walked toward Yellowstone, I listened to my body as carefully as possible. When he indicated that I was in pain, whether it was my hip or something else, I would relax, stay back and pace myself. Blackbeard, bless him, never complained and we would catch up at the end of the day. When my body gave me the go-ahead, I kept going. Sometimes he even led. For the most part, this worked.

I felt in tune with my body and trusted it to guide me.

Descending into the Green River Valley on the northwest edge of the Winds was the first real clue. My pelvis shifted under the belt of my backpack in a way that sent a worrying stab to my hip. I tightened my belt; got worse. I loosened it; maybe it was better. The next morning the pain subsided, but by the time I climbed Green River Pass it was back, settled, and out of the game.

The Green River Valley at the northwest end of the Wind River Range, with Squaretop Mountain in the distance.

Now he walked mostly alone. Blackbeard’s fiancee had joined us in Yellowstone and, wanting to give them space, I stayed behind. That made it easier to pace myself and pay attention to what my body was telling me.

By then I was taking ibuprofen and Tylenol like they were candy. At Summit Lake, I split off from the CDT, walked eleven miles to Elkhart Park, and hitchhiked into Pinedale. The next day I borrowed a bicycle from the Jackalope Lodge where I was staying and pedaled to the clinic. I advocated for a cortisone shot, but the doctor said “No” and suggested a week off, which I couldn’t afford. We committed to oral steroids and muscle relaxants. I took it as good news. Nothing serious was happening. I could move on.

Distorted comments

It was in a place that many of us know. You try to listen to your body and do the right thing, but it sends you mixed signals. One day something hurts, the next day it’s better. You get off with the morning pain, walk a mile or two and the pain goes away. By mid-morning you’re moving gently and telling yourself it’s loosening up.

But what is happening is not about healing. It’s chemistry.

As you continue walking, your body releases endorphins and a cocktail of stress hormones that make discomfort easier to tolerate. Pain that would seem urgent on a short walk becomes manageable on a long one, because your nervous system has decided it’s less important than keeping you moving.

I accepted that logic because it allowed me to move forward.

Ironically, stopping can make it worse. When the effort decreases, the chemical support decreases and the pain becomes more acute. The next morning, before he has warmed up, he is worse than the day before. Along the way, the signal seems confusing: The pain goes away with movement, returns with rest, and improves enough to feel reassured.

There is a second distortion. Pain on the road is not judged in isolation. It is compared with the kilometers traveled and those still ahead. It is filtered through identity, pride, and the expectations of others. Every mile builds your identity as a hiker. Pride keeps you going when things get tough. Trail culture values ​​courage and tells you to accept the bad. Suffering becomes a badge of honor.

By the time pain reaches conscious decision making, it has been softened by the body’s chemistry and shaped by the need for movement. You are not ignoring your body. You are hearing it in conditions where clarity comes late, sometimes too late to be useful.

Through the high country

In Colorado I kept walking.

September in Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, Colorado

I arrived at the WY/CO border in late August and almost immediately felt the urge to get through the highlands before the snow blocked the mountain passes. That didn’t stop me from taking a triple zero in Fort Collins to visit friends and get a new package. The hip belt on my ULA circuit continued to aggravate my back, so I changed it to a Gregory Paragon. That helped.

Colorado is a beautiful and demanding country. I felt more alive and full of gratitude in those mountains than in any other section of the CDT. However, the epic climbs and magnificent views took their toll. Averaging 20 miles a day became a struggle. Eighteen miles was a good day.

My hip would swell from time to time, but the challenge was now a whole-body problem. My back hurt, my arms grew tired, and I felt a general weakness that rest did not solve. I would dig deep into my reserves and find nothing there.

Stopping started to seem risky. Like maybe I couldn’t start over.

I packed more butter and took B-12 and a multivitamin. None of that made much difference. But the butter was delicious.

The problem was that I could no longer read my body clearly.

It was like listening to a radio station when the dial was off a couple of notches. I knew there was something there, but I couldn’t tune into it.

Maybe this was where I started making mistakes.

The machine

It was a great relief to cross into New Mexico. The elevation drop toward Ghost Ranch took me from fall to summer, and I was grateful for the desert heat. It was early October.

Schedule-wise, I was exactly where I wanted to be. As for the body, there was still a disconnection.

I really liked New Mexico, its desolate landscapes and ramshackle frontier towns, but the long road hikes took their toll. Miles of the same repetitive stride locked my muscles and joints into a monotonous pattern, and that helpful jump off the ground disappeared.

My body felt more like a machine. I put fuel in it, started it every morning and drove it all day. I became less attentive.

One of many road trips in New Mexico, along historic Route 66 outside of Grants.

My feeling of isolation increased. Instead of seeking the company of other hikers, I actively avoided them. After a frigid morning crossing the Gila River several times, my feet numb from the cold, I happily soaked in a trailside hot spring, enjoying the burning tingle as the blood returned. But when a hiker from New Zealand came up from the riverbank to join me, I felt resentful. He was friendly and talkative. I wanted him to leave.

Almost finished

It was cold and windy the morning I left the Lordsburg Travelodge. A woman from the next tram came out to say goodbye cheerfully: «Last kilometers!» — I returned a smile that was more polite than genuine. The trail had become a private matter. The wind tugged at my swelling, I put on my wool hat and pushed south.

Was he happy to be so close? Of course. He was proud and amazed at what he had accomplished and there was no doubt he would finish. The terminal was literally right on the horizon.

But something was deeply wrong.

I was no longer moving of my own free will but rather being carried forward. The machine continued to screech.

Those last few days across the flat desert, everything hurt. My spine and legs felt like they were held together with rusty wire. When I stopped at a CDT sign among creosote and cactus, I had to put my hands up the metal support to get back on my feet.

I still did the miles. I just didn’t feel like I was the one making them.

Clarity

I finished the journey proud, relieved and emptied. I had achieved what I set out to do, but I was exhausted and exhausted. In the weeks that followed, that feeling didn’t go away. It deepened.

Stopping at my sister’s house in Tucson before returning home, I tried walking around the block. It shouldn’t have been anything. Instead, it required a Herculean effort. My legs felt heavy and unresponsive. I moved like a creaky old man, more than ever on the road. When I returned to his house, I had to sit down.

Without the daily movement, the momentum of the path, and the simple imperative to keep going, my body began sending clear, unmistakable signals. I was much more beaten up than I had let myself know.

Looking back, I don’t think the problem was that I couldn’t listen. I tried so hard to pay attention. The problem was bigger than that.

Finishing became the only thing that mattered, and everything else (discomfort, fatigue, even connection with others) was filtered through that goal and minimized.

I have come to think that this is part of what long trails ask of us. I don’t regret the deal. Hiking has to be difficult and the effort has to cost something for it to matter.

My body and mind conspired in my favor to make it possible. They silenced the pain, limited my focus, and kept me moving.

This is how the paths work in us.

And for that I am grateful.

The CDT north of Lordsburg, NM