Raw Country: Hiking the Great Divide Basin on the Continental Divide Trail

“Why do it again?” Blackbeard asked. “Isn’t once enough?

The three of us (Blackbeard, Apple and I) had our farewell dinner at China Gourmet in Pinedale, Wyoming. It was the summer of 2023. After the winds, our hikes would diverge. They were a couple. I was alone. It was time.

Between plates of meat and sautéed vegetables, we talked about the Great Divide Basin, the stretch of the CDT that awaits us south of the Winds. I had just told them that I had walked sections of this stretch three years earlier.

“It was one of my favorite parts of the trail,” I said.

They looked at me as if I had misheard the question.

«Yes, it’s hot. It’s windy. The water might be bad,» I added. «But heaven and earth last forever.»

Blackbeard shook his head. «We have to do it. Lihat juga hgtgdfgdtr18. If I were you, I’d go to Lander, hook up with Rawlins and call it a good one.»

“Continuous steps,” I responded.

He smiled. «That’s you.»

Wind and space

La Cuenca is open countryside. It’s hot, there are no trees and there is largely no shade. Daytime winds are relentless and often make it difficult to walk in a straight line. Miles of sagebrush and open grasslands follow two-track dirt roads that stretch to the horizon. Water sources are few, far between and often unreliable; Floating cow shit is a common feature.

And still. There is something about that void, about the unbroken earth and sky, that feels pure and grand.

Three years ago, the first days seemed generous. I descended from the snow-covered pine forest into a wide meadow of short grasses and then into an area of ​​sagebrush arranged in long slopes. The wind tugged at my clothes. I could see for miles; The steps came easily.

The mornings began calmly; The wind picked up strongly at noon. In the afternoon, maintaining my balance demanded all my attention. There was no shelter to block it. Sweat accumulated only under the straps of my backpack and the soles of my feet. My face felt sandy.

About ten miles from Rawlins, an all-terrain vehicle was rolling down the gravel road trailing a plume of wind-blown dust. I saw him close the distance, then the driver came over and turned off the engine. He was the rancher whose land I was walking on.

«How are you?» he said, close enough that the wind wouldn’t blow his words away.

«I’m fine,» I said. «On the way to town.»

He looked over at me. «It’s pretty hot today. I bet you could use some water.»

I considered the liter and a half I had in my backpack and the kilometers that awaited me. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“I’ll bring some when I get back,” he said, then started the engine and roared away.

Half an hour later, a dust-covered pickup truck came speeding down the road. It was the rancher. He stopped, handed me a bottle through the open window and asked if I wanted more.

The water was freezing. I felt like happiness was going down my throat. I drank one and had three more.

After he left, I thought about where I would be if he hadn’t stopped. The water I had, the distance ahead, the heat.

The author in the Cuenca

In Rawlins I had a resupply package waiting for me at the motel I had booked. Unnecessary; Rawlins owned a Walmart. This was before the PCT. I was still learning.

I turned on the air conditioning, ordered pizza, and spent the night watching movies on my phone. The television didn’t work.

I left Rawlins the next day with a full backpack and clean clothes, washed the night before in the sink. A three-mile road hike took me back to the sagebrush. By late morning, the heat had arrived and the wind was picking up. Pronghorn was gleaming in the distance, watching me advance against him before speeding away with effortless speed.

By late afternoon, the sagebrush disappeared and I found myself crossing a wide beach of cracked, cement-hard mud. The day was cooling, but the bare ground radiated heat. I carried three liters from Fishpond Spring a few miles ago. The following fountains were well spaced. FarOut’s feedback was good, but I was still uncomfortable.

The beach north of Rawlins

The heat, the wind, the way the sweat instantly disappeared. The way I crossed the water.

Company

Fishpond Spring was where I met Golden. He was drawing water from a fountain that jutted out of the shallow, algae-filled pool. His «Hello» made me jump. His shorts, shirt and cap were all black. His skin was tanned. He looked my age.

We walked together for a while, talking, but his pace was faster. When I reached the beach, his silhouette dissolved into the warm glow of the path. That night I camped alone.

spring fish pond

He felt different now. The heat and wind were no longer part of the adventure; They were obstacles. Under the warmth of the quilt, I felt salt on my skin.

The next morning. «We’d better leave while it’s still cool.» It was golden. I elbowed my way out of the store, trying not to spill my coffee.

My legs were cramped. He had stopped to camp before me; I just hadn’t seen it. He forgot his magnesium, he said. We walked together that morning, but his legs continued to bother him. I kept going.

That night we camped at A&M Reservoir, a blue island in a parched sea. Its water was clear and sparkling. I dropped my backpack and jumped out. I felt like salvation.

I was filtering in on shore when Golden screamed.

For a moment I thought I had stepped on glass or bitten it. I dropped everything and ran. He was sitting in shallow water, his toes curled tightly under his foot. A cramp, a bad one. Through clenched teeth, he told me to push…gently. I held his foot and pressed. He collapsed on the sand, gasping.

That night I could hear him moaning in his tent.

In the morning he was already gone. I later learned that a caravan had driven him away.

A&M Depot

cattle tank

After the dam, it became more difficult to have water. There were natural springs, some of them dependent on solar panel pumps, and caches maintained by path angels. And then there were the cattle tanks: muddy holes with shores marked by hoof prints where the cows had come down to drink. The water was brown and stagnant. The smell was off.

That was the water in front of me.

I studied it, weighing the risk, trying to remember what my Sawyer wouldn’t filter out. Virus? Fecal toxins? I wasn’t sure.

I took off my shoes and socks to climb out of the thick algae and cow dung, feeling the mud squeezing between my toes as I dipped the collection bags into the thick, warm water.

It leaked a lighter shade of brown.

I tried it. Spawn.

I dropped the purification tablets.

While I was waiting the thirty minutes for the pills to take effect, I caught my first glimpse of the Winds. A gray line on the distant horizon.

I had a drink. The chemical taste was unpleasant. I tried not to think about it.

The bottles were warm as bathwater, so I didn’t bury them in my backpack. Still, the weight felt good. It meant I had enough to get through the night.

the winds

The next morning was clear, without a breath of wind. Thick cumulus clouds accumulated as the day warmed. I watched their giant shadows slide across the sagebrush. The mountains were bigger now and he could make out the snow on their tops.

That night I camped in an open field under a dome of stars. I woke up before dawn and saw the Milky Way cast like a glow across the sky.

The next morning, moving north, the winds took shape. Granite spiers and steep valleys stood out against the sky. The snow had texture.

Ten miles from South Pass City I reached the Sweetwater River. It wound through a flat valley of grass and willows. I climbed a barbed wire fence, climbed down to the shore, and dipped my feet into the cool, clear water. Two minutes passed. Then I slid down, sat down on the smooth cobblestones, and let the current push my back. I tied my clothes to the willows. The wind dried them while I lay in the grass looking at the sky.

river fresh water

That afternoon it blew harder than any previous day. My trekking poles kept me upright. When I walked into Miner’s Grubstake in Atlantic City for lunch, I could barely understand what the burly cook was saying when he asked me for my order. My ears were ringing and my brain was fried. I have a chicken fajita. Then, a hamburger. I kept asking for cans of Pepsi.

At South Pass City, I grabbed my box and sat at the picnic table behind the post office. I drank sodas from the gift shop while charging my power bank at the outlet behind the building. I shoved the food into my backpack, weighed it, and checked FarOut one last time. I returned to the open field.

The heat decreased as I gained altitude and the wind lost strength. Sage gave way to grass. The next day he was among the trees again.

pinadale

Back at China Gourmet, we sat with empty plates. The midday rush had passed. Outside, traffic was passing on Pine Street.

«I still don’t get it,» Blackbeard said.

I thought about the Basin: the wind that never let up, the bad water, Golden screaming at the reservoir. How exposed I was and how alive I had felt.

«I know,» I said. «It does something to me.»

He smiled. “Type 3 fun.”

«Yes,» I said. «But for me it’s more like type 2 diabetes.»

He smiled again. «That’s you.»

«That’s me.»

A week later, after parting ways and crossing the Winds (this time SoBo), I stepped off the alternate Cirque of the Towers and saw the Basin spread out before me, a sea of ​​baked grass and endless sage.

The wind passed through him.