CDT Day 3: Won, not settled

04/10/26
Day 3, 21.8 miles, 58.3 total

The world around me was still drenched in shadows, but the sun’s rays aggressively marked the horizon long before I reached the top of the distant mountain range. Slowly, the rock, sand, and chaparral of the Hachita Valley began to glow a dull orange, then gold, and as I walked the few miles to the water tank, the soft morning light completely illuminated the field of cow pies I navigated through to reach the first water source of the day.

I filled my dirty water bag with cold water from the hose connected to the long, sun-bleached tank, on which was written a message for hikers to turn off the tap. This was the first water source I had to filter, or at least I thought it was wise to do so. I certainly wasn’t as carefree as I should have been with a freshly stocked CDTC water tank.

I took my time savoring every drop while it was right in front of me, replenishing what I lost yesterday and pre-hydrating for the next day. All the water in front of me was still largely dependent on human intervention and as such is never guaranteed to be there. Memories of dry hideaways and close calls flash before me briefly. With my thirst quenched and hydration reservoirs filled, I headed to the next water storage box.

Along the way, all kinds of reptilian inhabitants of the Chihuahuan Desert stopped and stared. In particular, another rattlesnake and a round-tailed horned lizard, or “horny toad,” as they are often called. “Horny Toad would be a great name for a trail,” I thought as I watched and photographed one of these elusive creatures.

I soon found my first water source designated “Cow Water.” A giant old tractor tire containing an opaque green substance that looks more like sludge than a liquid. Topped off with a garnish of dead fly and moth. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was leaking bovine broth, but today was not that day.

Finally I reached the next water tank. It was time to grab a frozen bun and let the barking dogs, aka my feet, breathe. I knew I had to be more intentional with my breaks throughout the day. Any opportunity to take off my shoes, put my feet up, use the massage tools I packed, or a combination of all of that would go a long way toward improving my quality of life on the trail. It really is the little things here that make the difference. Elevated and massaged feet can mean the difference between going a mile or more per hour. Not to mention the longevity that simple stretches and massages can afford. A recurring sin of hikers is not prioritizing mobility, and this time I was determined to avoid it.

As the day progressed, the sky clouded over, offering a respite from the relentless desert sun. Combined with my umbrella, I managed to maintain a much cooler temperature than I expected. And within a few days of this hike, the desert chaparral had pretty much broken that umbrella. But it was nothing a good Leukotape couldn’t fix. Leukotape is a hiker’s best friend. It prevents blisters and, in a pinch, is a good improvised repair kit item. My umbrella now had patchy areas of brown tape, but as far as I was concerned it was “as good as new.”

The desolation of this desert was nothing like what he had encountered before. A tractor-trailer at the occasional highway intersection, appearing and disappearing in an instant, was the only thing close to another person I found. There were no day hikers or ranchers, and the only other CDT hikers I had seen were the ones I was dropped off with on Day 1 and hadn’t seen since. I had heard about how lonely the CDT felt and quickly realized that those claims were not exaggerated.

I enjoy solitude, but I want to meet people almost as much. Later that afternoon I came across the next water source, a giant tank with a garden hose attached. I saw the tank on the horizon, and as I got closer, I saw tents pitched around it. «Hikers on a nap?» I thought to myself. As I got closer, I quickly recognized that the tents were not something a hiker could carry. Then I noticed the trailer attached to a pickup truck and assumed it contained some off-road vehicles. There was even evidence that a grill had been installed, but not a soul was found. Presumably, whoever was camped here was wandering the dirt roads.

The sky was still a little cloudy, but the sun still cast a harsh shadow as it hit the giant water tank. I took shelter there, filled the water, put my feet up while leaning on the cold metal of the tank, and opened a bag of Lifesaver gummies, a top-notch treat. The combination of fresh water, elevated and massaged feet, and glycogen stores quickly replenished by the gummies was the equivalent of consuming jet fuel. With vigor, I walked down the trail resuming my game of “spot the trail marker.”

The trail was filled with various wildflowers. The sky became a battlefield of enormous cloud formations. In the distance he could see the slow trail of what looked like precipitation. «Is that…rain? Here?» I thought to myself. The sky above me didn’t necessarily look like rain, but it was alive. Layers of cloud formations moved with the rising wind and caught the late day’s sun creating a confluence of deep purples and oranges captured by the clouds. I stopped for a snack and what looked like a rainbow infused eye seemed to be staring at me. Surely this is something that would evoke a religious experience and culture that defined folklore in more primitive times.

As he quickened his pace to reach the last water tank with something resembling daylight, the wind did the same. I didn’t care, it was better than scorching heat. My umbrella was no longer justified, my sunglasses only obscured the view. The golden hour comes with one-punch knockout power in the New Mexico desert.

“The Monkey Wrench Gang” by Edward Abbey occupies one ear and the other is left open to keep an eye out for rattlesnakes. I arrived at the last water reservoir of the day with streaks of light on the horizon and a gusty campground, but it was flat, had clean water, and even a few bars of cell service. Enough to keep in touch with the people closest to me and book a room at the Motel 6 in Lordsburg through Expedia, the famous Econolodge for hikers will not be available for about a day and a half from now, when I would be wandering around Lordsburg once again.

As the ramen boiled, I removed my always salt-encrusted clothing from my body and eagerly put on my lightweight Nike shorts to breathe. It was then that I noticed the friction on my legs, the likes of which I had never experienced before in thousands of miles and countless days in the countryside. Even weeks of sweating on a fire line in green Nomex pants didn’t cause skin irritation like this. Again, nothing Leukotape couldn’t fix, but I would wait until morning to fix it.

I finally sat down in my tent and realized how physically exhausted I was. I wasn’t “dead,” I screamed, of course, but I was overcome with that kind of tiredness that one earns, and that leaves you with a feeling of satisfaction for having achieved it. In one day, I traveled 35 kilometers through the desert to earn this feeling. And he still had much more to give. I was going to revel in every moment of this feeling. There was a time when I could never imagine walking a single mile, much less picking up the pace I was on so early in my latest hiking endeavor. And this rhythm was demanded by the trail. The Continental Divide doesn’t hold your hand. I was grateful for the fatigue, I was grateful for the pain. Those two things come in the “earned” and “conformed” variety; I already knew both well and which one I preferred.

My evocative introspection and first moments of true relaxation were quickly broken by having to urinate. I wasn’t even mad, I was proud of myself for staying hydrated enough to have to pee, that goes a long way in the desert. As I lay in my tent, swaying in the breeze, I drifted in and out of consciousness with visions of another hard-fought 20+ mile day tomorrow, followed by a slow single-digit ride toward Lordsburg once again and for the last time.

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