I know the title sounds melodramatic or maudlin or dreadful. Whatever. I’ll work on tomorrow’s.
We think we can make the 22 miles to the border. We were packed and assessing if and where we need to get water. Our app FarOut lists all the possible water sources. Hikers report how reliable these sources are and the date they saw them. About half are dry or poor quality. All need filtering. It takes time to check them out and now time will end this crazy journey and we’re ready. We don’t really need water. Do we?
I’ve complained a lot. Of course it’s crazy hard. But, particularly in this section. Since leaving the the north rim, the wind has been insane. Most of the time we can’t hear the birds, see through the dust, take the next step without being jostled. It’s a pushy, invasive presence.
Today the wind was really strong. We’ll find from locals, after we finish, that they have never seen anything like this wind, particularly in May. On this last day, we met up with 50 to 60 mph gusts as we wound down the four miles of switchbacks to the terminus. It was treeless, the grasses were purple, dotted with yellow and orange flowers, and they were all waving madly in the wind. Everything was alive as we twisted through this gorgeous landscape. When we changed directions a quiet spot allowed us to hear a meadowlark.
Then we were slapped with the incredible power of the wind, I was pushed and forced off my feet. I stumbled forward and twisted around until I was in a heap, across the trail, on the my backpack with my hiking poles velcroed to my hands. I was trapped. Terry looked down with some mirth. It dissipated when he considered in the last mile of this 400 mile journey he might need to call the helicopter. Oh he would hate to be that embarrassed. All I needed was help getting my poles off.
It was hard to tell our speed. It appeared we were making progress. Then the trail straightened and we climbed some rocks and were out of the wind until we were on the final steps to the terminus of the AZT. The colors of the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument were all ablaze. We positioned ourselves in front of the underwhelming AZT Monument and were glad to end this journey. We took a selfie. That’s it? That’s it.
We were at the corner of the state line campground. Maybe there were 10 sites. Everyone went on with their business. No one turned their heads to notice us. This was like Brueghel’s Icarus. At least to us. We had no way out of there. It was 47 miles to Kanab Utah-the opposition direction of Flagstaff, where our car is parked and 40 miles to Page AZ with 10 miles of gravel and washboard roads. Most of the shuttle drivers who used to pickup hikers, won’t even pick up their phones. It seemed most everyone, who had a ride, got one from a friend or family member. We thought that being so elderly would bring the pity factor into play. HA!
We walked over to the road and stood in the wind with our puffies zipped to our chins, hoods up, and sun glasses on. The dirt rocketed against our nose and hands. It glazed any exposed skin with a red dust. It jostled us back and forth with it’s sudden bursts of energy for an hour. We planned to pull our hoods down and give the thumbs and a grandmotherly & grandfatherly pleading look to give passing cars. No one passed.
When a woman, Megan, drove up and told us she couldn’t give us a ride because she was working, but she could offer us a campsite. She did her paperwork in her car and then slept in it. There was room for us to put up our tent at her site. Best offer yet, though there was little escape from the wind, which attempted to destroy our tent, one gust at a time.
Another night in our beloved, battered tent.
Mountain Peace 