Battle Pass to Rawlins: August 12th - August 15th, 2025

* Day 0: Zero day in Encampment. Since Susan washed the laundry yesterday we don't have too much to do today other than wandering around the convenience and general stores to buy more food. Thank goodness our cabin rental grants us free coffee at the general store because I guess the espresso shack that hung around last summer didn't make it back for this season. It's a dusty little town, without a lot of paved roads and subject to the fickle winds that kick up over the high, dry plains during the hot summer afternoons. But everyone seems proud of the place; the buildings have fresh paint and all their windows and the few lawns stand out crisp and green. We're staying in a small log cabin with one main room that looks like it was originally furnished in the 50's and a bathroom - indoor plumbing in a cabin is quite the upgrade. We can even cook eggs on the little gas range, although the mismatch between the size of the burner and the pan means frying them is out of our league. Scrambled is still good. Towards the afternoon another hiker rambles in, and although I'm not really looking for a conversation he greets me when we're both outside and the inevitable happens. He's Zen Commando, an eyeroll of a name for an eyeroll of a person, an ex-marine who retired after 26 years in the service and now owns land in Costa Rica where he runs a yoga/ayahuasca retreat center. He seems to have a generally libertarian anarcho-capitalist sort of attitude and we have some lively but good-natured political debates. ZenCo, for short, talks like a militant surfer, proudly displaying tattoos of eagles and patriotic phrases on a chest somehow still buff after months of hiking, moving his head and squinting his eyes and pulling back his lips every time he makes a point in order to, like, emphasize it, man. He's annoyed that so many other hikers took the Big Sky cutoff, an unofficial shortcut with private property issues that chops 300 miles out of the Montana section; on one hand he claims it's poor form to skip such a huge chunk of trail, but really he just seems peeved other people did it and got in front of him when *he didn't know* about the shortcut. He hitchhiked pretty much the whole way from Rawlins to Encampment, so he can't tell us about the water caches. But his quip of the "Seven P's" does stick with me: Proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance. Good ol' armed forces. After spending too long in conversation Susan and I get back to our other chores and prep for leaving tomorrow. I try to get in touch with a trail angel, Patty, about a ride up to the pass tomorrow, but she doesn't text back. Looks like we'll need to hitch. Head across the street to the Beartrap bar for dinner; make quick work of salads, a basket of tots, and a 14" BBQ chicken pizza. I order a Modelo because it's the last beer commercial I remember from TV; I guess advertising does work. As the evening drags on and darkens I commit to staying up late to fix the two worst holes in my pants. I didn't emerge from the last section totally unscathed; luckily my pants took the brunt of the damage but now one particularly egregious hole torn open on my thigh shows a few square inches of leg and underwear. Susan lets me cannibalize her extra handkerchief so I cut out a patch and slowly fix it over the top of the hole. Then there's another smaller one that just needs to be closed up and kept from getting bigger. Feel like I'm really starting to look the part, for better or for worse.

 

Ah, Wyoming 

Cabin exterior

 

Susan checks out the little free library

 

Cabin interior

* Day 1: I don't try hard to wake up too early because they won't have coffee in the store until about 7. But at a quarter-til Patty texts back and says she'll be at the cabin at 7:30 AM - good news but now I'm running late. There's no appointments for hitchhiking. Patty pulls up with copious liquid dripping from the engine compartment of her silver Chevy SUV - it's just wiper fluid. The hood won't latch closed all the way after 5 minutes of trying but we head off regardless. Patty drops us off right at the trailhead a short way from Battle Pass proper; she's been doing this for 20 years and knows exactly where the hikers go. We join up with a jeep road and gently wind through the trees, up towards the top of Bridger Peak. A messy jumble of loose, jagged rocks marks the top; a marmot sploots in the sun, uninterested as we mark one of our final times over 11,000 feet and survey the long, slow downhill that will eventually deposit us in the Red Desert of southern Wyoming. The forest may seem endless and insurmountable at times, but here the evergreens start to peter out from the altitude, while down low patches of sun-baked brown gradually interningle with and supplant the dark forest; I guess even the mighty spruces and pines have limits. We steadily descend large chunks, re-ascend smaller ones, and repeat, working our way down to thicker air sharp and dry from the heat of the sun. Pass a clear, cold stream finding its way down from high in the hills to gently crash over fallen trees, and I'm struck with appreciation for how well the mountains cradle life, to store up water that would otherwise slip through our hands and gently pay it out for the entire summer. This is going to be our best natural source of water for a long time. Head lower towards the edge of the Red Desert. startled grasshoppers flit away making a staccato rattle that sounds like heat; I half expect that they could start fires single-handed, just with that noise. Sure enough, our next chance for water appears as a muddy trough kept wet by a gentle seep and churned constantly by cow hooves. But a trickle at the corner flows in clear so it will do; make dinner, pick up enough to camp with, and go another mile to the edge of the National Forest. A gang of cows stands between us and where we want to camp, giving that resting-cow-face as if they couldn't be any more annoyed as we walk up, but they amble off after not too long. Didn't take long to find the cows in Wyoming. Made really good time today, about 19 miles and it's not even dark - amazing what you can do when the matchstick bundles of fallen lodgepoles have been sawed out from your path. Don't believe the hype - the CDT is one of the best-maintained trails in the West.

 

Bidding farewell to mountains, hills, and trees

 

 

Resting cow faces guarding camp

 

 

There's clear water flowing into this, I swear!

 

 

Wowee, a cleared trail!

 

 

One last idyllic mountain stream

 

 

Looking out toward upcoming low desert

 

 

Spot the marmot!

 

Starting selfie

* Day 2: 3:30 AM alarm is more palatable since instead of having to get up that early to climb a mountain, it's to have a siesta. We're about to leave the forest behind and commit to the sagebrush steppe, so hiking in the heat of the day is verboten. Stumble through sage in the dark, trying to tell the difference between cow paths and our own trail, shivering in the cold air of the draws but nearly breaking a sweat just a little higher in the hills, until our trail finally pops out on Wyoming highway 71. From here a hiker has two options - back towards the buttes and nearly 60 miles on the Red Line, the last 40 of which lack any reliable water access, or about 40 miles along the highway straight into Rawlins, also without natural water. But a few kind individuals realize there's a crowd of folks with questionable judgment who insist on trying to walk through here and cache water along highway, so we set out due north, pounding pavement for the next 38-or-so miles. We wouldn't even be able to try this if it weren't for the water caches. A lot of hikers just hitchhike down highway 71, or skip straight from Encampment to Rawlins. But comments indicate the caches are there and reliable, so with some extra support, why not give it a try? Don't know if I've already made this joke, but in case you need a reminder, you can always depend on the kindness of strangers. Part of it is certainly wrapped up in ego and pride - the satisfaction Susan and I get from doing things other people complain about so that later when we've forgotten how tough it was we can wave it off. But I also can't shake a sense of respect for the land, for the route as a concept, for the Continental Divide as a physical manifestation of whatever romantic notions humans have projected onto it for thousands of years. Yesterday we passed a SOBO hiker who remarked about how much the upcoming Great Basin "sucked", called it a "waste of time" (thankfully he also confirmed the presence of these upcoming water caches). And that's not an attitude we can identify with - how could any stretch possibly be a waste of time? At least, any more so than any other part of this whole silly endeavor? It's all part and parcel of this great span of Earth's crust, as it stretches north and south and up and down under the loving but unforgiving expanse of sky that hammers it with all manner of warmth and life and abuse. The sun glows orange over the horizon before finally breaking free and licking us with warmth. Quickly come up on our last source of natural water, where Fish Creek passes through a drainage pipe. No flow here, but at least the thick algae built up on the bottom keeps us from stirring up much silt. Camel up with 5 liters each (about 1.3 gallons), because we still don't quite trust these caches and want to have some in reserve to hitchhike if needed, shoulder the now-very-heavy packs, and get back to the pavement. Walk the next 9 miles hoping the sun doesn't get too intense, waving at the few cars that come flying by. A conspicuous sign and orange flagging on the side of the road fill us with hope, and sure enough, here's Jim's roadside oasis, tucked in the shade of the tallest shrub, stocked with ice-cold waters in a massive chest cooler, and fruit and electrolyte drink mix and snacks. What an aid station! Grab some waters and bananas, throw down the foam pad, and proceed to take a nap. Awake to the chug of a diesel engine as a big pickup drives toward us off the road. We hurry to get out of the way and out pops Jim and assistant to check the water and snack levels. Do our best to make some small talk but they don't seem super interested; we gather Jim doesn't see eye-to-eye with the BLM, and either hates living in Rawlins or loves it but wants to keep it secret. He "didn't move here for the wind". I guess a few years ago he found a hiker in a ditch half-dead from dehydration and took it upon himself to make sure we didn't die out there; he talks with the kind of paternal resignation of watching kids do something stupid and just trying to make sure they don't get hurt. After a bit Sage shows up, a fellow trail angel, much warmer and excited to have the chance to talk with us and see hikers using the oasis. He had so much fun picking up some other hikers and taking them to the hot springs, and it's heartwarming to hear about the friendships he's struck from helping strangers. Spend the rest of the afternoon sewing flower patches on my disintegrating sun-shirt (I'm starting to get worried the sun will burn me through it), eating dinner, and waiting out the sun. Now bits of pink floral handkerchief sprout from all over my clothes as if I'm surpressing a condition that would have me burst into one giant bouquet. Several Europeans on bicycles pedal by, one from Belgium stops to chat longer and we have meaningless small-talk much more pleasant than any we've had with other hikers lately. The Great Divide bike route is quite popular with Euros, and I hope they enjoy the insights into America they're getting biking through rural Wyoming. Hit the road as dark clouds gather behind and ahead. The wind has kicked up over the afternoon and erratic gusts try to shove us into the road. The sage plains stretch crispy in all directions, bounded by dry tan buttes in front and to the sides and the ever-more-distant dark hills behind. A couple people driving by make sure we're OK and have enough water, and one guy even offers us a ride into town. Be gone, foul temptation! The sun sinks and bathes the clouds and ground in that aged golden hue peculiar to the high scrublands of the American interior, the color that makes you understand why anyone would think that, just maybe, they could scratch out a living in this beautiful space. After 9 miles we hit the second water cache, a much more modest cooler set out and stocked by the folks working on the big wind farm project south of Rawlins. This is really the last bit of water, and the sun's already gone down, and we've gone nearly 24 miles today, so call it good and set up the tent. This *should be* BLM land, but we're not quite sure how things work with the wind project, and hope nobody driving by tells us to pack up and move along. But all is quiet - at least, until one of the passing storms gets a little too close and threatens to flatten our tent with frontal bursts. There is *zero* shelter out here so we're exposed to the full wrath of the wind. I dive out about 10 PM and put down the guy lines, strong gusts blowing dirt and sand up my pajama shirt. Back inside sleep is hard to come by until things quiet down about 11 - I don't think we're going to have that early alarm tomorrow.

 

Down the highway, same old same old

 

 

Starting on the highway as day breaks

 

 

At the second water cache as day ends

 

 

 Golden sage and cool clouds

 

 

Lonely WY highway

 

 

All patched up

 

 

Excited to find the first water cache

 

 

A long ways to Rawlins

 

 

Our last natural source of drinkable water

 

Starting off in the dark of morning

* Day 3: We were supposed to get up at 3 AM but push it til 3:45, trying to make up for some of the sleep the storm took from us. Still need to race the sun today - trying to knock out the last ~18 miles to Rawlins before getting too baked and strung-out on the highway. (Not like that - from the sun!) Make a too-long detour for some BLM vault toilets and find another hiker just getting out after having spent the night in there. He got hit by the storm too and didn't stand a chance in his ultralight trekking-pole tent, so was lucky to have the toilet as a shelter; I'm feeling pretty happy with our strong, freestanding Nemo. The sun slowly illuminates the broad plain and distant hills with gentle yellow and orange and purple, before rising higher and casting everything in sharp contrasting tones of brown and blue. I feel smaller than I ever do around the mountains. We can see so far in the distance that features of the landscape slowly grow larger and crawl closer and finally eventually arrive to end this instance of purgatory. We're both pretty dang tired; I spend a mile or two seeing how many steps I can take with my eyes closed. I would maybe take a ride right now if someone offered. We make really good time but it feels endless. Thankfully thick and low grey clouds moved in early and have fought off the sun to keep things at a reasonable temperature. Ignore achy feet as we plod the last few miles into Rawlins and celebrate having made the 38 miles down highway 71 through Wyoming desert. First stop is a Thai restaurant that offers a lunch buffet; load up a couple big plates each with curry and eggplant. I eat 4 or 5 crab rangoons. Next stop - post office, for new shoes! Back in Steamboat we asked the Lander PO to forward our box here, and it's waiting for us so nicely, a bit of real-life magic. We call up the "public transportation" for Rawlins - an on-demand bus that only runs 8 - 4:30 four days a week - but for a couple bucks get a ride across town to our hotel, so can't complain too much. Beats more pavement-walking. They let us check-in at 2; unpack, shower, nap time. Not exactly a proper siesta but it'll do. Wander across the empty lots and football fields of concrete that seem to comprise this part of Rawlins to Walmart for supplies and more food for tonight - those plates of Thai food won't last forever. Hang out watching Food Network, wishing our Walmart microwave meals were a little better. Need to check out that ramen shop Guy Fieri went to in Rapid City.

 

Empty nighttime road

 

 

Sunrise over the sagebrush steppe

 

 

Same road, same scene, different lighting 

 

Finally made it into Rawlins!

First proper views of the little town