Rawlins to Highway 28: August 16th

* Day 0: Zero day in Rawlins. Surprisingly good hotel breakfast - bless the person who invented those waffle-makers with the batter that comes out of a mysterious metal box. Most pressing concern is laundry, mainly because the laundromat is more than 2 miles across town and we just don't want to walk that far. Have heard rumors of someone driving Lyft or Uber here but strike out on both apps. Call Carbon County Cab and not only do we get a fairly-priced ride but also the phone number of someone who might be able to help us skip forward along the highway tomorrow. Our driver makes a lot of chit-chat about putting down roots here and serving as aunt to her friend's first grader. She's the disciplinarian who isn't afraid give the kids a smacking. After laundry comes disappointment because the cafe I wanted to visit is closed on Saturdays. So we stop in the sporting goods shop, closing because the owner is retiring and can't find anyone to take it over, then walk the rest of the way back. Stop by Deb B's Family Espresso because I'm craving an espresso-based coffee drink but almost can't order because it's drive-thru only and we don't feel like standing in line between the big pickups that are now stacked 4 deep. But manage to catch a server while she's outside and I accidentally order a 12 oz. cappuccino with only one shot (i.e. a 12 oz. cup of hot milk) while Susan gets a delicious mango smoothie topped with copious amounts of whipped cream that later start to make her think she's lactose intolerant. I will find a good coffee in Wyoming someday, but not today. Back at the hotel sort through food and try to figure out what to make of the dehydrated Runzas and energy brick emergency food rations we sent in this box. The box that also had shiny new shoes! Our previous pairs aged a lot over the last two sections; what seemed like solid enough footwear in Steamboat Springs had since broken down into pairs of tired slippers that showed our toes through the sides. Go to the Penny's Diner before more groceries, which turned out to be just a hotel restaurant detached in a separate shiny 50's restaurant mockup. They made a decent burger. The cooks/servers there talk about tattoos; one is getting a line of Nordic runes from his temple down along his jawline, while the other wants a neck tattoo symbolic of her bipolar disorder. Pick up all our upcoming hiking food and hang out in the hotel room the rest of the day, getting distracted by the TV and prepping for more hiking. Much to her delight, Susan discovers that WWE-style professional wrestling is really similar to drag shows. Much to her despair, she's coming down with whatever I was sick with as we came in & out of Encampment. Nose-blowing, coughing, feeling generally poor in the belly-area. There's no good time to be sick on a thru-hike. I'm feeling better but my back tingles and bristles with a sun burn - I sat shirtless too long while sewing the patches on the shoulders. Sounds like our friends will meet us in the Wind River Mountains, so that's exciting, but first we have to knock out 120 dusty miles through the Divide Basin in southern Wyoming's red desert. Finally hear back from the cab company and arrange a ride for tomorrow to take us past the stretch of trail that just parallels the highway - make that 105 dusty miles. Good, because now we're due to meet friends over Labor Day weekend. Hope we remember how to interact with people while hiking.

Circle of Life, circle of shoes

Ben isn't so sure about these emergency food rations that also came in the box

Is it a bad sign if your food comes with instructions that look like they could have come from an aircraft safety card?

* Day 1: Even though I manage to get up pretty promptly with the alarm, the hotel hostess is late to get to work and doesn't have breakfast out until 6:30 AM, so I still keep our 7 o'clock cab waiting. But she's relaxed and in no rush and even brought us pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, and has been keeping busy telling Susan the importance of following through when you threaten to whup your children. She undoes the dummy seatbelt from the passenger chair, and tells us seatbelts would have killed her friends so the cops around here have just given up trying to get her to wear one. We speed north 14 miles down Highway 287 until Mineral X Road. At least that was the name before the BLM changed it, she informs us; I'm not sure if she meant to conceal the annoyance behind her voice or not, but regardless, the sign still says "Mineral X Road". Loaded up with 5 days of food we strike out north-northeast along the pavement, heading dead straight beyond the horizon. Immediately tickled by the all the new animals: a big brown ground rodent - looked like a marmot but literally couldn't have been - scurrying back to its burrow, pronghorn dashing off, small greater short-horned lizards all spikey and grey-black speckled, and a pair of wild horses. With the horses, literally tickled - one brown with white spots and a thick dredlock of a tail, the other pale and bony with sores buzzing with small gnats, they wander right up and sniff and nuzzle and we're entirely uncomfortable being close enough to a wild animal to pet it. We gently touch their heads and demonstrate our open palms and they wander back off. Susan says we got a blessing but I think they just wanted some food. From the pavement branch off onto dirt-two track and Susan picks up a Gatorade from a small stash a kind soul left in a tire. The road continues, impossibly straight, through vast expanses of gently rolling tan sandy dirt held together by a steady blanket of dormant pale-yellow grass and the clumps of blue-green sage that scatter endlessly. Clouds come and go, ranging from uniform white sheets to puffy Rorschach cumulus hanging peacefully in deep blue sky to thick, grey billows. With clouds blocking the sun and relatively mild temperatures, we keep walking through the afternoon, and I really enjoy watching the shifting light throw new shadows and highlight the greens and yellows and tans of the landscape, each in their own turn. I've never had so much fun looking at nothing. Some storm cells blow around; we actually stop to put on rain gear after one pelts us from the side for 5 minutes without letting up. But 5 more minutes later it's gone. Our first water was an excellent solar well that brings up clear, cool water, our second is a simple wooden box with the word "WATER" painted on the side. Courtesy of the Bairoil Presbyterian Church, here sits some 15 gallons of precious, clean water, cached so us hikers don't go around dying in their desert. Not the first time we've benefitted from Christians living out their faith. While we hang out there for a while, eating dinner and flipping through the logbook, a trio of south-bound hikers roll up and we have some water-cooler small-talk, mainly with the chatty Dane with a sharp, sarcastic, Scandinavian sense of humor. A fourth person then walks over and we're nearly overwhelmed - this makes about 11 people we've seen today, and the first time we've been around for conversation when two disconnected parties of hikers momentarily overlap. Starting to feel like the Colorado trail out here. Sounds like they all took the Big Sky cutoff in Montana, leaving about 300 miles on the cutting room floor. We pack up and head out to make a few more miles before camping. Storm cells shift in the distance; the Sun has been conducting the air all day, tuning the wind and moisture until they whip together and rise above the plains in symphonic movement, until becoming too dense and unfurling elegant, wispy ball-gowns of purplish-grey that brush across the ground as the new storm waltzes its way through the atmosphere. If you're lucky, you might be able to tune into the music yourself and follow along with the storm. Even luckier, maybe you know the song and can predict the next movements. This piece is lost on us, so we nestle up against the foot of a small ridge and throw on the rainfly, protecting as much as we can from any wind or surprise rain. Not exactly a lot of trees for shelter around here.

Walking toward unsettled weather late in the day

CDT hiker log book from inside the cache

Hanging out at the water cache, also a really helpful piece of furniture

Picking up water from a nice solar well

Expanses of the basin

Greater short-horned lizard

Horses coming to check us out... They got this close to *us*, not the other way around

Pretty flowers along the start

Heading dead straight down the pavement

Starting selfie!

* Day 2: Alarm a little after 3 AM today - trying to beat the heat. Susan's getting sicker, and coughs so hard in the morning that she throws up. She's not keen on the 21-ish-mile distance we planned for today, the first time we'll have done back-to-back days over 20. Yet somehow is still ready to go before me. As we depart a soft, wan glow stands against the inky sky barely curving above the horizon, and the stars still hang bright above. Susan hopes she can walk it off, but also, we can't really just hang around where we are. If she gets worse there's an upcoming highway that leads to luxurious Jeffrey City, population 58. It's sparse out here. As we walk the glow builds higher, wedging layers of pale green and bright orange between the dark sky and its reflection in the sillhouetted hills below. The vibrant burning orange spreads further through the low clouds on the horizon as the yellow and green push ever upward, a lifting the curtain for the performance of another day. Then the Sun crests, golden light spreads across the steppe, for a brief moment it's the *perfect* temperature, and then we're worried about getting too hot. Before too long hit our first water source, an electric well spilling high-quality cold water into a massive tire. That leaves about another 8 miles before the next water and nap time. At this point it's official: the Sun is up, white clouds spread across a deep-blue sky that washes out to white at the horizon, and the earth has the faded sepia look you find in Westerns. The thermometer is only going up. Spot another family of wild horses along the way, but they're not so interested in us. The clouds provide some cover and the wind gusts sporadically but by the time we arrive at the piped spring it's time to quit hiking for a while. Collect water, do our best to rig the tent footprint as a shade between the tallest sagebrush (which honestly are taller than us here, nourished by just a little more water), ditch the shoes, take a nap. Wake up after an hour to shift the tarp to throw more shade, take a nap. Wake up after an hour - fine, it's too hot, we need to make dinner anyway. Shift the tarp again and cold-soak some couscous because the idea of hot food does nothing to pique the appetite. Soon after clean up and get hiking again; still have 7 miles to go and it's already 4:30 PM. Hot. Happy for the intermittent clouds because otherwise the Sun beats down and turns the whole basin into a solar oven. You can feel the pressure of the heat forcing hot air against you, leaching away any exposed moisture. Shuffle along the dirt two-track until Spring Creek, a lovely little stream that cuts a vibrant green stripe through the otherwise dusty plains. Find some shade to hide in and shortly afterwards a southbound hiker limps up and collapses against a clump of willows, her relief at seeing such marvelous water radiating out in waves. Another, older woman comes up, followed by two guys who trickle in. I'm feeling a little grumpy and low-energy and don't engage in much small-talk, but Susan's actually feeling well enough for some water-cooler conversation, so that's good. They all seem beat. Apparently the water situation is about to get rough - they claim there's zero "good" water between here and Weasel Spring, which is about 35 miles away. Susan inquires about the spring less than 4 miles away, and they assure us it's just nasty cow ponds. And apparently the water cache we hoped to use now sits empty, which tracks, because our total SOBO count so far is approaching 20. There's not a lot of advice for what we should do other than carry more water than anyone on this trail actually has capacity for. I wash my feet and we pack up to leave, hauling only 3 liters, some comments on FarOut giving us hope that the upcoming spring is better than advertised. A friendly BLM worker drives by and swaps out some of our water for ice water from his cooler. And when we roll up to Benton Spring around sunset and take the stepstool over the fence to investigate what lies upstream of the dirty mud puddles that line the trail, Susan finds a lovely little spring tucked in the brush, cascading over a couple of logs. Clear and cool. Don't always trust thru-hikers for accurate advice, especially about water. Refill bottles and pick up another 2 liters each to prepare for a big day tomorrow. Susan is keeping down all her food and thinks she can keep trucking, despite the coarse coughs that send up blobs of phlegm. Dry, warm air is good for that sort of thing, right?

Sunrise 1

Sunrise 2

Sunrise first hitting the plains

Good water early in the day

Just more basin

Another group of wild horses

Trying to eke out some shade

Spring Creek - beautiful flowing water

* Day 3: Cruxy day today - we need to go 19.5 miles to the next, best source of water, which is to say the biggest cow pond. On top of that, the forecast is for a hot, perfectly clear day with only a gentle breeze. So the alarm rings at 1:30 AM but not because we're climbing a mountain - mountain climbing involves less naps. The waning moon shines through mottled clouds; the low red glow of Susan's headlamp lights up a few square feet of the road right in front of her. We each have 5 liters of water to see us through the extra-dry stretch of trail up over Crooks Mountain. The shifting hues of sunrise provide entertainment from about 5 to 7, purple and orange and navy casting a stretch of low clouds into sharp relief. In the hazy, pastel distance we catch our first views of the Wind River mountain range, high stony peaks behind the dark foothills. And then the sky is back to that pure blue it amasses when you can see so much of it and the bright sun casts unforgiving light across the landscape. Every so often groups of pronghorn bounce off through the plains, easily startled and tuned in to any small changes in the environment. We don't take much in the way of breaks, because where could we go that's going to be even slightly comfortable? The basin terrain starts to feel like a treadmill; I swear we advance with each step but the expanse of sagebrush isn't so sure, unfurling farther into the distance to make up for any ground we've gained. About 12:45 PM, roasting, we see someone filtering water, standing all exposed to the Sun, and he confirms our fears - the upcoming water cache has been drunk dry, so the large pond full of algae and surrounded by hoof-prints baked hard into once-squishy mud is our best and only hope. He thinks it filters pretty nicely, at least it's not muddy. So we set up to make due with what we have, once again rigging the tent footprint between sagebrush to cast whatever shade we can eke out, and then go scoop up two liters of water each, trying our best not to disturb the sensitive layer of sediments that's gathered delicately across every surface at the bottom of the pool. The water starts yellow but clear, filters to be less yellow, and easily passes a taste test; it reminds me of hose water from childhood in Wahoo. Doom and gloom had been exaggerated. We play the tarp game again through the afternoon, while eating and sleeping, drinking pond water amd hanging out with the cows and watching a pair of ducks peck around for food in the marsh directly across. The hot air picks up the cool, earthy, slightly-menthol scent of sage and brings it by in slight breezes. Another hiker with a small pack walks by without stopping for water, holding a small foam sit-pad over his head for shade. Then a third, a nice guy who has no qualms about this or any other upcoming water sources. Need to check off 3 more miles today so start cleaning up and hit the road by 5:30 PM. Hoping that by then the temperature is at least trending in the right direction. But it stays *hot*, not a cloud in the sky to disrupt the sunshine and barely a breeze to wick away the sweat. The Sun lazily floats down toward the western horizon. I'm watching the distance attentively, ready to be done ASAP, so shortly after ticking past 22 miles we pull over for a clearing in the sage and pop up the tent under full-blast sun. I seem to be developing shin splints; nearly every step on my left leg sends a stab along the front of lower leg. Susan tries to go to sleep but the little hill just to our west doesn't block the light yet, so she mostly just lies and sweats and squirms in the mesh tent body. I wish we'd carried more water from that pond. After an eternity the tent finally catches shade, and I fall asleep as the Sun hits the horizon, breaks open, and oozes outward in a golden halo.

Starting out in the darkness

Very very first light in the sky

Still lightening up... It takes surprisingly long for the sun to rise

First view of the Wind River mountains in early morning light

Groups of wild horses roam free out here

Wide basin

This is our one chance at more water today... It'll do!

Ben is thirsty at the empty cache

Plenty of space to set up the tent!

Sunset watching from inside the tent

A group of pronghorn bounding away

* Day 4: I'm getting used to the orange-green-blue pattern of sunrise; even though we let ourselves sleep in this morning, that meant a 4 AM alarm and still operating by headlamp for the first couple hours. The basin... Continues. Mostly it does just that - continue on and on, worn roads cutting through the sand and sage, gradually perceiving the rolling hills and ridges as the ancient sand dunes they are. Even dunes get tired and settle down after a while, not putting down roots so much as having roots put down in them. I wonder how they feel about that. Pass Marmot, of all people! The 70-year-old who first did this trail in 1996, we ran into Marmot a few times in CO. She had a terrible fight with altitude sickness before Grays Peak, so skipped forward and started heading south instead.
Susan is delighted to have a conversation with her; she's one of the very few rhru-hikers Susan would actually take advice from. Eventually get to Weasel Spring, a good source of clear water improved by the BLM for easier access. Thanks! Have to backwash the filters some because the last pond nearly clogged them. They're certainly doing work. By 9 AM the heat shimmers are already building over the dusty earth and sagebrush. Ramble on onward, start passing concrete bollards marking the California Trail, take only short breaks. Yeah, a wagon would be pretty helpful around here. Make it to Mormon Spring, where we scoop the clear water from pools seeped around jumbles of rocks, trying not to agitate the layer of algae coating all the underwater surfaces in the shallow pool. Cows shuffle into and out of and around the spring but the large rocks bar them from reaching the best water. They certainly can poop around it though; it's tough to step anywhere and not disturb a crusty, faded cow patty. Wyoming has a lot of cow poop. We were supposed to maybe have some mixed clouds and sunshine today but the sky stretches on clear as the ground itself. Around the spring isn't exactly comfortable, but we still take a longer brake, filtering water and eating snacks. The Wind River mountains are closer today, a welcome yardstick marking our progress since there's few other landmarks out here. For a minute the clouds building to the north shift our way and provide hope that overcast might win the day; we raise our arms to the sky and thank the clouds out-loud every time one throws itself between us and the sun. Finally we see a valley of vibrant green meandering out of place in the reddish-tan sagebrush steppe, and know it can only be our destination for today - the Sweetwater River. We stumble along the final few ups & downs before reaching the closest option for good camping and collapsing in the shade of a willow clump. 23 miles without much of a break today; 45 miles since we last saw flowing water at Spring Creek. The river tasted sweet, indeed - cool and plentiful and so refreshing that we took the chance to even clean up a little bit, too. Need if after hiking through the heat of the day, thankfully with a stiff breeze most of the time to make conditions bearable. After 4 days in a row of more than 20 miles, feeling ready to bid farewell to the basin tomorrow. My sunburn itches fiercely and I'm a little grateful to the backpack for rubbing off some of the dead skin. Shin splints haven't bothered me all day though. Susan is also doing a little better, less nauseas but still hacking from deep within her lungs every so often. Grateful she's such a trooper.

Desert sunrise

It's tough out here

Susan walking through the basin

California Trail markers start randomly springing up

Mormon Spring - the water here is actually pretty decent

More Wind River Mountain views prove we're making progress

Approaching the Sweetwater River - look at all that green!

Just hanging out with the cows

* Day 5: One more pre-dawn desert alarm. One more desert sunrise to keep us entertained during the sleepy hours. The overcast weather finally arrived, so instead of a uniform warm disc slowly radiating upwards, we're treated to the dramatic clash of fiery orange against bruise-blue clouds. Susan spies a critter low in the sage and points it out to me; we can make out a narrow, black and white head and a stout body behind - a badger! So that's what's been making all the giant burrows with fans of heaped dirt right at the entrances. Probably the big ground-mammal we saw on day 1, also. Headed toward a series of low hills that start to mark the end of the Divide Basin - you can tell because clumps of green trees spring up at sparse intervals from the baked-yellow plains, and the dark foothills of the Wind River Range start to define the horizon. We crest one hill and get to look back over the swaths of Red Desert that spread endlessly to the southeast, and I'm grateful to have experienced this part of the Divide and newly respectful of the tough existence Life has out here. I even pitied the cows at times. The clouds mostly clear and the trail meanders through some gulches where aspens and willows help to replace the diminishing shade, but also the air is so still and contained that sun turns the space into an oven. Before long I'm dripping more sweat than I was at any other point across the desert. So we're nice and smelly as the trail leads us into South Pass City historic site/state park. South Pass was a boomtown during a brief gold rush around 1870, once filled with thousands of people bustling between shops and saloons and church and more saloons. A landscaper cleaning up mulch confirms we probably saw a badger, and another pair works on restoring the old butcher shop. The old log buildings all have fresh chinking and clean white facades facing the old main street. The interiors have been fully outfitted with period furniture: sofas, lamps, beds, tables, and even a small organ in the homes, fake liquor bottles and old bartops in the saloons, a host of anvils, clamps, and bent wood in the wheel-making shop (I don't know the term for the trade of making wheels, but it looked complicated). Learn that Wyoming was the first state to pass a law granting women the right to vote and hold office, and South Pass City had the first female public office holder in the nation - Esther Morris, who served as Justice of the Peace for 9 months. Oh, Wyoming, what happened? Get some sodas from the visitor center and use their wifi to book a hotel in Lander, then finish up the last few miles to the highway as clouds move back in and we have to put on the rain gear to protect against a building drizzle driven sideways by wind gusts. Today is still 17 miles - less than we have been doing, but dang we're tired. The trail kinda disappears and we have to shimmy through a barbed-wire fence. Finally reach a random spot along Highway 28 and it seems like it could be tough to hitch; the cars fly by at 70 mph. But after less than 15 minutes a van picks up a southbounder behind us, we hold out hope there's more space, and it pullz over for us, too. Huzzah! It's filled with the clutter of camping and daily life because the driver just spent a couple days helping her friend get to the hospital for surgery on a leg badly injured in a horse-riding accident; she says her friend's foot was "hanging on by a thread". The driver is no stranger to concussions and broken bones, either - she also keeps horses and rides in show events, and apparently that's at least as dangerous as mountaineering. Not a lot of "old bold" riders, either. She lives in Thermopolis and tells us about her son who spends just a couple hours a day knocking out his online school so that he can do important things like run cross country with the high school team, hike, camp, and climb. The origins of another Wyoming hardperson. By 3 PM we're down at our motel in Lander, not bad time at all, and I can't help but blurt out "Damn it's hot!" as we tumble out of the van into the shock of upper-eighties after having just been out in a burgeoning storm a couple thousand feet higher. Order Dominos for delivery because we don't want to leave the hotel and walk anymore and I've been hungry almost the whole section and a couple of greasy discs with cheese oozing out of the crust sounds like a good way to make up some calories. Shower, get laundry done, relish the A/C and water that flows so freely with just the twist of a knob.