Day 3: Wind, Wind, and More Wind

Miles hiked: 22.24

Mile Marker: 61.5

“Katy, you ready yet?”

I hear Dad through my ear plugs. Ready? How can I be ready? It’s 6:00 AM and Dad and I agreed to wake up an hour earlier.

“You didn’t wake me up!” I say.

“You have an alarm clock,” Dad replies. “It’s okay. We’re not in a rush.”

No rush. Right. That’s one way to get quicker at packing.

My tent is so small that I look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame when I’m packing up in there. My sleeping bag grazes the sloped wall of the tent and gets wet. Again. I shove it into its bag and deflate my yellow sleeping mat. This time, I get it right. There are two valves, and I’m still learning which one does what and when.

Before I do anything else, I throw on my day clothes. It’s a fleece day, I can already tell. With my bag mostly packed, I’m wearing my fleece, rain jacket, and my buff. The wind cuts through my jacket as soon as I crawl out of my tent. Everyone is wearing rain pants.

Me?

Well, Dad said he was going to have his rain pants shipped out for the hike when we prepare to into Washington.

However, in his last shake down of his gear list, he realized his rain pants were lighter and pack down smaller than his running shorts — which is needed for town days when you need something to wear while you do laundry.

So Dad has rain pants and I don’t. I’m a little bit of a copy cat in that way. Oh, well. Shorts it is. I’ve prepared a cold coffee mixed with a hot chocolate and a chocolate breakfast essential pack.

The hike begins with a blistering wind and some chilly hikers who weren’t prepared for this weather in the desert. Dad and I pack away our trekking poles so we can stuff our stiff fingers into pockets. My fleece kangaroo pocket is tucked away behind my waist belt. No way my rain jacket is going to warm my fingers.

After a few minutes of walking with hands threatened by frostbite, I punch them into the pockets of my rain shell.

Oh.

It actually does help. My fingers are no longer stinging as they find respite from the bitter weather.

My legs turn blush pink from the cold, prickling with discomfort. Our trek begins on an eroded and rocky hill. Soon the wind picks up as we enter into ridge territory.

I always thought it would be cool to be in a cloud. However, when I’m there, I realize it’s just fog. Like now, for instance.

We’re tracing the outside of a giant hill. Low brush grab at our legs. My bare skin is already so bitten from the wind that the scratches of the brush seem to hurt more than usual.

The clouds roll over the hills in Lord of the Rings fashion. This would be perfect weather to curl up by a fire with a cup of coffee and a book. Instead? I’m fighting the wind that’s cutting through my layers and reminding me who’s boss.

Thomas and I walk together a while, the conversation about French culture, why we’re here, and plans after trail entertaining us in the harsh wind.

We turn the corner of a switchback and the wind pushes me to the side. I laugh aloud at this wild nature, that it holds so much power to move 170 lbs. An image of a tornado surfaces in my imagination, and my understanding of how the elements can overcome becomes more real.

We stop for a short lunch at a water source. My feet hurt from our endless miles on rocks. Big rocks. Little Rocks. Mid-size rocks. I elevate them for a few minutes, but it’s so cold we get back on the road.

Dad and I are on our own now. The rock path is atrocious on my feet. They’ve been sore since mile seven, but I’m learning it’s after about mile 15 that they become very tender. But what am I going to do? Just sit down and quit?

We enter into what looks like Utah red rock. Bordered by rock walls, we see memorials for lost loved ones. Red rocks are so different than the low brush hill hiking we’ve been walking through.

There’s a road with a cul de sac we cross over to the trail. The wind pushes me off course, and I lean against it to keep moving in the direction of the trail.

Today is a shake and bake day. Dad told me that means you’re shivering one moment, then you’re sweating the next. Never comfortable. All day I’ve been unzipping my jackets, rezipping my fleece. I probably touched my zippers 50 times today, trying to regulate temperature.

Hours pass until we reach a water source. Displayed with stone, it collects its water from a tank. That means we can’t leave the water running. When the water in that tank is gone, it’s gone.

It’s only 1.4 miles to the campground. We reenter higher trees and drop 800 feet in about a mile. My knees are sore from the descent, but alas, we spot a string of tents the size of Abe Lincoln’s head on the penny.

Warmth swallows me as we continue down the eroded path. That drop immediately took us out of the wind. It’s not too long before we’re waving at our friends. They offer us a spot, but Dad scopes out another campground about 100 feet away. Twenty-one miles was the goal, but we had to go further to get out of this weather. Tents and wind do not go well together.

Among the ant hills, Dad and I set up camp — which I again needed assistance with my tent — and created a kitchen with rocks to block out the wind.

My ram bomb is dry because I put too much potatoes in it. Oh well. I shove down the food even though I’m full, enjoy a snickers bar (always room for dessert), and head to bed. It’s still light out, thankfully, and Rafiki joins us along with another hiker who got into camp later.

Not long after I close my eyes, rain is pattering against my tent. Tomorrow may turn out to be a rainy day.