Part Fifty Six

     September 21st - 23rd           Great Divide Basin, WY              (Go to Pt 1)

I must have dozed-off because the next time I looked at my watch nearly an hour had passed, although it didn’t seem like I’d had been waiting that long.  Now I was a bit alarmed and decided to walk back up the road to where I could see if Craig was coming or not.  

I had only just gotten up to start walking when Craig came limping around the distant mound and hobbled down the road to where I stood. He dropped his pack in the gravel and sagged to the ground clutching his right knee, “I can’t go any further” was all he said.  The only surprise here was that he had made it this far.

I stood silent for a moment then, as a point of logistics, stated the obvious “Okay, well, we’re going to have to get you out of here, then.”  Craig sat on his pack with his head in his hands. “Yeah, I know” he replied.   Then he looked up and off into the distance, resignation etched in his face, adding “I’ll just have to wait until a truck comes by.”  I could count on three fingers the number of trucks that had passed us since leaving South Pass two days ago but that was the only way Craig was going to get out of the desert, now.
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“Yeah, okay… well, I guess I’m going to keep going then” I finally said.  Craig sat staring off into nowhere and replied “Yeah, I’ve got some stuff you’ll need.”  He got up and pulled a couple of communal items of gear from his pack which I transferred to mine.

“What do you think you’ll do?” I asked.  He was quiet for a moment then replied, “I guess I’ll hitch out to Rawlins.”  Rawlins, off of Interstate 80, was our next scheduled stop-over.  “Okay, well, I should be down to I-80 by the end of the day tomorrow, so… I guess, let’s meet in Rawlins in a couple of days” I said.  “Yeah, okay” came Craig’s faint reply.  

​Then out of nowhere, literally, I heard a vehicle and turned to look up the road where a white pick-up was rounding the bend.  “You gotta be kidding me” I murmured. I took a step out into the road and waved down the driver, whom I’m almost certain would have stopped anyway, just out of curiosity.  Pulling up with a perplexed look on his face, he asked “You guys lost?”  ​

Click on map for a larger image

We briefly explained our situation and the guy was happy to help but said he wasn’t driving all the way out to I-80.  It was at least a move in the right direction, so Craig threw his pack in the back, climbed in the cab and the truck drove off.

I started walking again, feeling as devoid of emotion as the desert itself.  I continued down the road for another five or six hours, just marching, detached and unaware, staring down at the road crawling by when I was astonished to suddenly see fresh boot tracks in the dust along the side of road.  I looked up and about 100 yards further down the road was Craig, sitting on his pack.
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“What’cha you doing?” I asked when I reached him.  He told me that his ride had dropped him off to head into a drill site but for him to hang tight, someone would eventually be coming out.  I dropped my pack and sat for a bit which is when Craig pointed out that I had missed the road leading out to the water source about five miles back.  “Fuck, really?”  “’Fraid so.”

This kind of irony was right in Craig’s wheelhouse and while neither one of us was in much of a joking mood, Craig couldn’t help but crack a smile as I processed this news, not because he was glad I’d fucked-up but because, face it, if it’s not you, it’s pretty damn funny.  I had just walked down a single, solitary, dirt road with but one intersection along the way, a critical intersection, and I had walked right past it.  A classic version of “He only had one job”.

I was too far down this road to turn back now, so, fortunately, Craig gave me an extra quart of water he had which gave me just enough to get out of the desert.  Because I’d missed the cutoff out to the water source I now had to navigate my way back across the open flats to go find that cutoff road because that was my route out to Wamsutter, a ramshackle outpost along Interstate 80.  For the second time that day Craig and I parted, Craig remaining to wait for transport while I struck out across the open desert.  
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By the time I finally spotted the errant road off in the distance it was late in the day and the sun close to setting.  It was also around this time that I became aware of something following me.  For some reason I suddenly had this crawly, weird feeling, so I turned around to look and was immediately alarmed to see three wild horses, two white and one black, about a hundred yards in my rear and following.  Escaped, domestic horses, bred in the wilds of the desert.  I had been told that wild horses were very smart, territorial, and known to be aggressive toward interlopers.  

John, the wildlife biologist we had stayed with, had warned us about these stallions, advising us to never engage the horses in any way and, in particular, avoid eye contact of any kind.  “What if they get aggressive?” I’d asked.  “Well” John had replied, “if the horses decide to kick the shit out of you, then you’re going to get the shit kicked out of you, simple as that.”

I turned around and focused my eyes on the gravel road out in the distance with the stark realization that there wasn’t a darned thing I could do about these animals stalking me, so I just continued my pace and tried to pretend they weren’t there.  

I reached the road just after sunset with the horses still in my shadow and there was no more putting off the inevitable, I had to stop for the day. I had no idea what these wild horses would do when I stopped, maybe that’s when they’d kick the shit out of me, I didn’t know, but walking the remaining 25 miles out to the highway was not an option, my feet ached and I was exhausted.  So, in a desert version of Russian Roulette, I finally dropped my pack and sat down.

I sat still, just staring at the ground for several minutes then glanced behind me to see the three horses still standing there but now about twice as close as they had been.  I slowly stood up and remained standing still, looking in the opposite direction of the horses for several more minutes then slowly, very slowly, set about unloading gear from my pack.  

The horses stood off in the short distance and watched.  I was starting to feel a little more comfortable and decided to set-up the tent (for wind, not rain).  The horses remained, watching me set-up the tent, cook supper and for the rest of the evening until I eventually climbed in the tent to go to sleep.  The next morning when I woke up and looked about, the horses were gone.
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Outside the tent there was one pack and one pair of boots and the absences of Craig’s gear momentarily surprised me, then struck me pretty hard.  It felt like the whole Continental Divide enterprise was spiraling out of control, and while I knew I’d make it out of the desert, beyond that had become a virtual unknown.  I was more alone than I’d ever been in my life and more physically and psychology isolated than most can imagine. 

I started off down the road, headed for Wamsutter, and had walked about 45 minutes when over a rise off to the east the three ‘horsemen’ reappeared.  My anxiety level increased a bit but nothing like the jolt I’d gotten when I had first noticed them following me the previous afternoon.  We were familiar with each other by now.

Like yesterday, I just kept my gaze forward, maintained a steady pace, and after a couple of hours I noticed the horses begin to trail off in the distance.  I must have finally gotten beyond their territorial boundary because they had stopped following me but remained watching until I could no longer see them. 

I reached Interstate 80 late in the afternoon with a cold, harsh wind blowing down the interstate corridor.  Broken glass and cans littered the ground alongside the highway and paper trash blew in the wind.  Across the highway sat an old and beat-up gas station/convenience store/Greyhound bus stop.  I crossed the highway and entered the building, leaving my pack at the door. 

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Go to Part 57

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The CDTC was founded in 2012 by volunteers and recreationists hoping to provide a unified voice for the CDT. Working hand-in-hand with the U.S. Forest Service and other federal land management agencies, the CDTC is a non-profit partner supporting stewardship of the CDT. The mission of the CDTC is to complete, promote and protect the Continental Divide National Scenic Trail, a world-class national resource. For more information, please visit continentaldividetrail.org.

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