Excerpted from Along Colorado's Continental Divide Trail Photography by John Fielder Trail stories by M. John Fayhee

I guess Gary and I had developed broader definitions of what was and was not potable on this hike. Ended up there were several small tarns and creeks on Snow Mesa, each of which seemed perfectly fine by us. We hoped our fears about lack of water throughout this stretch would be equally without merit. This is when we started thinking of this year's batch of CT hikers as less than tough.

Actually, our water situation from here on in would be quite different than it had been, as we both had dumped our iodine in favor of our Katadyn filters. In one sense, it is only a coincidence that we own the same type of filter; but, in another sense, it is not coincidental at all, as Katadyn makes the very best (and by far the most expensive) model in the world and, when it comes to keeping hideous protozoans, bacteria, viruses and miscellaneous spooge from visiting our bowel regions while we are out and about in the middle of nowhere, Gary and I are both inclined to own and operate the very best technology.

This belief was underscored by the very lad who drove us from Lake City to Spring Creek Pass. Earlier in the summer, he had contracted a case of giardia lamblia— the most prevalent and dreaded form of stomach malady in the High Country— by way of consuming untreated/unfiltered water that he pulled from a pristine-looking mountain stream. He was camping the night the symptoms manifested themselves, and he had to run into the woods (get this) 30 times! I wince just thinking about it. He said it was a thoroughly unpleasant experience, and we believed him to the point that we almost sang out"Hallelujah" as he was relating this tale of intestinal woe. (Giardia is a protozoan passed from warm-blooded carriers like beavers and cows to water sources via feces. Its incubation period is 914 days.)

Shortly after crossing the headwaters of a side canyon of Oso Creek, we entered the La Garita Wilderness. We stopped to snack, sip and admire a heart-flutteringly gorgeous view of Uncompahgre and Wetterhorn— 30 miles away— through a window-like notch in the Divide before reluctantly moving on. This day, every step is hard. On long hikes, there are those days, just as there are days when the miles pass almost effortlessly.

As we were climbing up from Snow Mesa, we both realized how comfortable we had become rubbing elbows with the Divide, which is strange indeed, as, historically, the Continental Divide is probably considered the most notorious geological feature in the Rockies. For centuries, the exploration and settlement of Colorado was framed in a context that was centered along the Divide. Trappers, miners, mappers and merchants all spent considerable time and effort for generations dealing with the inconvenience and danger offered up in spades by the backbone of the Rockies in order to conduct their business. Perhaps in the recreation-crazed late 1990s, the fourteeners have usurped the Divide as the state's most ominous and, therefore, most exciting terrain feature in the minds of backcountry enthusiasts. But, only since the '60s have people looked at the fourteeners as anything except tall mountains that, thankfully, are easily avoided as one is traveling around the plague whenever possible, the Divide was considered Colorado's challenge nonpareil.

And here Gary and I are stupidly thinking in terms of being buddy-buddy with this awesome topographical anomaly. Yet, we both understand full well that, though we may now feel a familiarity-based karmic bond with the Divide, it remains impassive toward us. That is the way Nature works, even when nice guys like us are factored into the survival equation. I guess it's like drinking with a dragon— everything's hunky-dory right up until the moment when the fire starts flying. We know we cannot afford to feel too comfortable with the Divide no matter how many miles we touch it and are touched by it.

It was just past noon, and, with only four miles left to the Middle Fork of Mineral Creek, where we planned to camp, we had been looking forward to being able to take our time. Then we notice a vicious-looking storm about to break over us like a gaseous tsunami. Since we were at 12,400 feet in the middle of an endless stretch of tundra, we were about as exposed to the elements as two people with all their clothes on can get. So we started nervously quick-stepping our way along the side of the Divide ridge, hoping once again that this was not the day we were destined to interface directly with a bolt of lightning. As we crossed into the Mineral Creek drainage, the storm hit full tilt. There was nowhere to hide. We just kept our fingers crossed and walk on, feeling like a mouse in a snake's cage.

From the West Mineral Creek headwaters, the trail drops back into the trees and into and out of several small, steep drainages. We pass a couple of serious cowboy-looking horsepackers— replete with chaw dribble making its way down their chins. They nod, their black hats pulled down low on their faces. Shortly thereafter, we pass a lone Colorado Trail hiker and his dog. He's a lean man in his early 20s, and he is flat-out flying to Spring Creek Pass. We exchange about 10 words, nine of which have to do with how much food he is going to consume while in Lake City. Before I can issue a warning, he is gone.

The storm let up, and I was feeling a lot more energetic than I had been in the morning. I was several hundred yards ahead of Gary when, suddenly, I rounded a bend and, right there in the middle of the trail, a couple is involved in a bit of what looked to be mouth-to-mouth resuscitation practice. I tried to act innocent, like I didn't see a thing, which was a tough act, as I almost tripped over these two people. We all sort of red-faced chuckled it off, exchanged a couple of weather-related pleasantries, and parted ways. I'm certain that, for years to come, this couple will be telling their friends about how, in the middle of the La Garita Wilderness, a scuzzy-looking Divide Trail hiker walked up on them as they were smooching. I laughed for the next two miles.

We arrived in early afternoon at a promising-looking campsite at the base of a beautiful sheer cliff face and next to a couple of beaver ponds. Since the storm was moving back in again, we decided without compunction to drop our packs and pitch our tents. Almost immediately, though, we realized how trashed by horses this otherwise lovely spot was. We thought back to the two cowboys we had passed on the trail, and, since the ashes in the firepit were still warm, we suspected they were the culprits responsible for the sad state of this campsite— or at least the most recent culprits. There were empty beer and sardine cans, cigarette butts and horse droppings everywhere. (It's tough to feel sympathetic toward anyone who, given the luxury of carrying in via horseback any food item in the world, would choose cans of sardines.) And the animals had been allowed to trample the camp's entire periphery into a muddy pulp.

I try to retain a positive attitude toward horses and the creatures who own and drive them, but, man oh man, it is very hard sometimes. Many miles of the CDT through southern Colorado have been decimated by horse traffic. Not only is this part of the state dominated by ranchers (and thus horses), but it is ground zero for the state's guided-horseback-tour industry. These tours usually consist of two or three tough-looking, no-nonsense wranglers accompanied by anywhere from six to 15 flabby customers who more often than not are dressed in the height of dorky drugstore cowboy fashion— something that I am certain is never mirthfully discussed by the wranglers among themselves back in the bunkhouse.

Because of the heavy horse traffic, the condition of the Divide Trail through the Weminuche and parts of the La Garitas is as bad as I have ever seen. In many places, the tread is eroded down several feet, so it looks from a distance like you are hiking along knee-deep in Mother Earth. There are many other areas that sport four or five distinct trails, all either caused by horses or by hikers bypassing sections of trail damaged by horses. Since the trail in many places could have been named the Continental Divide National Horse Manure Trail, the biting fly situation was often hard to handle.

Over the years, I have hobnobbed with more than a few horsepackers about all this (which is a wonderful way to practice one's self-defense capabilities), and, unfortunately, have never got very far in my attempts to convince them that the damage they cause to trails outweighs that caused by any other user group— except off-road vehicles— by a factor of 10 and, therefore, they should get off of their high horses and do "something" about the situation. I have asked cowboys and horsepackers why they do not spend more time working on volunteer trail crews, at least as a symbolic, good will-type gesture. Time and time again I have been reminded by these people that they have to buy Special Use Permits from the Forest Service to operate their tours and run their cattle and sheep on public lands, and they look at those permits as their tickets to pretty much do as they please. If they cause damage to trails, then, by God, let the Forest Service take care of the problem.

The thing is, in the West, horses are, well, sacred cows. The Forest Service has come up with a set of Leave No Trace kinds of rules governing how horsepackers ought to operate in the backcountry but, to the best of my knowledge, there has never been any serious effort to limit the number of horses allowed to pass on any given stretch of trail in any given year. Yet, judging from the condition of the CDNST through this part of the state, something needs to be done fast on the regulatory front, lest this budding trail connecting Mexico with Canada simply erodes away right under our feet— and hooves.

We were crashed out well before dark. We were going to bed earlier and earlier every night. If there had been anyone to be embarrassed in front of besides Gary, I would indeed have felt a little sheepish about turning in at 6:30 in the dead of summer. But the physical act of carrying a pack up and down mountains all day is tiring beyond belief. I don't know how any activity could be more tiring in both the immediate and cumulative senses. Factor in the tedious camp part of trail life, and you have a world-class formula for marrow-deep constant fatigue. I slept like I was dead.

Move on to Lightning on the Peak

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