Hiking the Continental Divide Trail, or CDT as it is known in hiking circles, first became a personal goal while living in a Guatemalan hostel. Before leaving Guatemala, I finished a draft of a book about a previous hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, then flew through Atlanta to pick up backpacking gear from my family’s house.

From Atlanta, I flew to Albuquerque, NM, to spend weeks working on the draft I thought was finished in Guatemala. It is disconcerting to consider that the written expression of my thoughts has never fully pleased me. After working on the text until satisfied enough to stop, I traveled south from Albuquerque to the Mexican border and the start of the CDT.

Day 1: Feeling angry at the price I had paid for a short ride down twisting, unmarked dirt-and-gravel roads to the border, I first closed my eyes, then looked at the driver with a resolve to reexamine him. He was a retired construction worker and assisted those like me for a fee. The driver lived humbly, as the stacks of dry foodstuffs and cans of beans in his living room communicated.

The side of his face was being slowly consumed by skin cancer, which he treated with a black tarry herbal remedy. He was a hard man but easy to laugh with, full of stories from a life spent around the world. World War II at sixteen years old was one of those stories. I decided the fee I paid was worth the experience and told myself I would not start this journey with anger as a companion.

Across from a barbed wire fence marking the border between Mexico and the United States, buildings housed a colony of Mennonites, a Protestant group similar to the Quakers in their modest dress and a rejection of modern technology. Their compound glistened and wavered as if floating on an ocean of light. The wind pushed warm air laced with invisible grit across the plains.

This airborne particulate joined a light sheen of sweat on my skin as I ducked underneath the barbed wire to enter Mexico proper, asked the driver to photograph the moment, then returned to the United States to begin a journey of roughly 3,100 hiking miles from Mexico to Canada. I was currently nowhere near the actual Continental Divide, instead following an established route that started at a monument named Crazy Cook and avoided private land.

With a hearty handshake, the driver departed, and I was thus alone. A sign showed the start of the CDT, but there was no identifiable trail behind it. This was odd to a hiker used to well-marked paths and footprints to follow. Dusty, cracked high desert plains stretched west to the horizon, ending in sparse brown ridges running north to south.

Greasewood, mesquite, and creosote brush were prevalent, creating a lifted level of greenery just below the knees. High winds calmed the heat of the day while I stepped with purpose, long strides carrying me effortlessly across the terrain. These first steps were exhilarating, having finally arrived at a much-anticipated moment. I scanned the horizon, mentally closed off to any other thought but north.

My guide was a series of topographic maps provided by a former CDT hiker; I felt proud of myself for determining a position using the first map. I currently stood on a flat plain. To the west, I could see the Big Hatchet Range thrust into the sky, a singular ridge. I wish I had practiced more with topographic maps before attempting this thru-hike via map and compass.

After traversing the first stretch of the high plain and crossing the road to the border, I felt satisfied enough to take a break, trying out a new umbrella to help cool off. This was a cheap department store affair with a mylar sheet stapled to the outside. I had seen similar setups used by other hikers to cool down in the desert. Within a few seconds, the wind had turned the umbrella inside out and ripped it to shreds, a laughable event considering what I had gone through to buy it.

Two nights prior, a bus deposited me in Las Cruces, New Mexico, around midnight, without a plan or bus to take me further. The bus station was just a gas station with a row of molded plastic seats placed against an outside wall. So I walked to the highway and tried to hitch a ride to the road leading to the border, or at least close enough for me to walk there, but no one picked me up. Having no luck with a hitch, I walked back to spend the night on the floor of a church shelter.

In the morning, I purchased a bus ticket and walked a mile to a department store, where I bought the umbrella and mylar sheet. I sat there, stapling the mylar onto the umbrella, and could not help but notice the stares. If ever there was a time where I stepped back and saw myself through another person’s eyes, this was it; a dirty, unshaven, unkempt man with a backpack giggling as he approvingly twirled a shiny metallic umbrella over his head. I hope the observers got a good laugh.

The desert heat seemed to coax me into a trance as I thought more deeply about the journey’s beginnings. After a time, I decided I should move, at least away from the road we had driven in on, so I began the journey up Sherrold Canyon, where the path would split the silent brown waves of the Big Hatchets before traversing the eastern slopes.

I found a soft patch of tan sand and called it a day after immersing myself and feeling suitably isolated. There was a slight rock overhang just off to the left; I spread a tarp underneath this rock, removed my shoes, and relaxed, supremely content to rub my feet and grunt with pleasure. My book shared time with the sunset as the light slowly faded, the approaching night carrying me into a restful sleep.

Day 2: My water supply was already getting low. Unfortunately, I should have paid more attention to the details of the water caches the driver maintained while on the way to the border. I knew there was water close, but it was not until I left the path and crested a small embankment to the right that I spotted a dark brown box housing a water drop. Inside there was a six-gallon vessel. I filled my water bladders to capacity and drank my fill while sitting half in and half out of the box.

The wind had picked up considerable dust and debris, and border patrol passed by to warn of an impending dust storm. As the storm hit, I lay on the tarp’s edge, rolling several times to form a burrito roll. I then tucked the ends under my head and feet while using the metal box as a windbreak.

Sleeping on the desert floor was quite comfortable. I could wiggle against rocks digging into my back until they submerged in the sand to create a uniform surface. I do not know how long I slept, but it was incredible how little it took to shelter me from the howling storm.

The wind had calmed when I emerged from this cocoon; I could only assume rough wooden posts outlined the route to the north. Again, there was no trail to speak of. The CDT was more of an idea of a trail than an actual trail when I hiked it. Most of the time, I allowed the terrain to direct me.

Down washes and up small hills; I never lost or gained any substantial elevation, just wrapped against the side slope of the Big Hatchet Mountains until I finally reached a place to break. A solitary tree appeared, stunted by the dry climate of the high desert, and I used this to mark camp for the night.

Looking at the map, I could tell I had only covered a few miles over the day, but I did not care. I had seen no one save for the border patrol agent earlier in the day. I was alone in the wilderness, exactly where I wanted to be.
This was a fantastic new world for me, lined with greasewood and yucca, dying walking-stick cacti strewing porous bones across the sand, century plants spreading out in a green spiky palm, mesquite pulling and snatching and scratching everything within reach. I felt the civilized person inside start to fade away and knew this journey would be amazing.

A smattering of rain awoke me in the night, causing me to wonder why it was suddenly raining in the high desert of all places.
Day 3: My body was stiff and sore, causing me to regret one goal I had set during this thru-hike. I had decided not to take any over-the-counter pain medication because I wanted to feel the pain of this journey and allow it to bring me closer to myself and my physical form. I had also given up all the things in life I thought I loved but knew were unnecessary.

I did this to prove to the world I had self-control and that the love I felt for creation superseded all worldly desires or vices. This sounds cheesy, but how many opportunities would I have to show the world how much I love it?

Besides pain relievers, alcohol, cigarettes, soda, and sex were on the list. Given my appearance while hiking, I doubted I would have to endure too much interest from willing bedmates. So the last goal was purely hypothetical at the moment.

I packed and left camp with breakfast still in my hands. An adventure of this scale demanded I always push; always move forward toward the next goal. The route wrapped around the Big Hatchet Range and onto the slopes of the Little Hatchets. The terrain was rough, and every plant I passed seemed to leave a welt on my unprotected legs.

High snow gaiters were included in my inventory for such a concern, and I tried them out on this day. The gaiters only lasted a few minutes because the lacing of previous scratches stung horribly from the salty sweat inside the thick fabric. I instead took more care when weaving through desert vegetation because everything seemed to have some way of scratching me.

I was weak when I reached a second water cache some miles later. My body was unaccustomed to carrying such a load, and my legs felt unsteady. I fell asleep soon after drinking. Although the temperature was not altogether uncomfortable, I found the dryness of the climate was sucking the moisture from my body. This, combined with the unfamiliar exertion, made me feel like I could not drink enough water.

When I awoke, I drank a second time, fell asleep again, then packed up late in the day to push for a handful of miles along the slopes of the Little Hatchet Range. I finally stopped in a gravel-lined wash beside the trail and laid the tarp out while prone, unable to even stand to prepare for the night. Every muscle sang with exhaustion. I hardly noticed the stars above as I passed out.

Day 4: The soreness was fading from my back and thighs, and I felt invigorated with the knowledge I would soon be in town. A few short miles across a dusty plain brought me to the road leading into Hachita, New Mexico. I feasted on remaining supplies while waiting for a passing car to hitch a ride.

It was nine miles from this trail crossing into town. I would travel many miles to the east and west of the CDT, but I would always return to the same spot from which I left the journey. By my estimation, the nine miles back and forth into town simply did not count. The goal was to leave a continuous line of footsteps along the CDT.

After poking my head into the town’s solitary store and noting a sparse selection, I realized it was Saturday, and the post office was closed. I had packed drop boxes of food and left them with my family to mail to specific points along the trail where I knew selection was limited. Thankfully, half of my initial supplies were stashed at the driver’s house.

I walked to his house, discovered he was not there, became frustrated for a moment, and then realized he had left the door unlocked. After grabbing my supplies, I showered with a hose, washed the dust from my clothes, and returned to the store for a few purchases. There was never a time I could pass up ice cream while hiking.

Traffic was light, so I gave up on hitch-hiking within a short time, instead paying one local $2 to drive me back to where I had left the trail.
Something I always felt a little silly doing during a thru-hike was crossing back over a road to resume the hike from precisely the spot I had left; even a few feet of pavement was too much for me to miss. I’d hitched in from one side of the road, and the return ride dropped me off on the opposite side. I am obsessive/compulsive, a trait which did not fare well when dealing with something as substantial as a six-month journey

With this need for perfection satiated, I re-crossed the road and began a trek toward a small group of landmark topographic elements. The map designated these elements as “The Coyote Hills.” The path’s terrain ran without cresting above an enclosing ridge as if I were being corralled into some unknown pasture.

A valley opened to the north; I camped in a protected sunken bowl nestled against a short slope. Branches of dead and dying greasewood reached down like arms, making me feel as if I were on the edge of something, unsure what that something was. At dusk, I weighted the tarp’s edges with small stones and built a stone ring. Soon a mesquite fire was crackling away in the homemade hearth, and the stars drowned in the amber light cast against the desert sky.

I must have burned several hundred dollars worth of BBQ-quality mesquite wood each week while in the high desert. Dinner was an entire package of roasted hot dogs from the small Hachita store. The bedtime sand underneath the tarp made for a relaxing evening, and as I slowly drifted away, I heard the yelps of coyotes in the distance, blending into the dreams as I left this world for someplace else.

The coyotes awoke me in the night; they had surrounded the camp and created quite a ruckus. So I gripped my knife and stood up to shout, but the racket ceased as soon as I moved. I could hear the coyotes stirring in the brush, but they were no longer yelping.

When the entire group had moved west of camp, an intense barking came from the east, calling to me. Unknowingly I advanced toward it because the bark possessed an urgency, a demand for attention that spanned our communication barrier and struck a chord deep within until I noticed the pack moving in behind me.

Those sneaky coyotes were trying to lure me away from camp, no doubt to tear through and steal anything edible. I had never been privy to such cunning, a planned attack from an animal. They had seen me, studied my position, and tried to rob me.

So I threw some sticks on the fire, blew on the coals to chase the darkness away, then let out a fierce bellow. The coyotes left quickly and did not return, but I awoke twice to rebuild the fire and listen out for the feral cunning that brought chills to a reasonably warm night.

Day 5: I slept in, the daylight comforting me and allowing me to relax into a deeper sleep, for I felt less on guard in the sunlight. I had no tent or bivouac sack; I simply slept on top of a tarp and planned to roll into a burrito in the unlikely event of rain. A length of 550 paracord rode along with me to pitch the tarp into various configurations.

I would spend most nights in this area with clear skies, so I was not too worried about the lack of a shelter. This approach also brought me closer to the terrain I was traveling through.

An explosion of color leading up the slopes of the hills stopped me, a bright yellow popping out against the dusty brown of the desert. Soon I was on hand and knee trying to capture these desert poppies on camera. A darker ring of yellow surrounded the stamen and faded abruptly to four magnificent sunshine-colored petals. I lost my bearings momentarily, then rose to find the desert bursting with life.

For the first time, I overlooked the dead greasewood and gnarled mesquite to appreciate the carpet of golden blooms and the flat green blades of prickly pear cacti. Slopes here wore crowns of jagged rock as if the earth were baring its teeth. The route led out of the Coyote Hills and onto a massive desert plain. Here again, I was still determining what path to travel when there was none present but the one I had to make.

The map showed a route that cut directly across the center of the plain toward Lordsburg, my next town stop, so I left the packed earth of a dirt road that had led me out of the hills. Such terrain was unfamiliar, an open landscape where I would spend hours pushing forward only to look up and feel as if I had not moved, mountains fading into the big sky horizon and not appearing any closer. I knew I was hiking only from the sweat and groaning and work.

A cow trough appeared where I hoped to get water; some sort of unappetizing algae growth covered the surface, a carpet of foamy nastiness that smelled of death. Against my better judgment, I walked toward the next pinpoint in the distance, hoping for a fresher source. Some water was better than no water, and leaving the foul cow trough with nothing could have been expensive in terms of dehydration.

The bleached bones of a cow passed, strewn randomly like props in an old western film, followed by the skull of an antelope. One flower variety caught my eye, two sweeping stems that reached out like arms from a body of white blossoms edged by the slightest splash of color.
I was weary when reaching the second water source, and the day was fading. This time relatively clean water lay apart from the trough in a sunken well covered by a rusty metal plate. I drank deeply and ate dinner before making camp, spreading the tarp out and inflating the sleeping pad for the first time.

This brought me much joy, living the ultimate nomadic existence, with no rules, no commitments, just life, food, and water; the earth under my feet & beneath my back, my only concerns.

Stars began creeping out early in this gentle spring, though by the time I zipped up my sleeping bag, the sky above spread with crystal bursts from one end of my vision to the next. It struck me thoughtless for a moment just how brilliant the sky had become. I thanked the universe for allowing me to see such a magnificent sight in something as brief and fleeting as human life.

A scan for coyotes made me feel better; even at night, the landscape would allow me to see them approaching for miles. But I also knew they would prefer the protection of the distant hills to which they had so aptly gifted their name.

Day 6: I finished crossing the plain quite early, reaching a second row of sloping hills leading into Lordsburg. A series of barbed wire fences suggested I was off the recommended route.

So I quickly became skilled at crossing these barriers; some I would hop, some I would roll under, some I would step on to part and cross through, some I would find a steady post and climb on either side of the points at which the barbed wire attached with staples or nails. Each rusted fence presented an engrossing challenge until I walked through what appeared to be a landfill.

The first business I checked was a hotel; it was beyond my budget, so I moved on after the proprietor generously allowed me to check my email. I then purchased far too many supplies, including an entire gallon of Rocky Road ice cream and a plate of sesame chicken with fried rice from a Chinese restaurant. With a full stomach, I promptly became lost in back roads leading north out of town.

As I passed a junkyard, a massive dog bounded out, causing me to freeze and pull the knife I carried. A shout from the dog’s owner held it at bay while I retreated to the desert plains.
After the tenth or twelfth fence hopped and a handful of dusty miles, I gave up on finding any trail or route. The remnants of an old stock corral provided some soft sand to lay my sleeping pad upon. The stars were brilliant once again.

I could see lights of cars passing on Interstate 10, that powerful stretch of pavement sending life sailing west to Tuscon, then to Phoenix, all the way to the sage hills rolling across California. The lights started far in the distance, crawling across the earth, blending with the glow of the town for a flash, and then flowing away toward the black horizon.

Instead of cooking dinner, I decided to snack on a small amount of dry food because I may have been trespassing there. Years spent in the backcountry had shown me not only how to go unnoticed but also how to leave no trace. It was as if I were never there.