June 23
The cold morning kept me in my sleeping bag until the
rising sun's appearance pulled me out into its warmth. I continued
yesterday's movement toward the lower floors of the Rockies, on the way
running into a group of six mountain bikers crawling over a toppled
tree. They were doing the whole Colorado Trail. Once through the
obstacle they jounced upwards and I wished them luck with their future
hemorrhoid operations.
About two hours in I reached the old site of Camp Hale.
The 10th Mountain Division trained here from World War II until the late
sixties when the base moved a few miles to the northwest. My cousin
Brian, whose pack I am using this year, was based there during the early
1990s.
Ninety minutes later I reached the division's World War II
memorial. The 10th Mountain had led the charge against the Nazis in
the Italian mountains, crossing the Po River before any other Allied
forces and conquering tough terrain in the Appenine and Alp ranges.
Almost a thousand of their number gave the ultimate sacrifice during the
campaign. Between the old Hale and the memorialized Hale the trail was sponsored
by a woman's hiking group known as the Yaks. The name seems a poor
choice as it conjured in my mind thoughts of large, extremely hairy
ladies making cowlike sounds.
Only a quarter mile from the monument I ran into Mark and
his son Stephane, who were hiking the same CT section I was. They
pointed out to me a trail magic box beside the path. A kind soul had
left snacks, sodas, bug spray, a first aid kit, and various other items
to assist long distance hikers. I'd read of this phenomenon occuring on
the Appalachian Trail, but this was my first personal run-in with such
thougthfulness and generosity.
The next stretch took me up Tennessee Pass, which was
mercifully much lower than the passes of yesterday. I was soon over, but
running out of water. I stopped at Tennessee Creek to refill. There
were Mark and Stephane again setting up their tent. The spot looked to
be a great improvement over last night's, which I had tiredly set up on
too steep a hill. With the convenient water source, a nice location,
and a rare opportunity to speak with other humans I was unable to resist
stopping early and joining them.
Later we gathered around the ashes of an old fire, where I
learned Mark had fled his home in New Jersey after a trip out west
taken with some college buddies. According to Mark, he had given up the
corporate working world in order to pursue a simpler life. Son
Stephane, aged fifteen, shared this love for nature and travel. Besides
their hikes in the Rockies they had visited Costa Rica and Alaska
recently.
I discovered even more about my new friends when a French
couple arrived and the two bantered easily with the newcomers in their native
tongue. Turns out Stephane's mother is Belgian and the whole family is
fluent.
We stayed up until well after dark telling stories and
sharing our life philosphies. I was sad to say goodnight, but the
previous evening's rest had been fitful at best and there were still
many more wilderness miles left.
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