My fiancé, Logan, and I at the Sandia Peak Aerial Tram

“All the "not readies," all the "I need time," are understandable, but only for a short while. The truth is that there is never a "completely ready," there is never a really "right time"

—Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run with the Wolves

Day 36: April 28, 2025 // 23.20mi, 5,587ft+

If I had waited until I felt prepared for the GET, I never would have gone. Similar to so many other walks of mine, this trail tugged on my interest and before I could chicken-out, I went. I wasn’t ready; I could have done a lot more planning and preparation and the effort probably would have felt smoother—a lesson I’ll carry into my next desert hike—but at a certain point, I really just had to shoulder my pack and let the adventure unfold.

On a much less philosophical note, the water from Abo Arroyo (and maybe all the water sources between there and Socorro) trashed my stomach, gave me sulfurous farts and explosive diarrhea. My diet hadn’t changed, so I reasoned it had to be the water; I was in rough shape.

Under different circumstances, I might have whiled the morning away in a shady nook, gazing up at the mud nests of the swifts, watching them dart in and out, feeding their peeping young. Instead, I hiked with haste up Priest Canyon, holding out hope for a fresh pothole or clear stream, but what little water I managed to find smelled suspiciously eggy and I couldn’t make myself drink it anymore, I just couldn’t, so I kept moving.

Beyond the canyon, the terrain opened up dramatically and I caught a glimpse of the Manzano Mountains. At this point, my best bet for water was to make it to Pine Shadow Spring, which was conveniently located at a trailhead and picnic area at the start of the Manzano Crest Trail.

I lengthened my pace as the terrain transitioned into a wildly hilly 4X4 road suitable only for razors and dirt bikes. My eyes caught on something clear and plastic laying in the road up ahead. A water bottle! I rushed to pick it up and inspect it. Unopened. Holy shit. I cracked the top and guzzled the whole thing, crushing the bottle down afterwards and sticking it into the front pocked of my pack.

Not even a quarter mile later, I found another. Barely able to believe my luck, I practically floated to the trailhead.

I dropped my pack at one of the picnic tables in the shade near the parking area and gathered all my bottles and bladders, eager to find the spring. Once I spotted it and discovered it was full and flowing and clear and did not smell like sulphur, I emptied every ounce of foul water from my reserves and set about rinsing them (my filter too) and then refilling with the freshest water I’d tasted in days.

After a break and some food, I shouldered my pack and began the steep climb up to the Manzano Crest. The trail was a dream, similar to the trails in the Magdalenas. The hours and miles ticked by without me even noticing, until I found myself standing on the summit of Manzano Peak.

It hit me as I stood next to that battered mailbox which held the summit register, taking in the view, just how far I’d come. I felt overwhelmed. Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my dusty, sunburnt cheeks. It was almost over; I was almost home, and I was so glad I’d dared to do this in the first place.

Day 37: April 29, 2025 // 25.32mi, 4,140ft+

Dead fall from strong winds in the Manzano Mountains

The next morning, I woke to frigid wind, absolutely hammering the saddle I’d chosen to pitch my tent on the night before—I’d thought it would be cozy and wind protected, it was not. The temperature seemed to be plummeting as the sun made its way above the horizon and given I was already wearing every layer I had, shivering, while trying desperately to light my stove and failing, I found myself descending into quite a bleak mood.

Beyond frustrated that the “slow” morning I’d planned as a bit of a recovery was no longer in the cards, I began disassembling camp in the gale, ripping tent stakes out of frozen earth with numb hands and stuffing my mouth with a bar I had not wanted to eat for breakfast.

I took an angry, cold poop, and began running down the trail, trying to generate some warmth. At one point, I lurched into the shaggy branches of a pine tree and hid among them from the wind, uttering gratitudes for its soft needles in one breath and cursing the frigid gale in the next.

Mixed forest along the crest of the Manzanos

At a certain point I told myself to get over myself and I did. My mood wouldn’t change the conditions and I needed to just put my head down and make some miles.

When I arrived to the lovely, wind-protected drainage that held Spruce Spring, I think I actually cried out with joy. I found a sunny patch to sit down in after collecting water from the spurting pipe and enjoyed a proper breakfast.

As my day continued, I observed the Manzano Crest to be beautiful, rocky, abrupt, steep, layered, cliffy, and all things considered, only minimally burned. The few patches of densely tangled deadfall took some care negotiating, but they were infrequent.

In the afternoon, as I climbed the flank of Osha Peak, I found myself craning my neck to look at the sky. A massive, dark bird wheeled slowly overhead; it appeared to be the same one I’d seen flying in arching circles the night before, on Manzano Peak.

The bird’s wingspan far exceeded that of a vulture, but at its wingtips the feathers appeared distinct from one another like fingers. I studied the dark specter, ruling out hawk or bald eagle, but wondered if maybe it was a golden eagle. I’d had an encounter with a golden eagle on the AZT near Patagonia, coming suddenly upon it as it worked on the carcass of a calf; I’d been nearly close enough to stroke its burnt umber feathers, and when it pushed off from the ground, the breadth of its wingspan left me wondering if maybe I’d encountered a real life dragon.

The clouds began to stack up in the late afternoon, just as I began the steep climb from Comanche Saddle to a long and exposed stretch of mesa. The tiredness that tended to settle over me after about 2PM evaporated when it started to hail. Should I push on? Turn back and seek shelter?

Fire affected portion of the Manzano Crest Trail

I could see patches of blue still, and so I decided to move forward with haste (my urgency paid off and I managed to complete the climb up and over the steep limestone reef at an average pace of 3mph!) Once on the mesa, I fought through miles of gamble oak; initially, a semblance of a tunnel through the impenetrable wall of stiff branches had been carved and made for fast walking, until suddenly it all but vanished.

I threw my body at the snarl over and over again, my progress slow and painful. I was bleeding, again, and feeling a bit frantic since the brush was over my head and I really wasn’t sure if I was on track; I paused once to check my gps and then barreled forward with my fists raised in fighting position to guard my eyes from errant branches.

When I emerged into a grassy meadow, spent, the views opened up magnificently and I took stock of the new holes in my shirt and bloody punctures on my thighs and shins.

Limestone cliffs encircling Cañon de la Mina

By early evening I was walking a well groomed trail, spacing in and out of focus due to exhaustion. The sky had never erupted into storm, though for a time I was sure it would, and now all I needed to do was make it to my goal destination for the evening, an official campground a few miles before Tajique.

Up ahead I heard the explosive noise of leaves and dirt and rock being flung wildly, and then the sound of branches snapping and earth being pummeled beneath heavy feet. I came to an abrupt stop and at my feet lay the carcass of small deer, its ribcage freshly cleaned out.

My eyes scanned the forest nervously, searching for the animal I’d just scared away from its meal, and while I saw nothing in the woods, I knew it had probably been a bear (because of the ruckus) and figured it was waiting not far off for me to clear out. I walked on quickly.

The last miles of my day were on a forest service road, easy and downhill, and I arrived at the empty campground a little before dusk. The wind had abated and I was grateful to have a picnic table to write at and cook on and lean on while I waited for my ramen bomb to hydrate and for the cheese I’d added to melt.

I was so very tired and consoled myself with the knowledge that I had just two more days and a short morning left before this adventure could conclude in a way I’d be proud of. I wanted to hug Logan, to finalize all the last minute details of our wedding, which I’d spent the last year planning myself, and to wash my hair with some goddamn shampoo and conditioner.

Day 38: April 30, 2025 // 26.71mi, 2,516ft+

Today was a day of pounding pavement with plenty of opportunities to stop in at convenience stores and get cold Topo Chicos, ice cream and baked goods. I barely felt the miles. The hardest part of the day was finding discrete places to pee, because of the fencing on either side of most stretches of road.

I walked through the unincorporated town of Chilili, an intensely private community that is fiercely protective of its land which was granted to 31 families in 1841 as part of the Chilili Land Grant. I made sure to keep moving even though there was this beautiful, historic church I would have loved to look at for a few moments, right in the heart of town.

I made camp in the woods a ways off of a mountain biking trail and marveled over the fact that I had cell service. Part of me wished I didn’t because suddenly I was comparing my hike to someone else’s and beating myself up for having detoured around the Santa Teresa Wilderness.

It was too easy to shame myself into a place of deep regret from where I lay less than 30 miles from the Sandia Peak Aerial Tram, but all those weeks ago I had lacked experience and confidence; my hike had barely begun when I made it to Klondyke; my asthma was bad and so was my anxiety; I was a baby beginner desert walker and I had so many mistakes to make and learn from.

Now, at least, I had something to come back for; Hold Out Canyon would be an adventure for another spring.

Day 39: May 1, 2025 // 21.60mi, 4,403ft+

The network of MTB trails made for cruisey walking. I took a snack break next to a fruiting prickly pear and didn’t even feel angry at it for all the damage its cousins had done to my toes over the last month. I was munching contentedly on a dried mango when a man named Don pulled up next to me on his bike.

“Are you thru-hiking?”

“I am,” I said and smiled, surprised he’d known. I told him about the GET and that I only had a day or so left.

“Wow. Just wow.” He asked me questions about gear and the things I’d seen. I happily answered all of his queries, grateful to be seen and understood.

“You’re so inspiring. I’m going to bike extra hard now!” Don told me before he peddled off.

The glow from our interaction lingered even as the day grew hot and I emerged onto pavement. I stopped at the Sandia Ranger District Headquarters in Tijeras to fill up my water bottles and chatted with a couple of guys working at the office. When I told them how far I’d come, acutely aware of how bad I must have smelled to them in that tight, enclosed space, one of the men said Thank You.

I didn’t understand.

“Thank you for using our public lands.” He clarified.

And it hit me then how much I have taken for granted. The future of BLM land, National Forests, and our National Parks is not guaranteed. These places can and will disappear if we don’t interact with them, fight to keep them safe. Places like Aravaipa Canyon, Eagle Creek, the San Mateo Mountains and every dry basin between are not safe and never will be as long as our nation views them through an extractive lens, filtered by short term gains. I worry sometimes that my forays into the wilderness are purely selfish, but as I left the Sandia Headquarters, I thought differently. Maybe my walks could serve a higher purpose.

Don had recommended Roots Cafe and so I stopped there for lunch; this would be my last stop before I began my climb to the Sandia Crest. The food was delicious, wholesome. I ordered soup and a sandwich and noticed that quite a few of the other diners were eyeing me with some curiosity. The outdoor dining area was packed, so even though I could have whiled away hours relaxing in the shade and drinking lemonade, I made sure to vacate my table as soon as I was done eating.

As I predicted, the Crest Trail was immaculate, superb walking, and the miles flew by as I worked my way up to the ridge.

I arrived at a view point an hour or so into my climb and gazed out over what looked to be a rather large city. It was Albuquerque! My first view of my final destination. I sat on a big flake of rock and stared down at the orderly streets and blur of houses, shoving Cheetos into my mouth. The longer I sat, the more acute my fatigue became. I knew I needed to keep moving and make it the final miles to camp.

When I reached the junction for South Sandia Peak, I forced my tired body to take the detour and I wasn’t disappointed. The views of the Sandias looking north were sweeping and dramatic. The late afternoon sun touched upon the rocky outcroppings, highlighting their severity. I was just beginning to search for the second connector trail that would take me back to the Crest Trail and spare me a backtrack, when I saw a brimmed cap emerge from the rock below.

“Oh, hello!” The owner of the hat, a wiry looking man, waved up at me. “You must be an ultra-runner; I mean, your legs are borderline plutonic.”

And coming from any other man this observation would absolutely would have put me on edge—barring the fact that I had no idea what plutonic meant—but I could tell this guy wasn’t hitting on me.

“I’m Andrew. I spend a lot of time hiking out here, exploring all the drainages and gullies. Do you want me to tell you about the geology of this place?” Andrew was a science nerd in the best way possible. His enthusiasm for rocks and lichen and trees brought me so much joy as he led the way back to the Crest Trail. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would’ve taken him up on his offer for a side quest to see one of the many cool features he’d mentioned, but instead, I bid him farewell at the trail junction.

Later I looked up plutonic:

relating to or denoting igneous rock formed by solidification at considerable depth beneath the earth's surface.
relating to the underworld or the god Pluto.

dictionary.com

Andrew leading me back to the Crest Trail, probably talking about rocks

I made it to an old lean-to in a grove of young aspen trees along the ridge and pitched my tent on the flattest spot I could find. I took my time making dinner and writing in my journal, reflecting back on the previous 39 days. I was amazed I had stuck with it; it had been a choice every day—sometimes multiple times a day—to keep going. And I knew I would be happier for having finished. This hike was a turning point, a first step towards a different style of adventure.

As I sat there, listening to the trees creak and settle, pen poised over paper, I didn’t think I’d ever want to do another desert hike again. Surviving this one felt like enough. But I can tell you now, that all I’ve done since finishing the GET is dream about going back, going deeper, seeing more, and making it my mission to understand the Colorado Plateau, the Sonoran and Chihuahua Deserts and all their sky islands, better.

Day 40: May 2, 2025 // 6.56mi, 1,952ft+

A foggy morning on the Sandia Crest Trail

Logan was going to meet me at the top of the tram but he hadn’t started the hike up yet, so I took my time breaking camp. I walked slowly, getting chilled as waves of fog and mist rolled over the crest. I stopped at an outcropping of rock and sat for a while, enjoying the way the sky morphed into soft pinks then orange then lavender. Clouds eventually obscured my view and I carried on.

I listened for birds, for people, for any sign of life, but the forest was quiet. I stopped frequently to stare up into the branches of the Engelmann spruce, breathing deeply the earthy smell of moist bark, and the sharper, citrus smell of pine pitch.

When I was less than a mile from the tram, I saw a group of people standing in the trail ahead of me wearing denim and flip flops and I knew I had arrived. This was the end.

I was standing on the viewing platform, staring out at a wall of fog when Logan found me. It was a happy moment, a moment filled with conclusion and relief. I’d finished the hardest hike I’d ever done and in three weeks, we were getting married.

In my journal, six days after finishing my hike, I wrote, “I was so afraid, so often. That’s what I keep coming back to. And I had to walk with that fear for so many miles, alone. The desert as a concept is horrifying, alarming, extreme, just as it is mystifying, alluring, and wonderfully abstract. I want never to go back—I’m already dreaming of the day I do.”

I can’t help but read other hikers’ accounts of this trail and feel inferior in some ways; they seem to handle every challenge with grace and navigate the unknowns with sure-footed confidence.

In writing my account, I was severely tempted to gloss over how I felt on this walk, to paint a picture devoid of doubt and insecurity, but that would not have honored my reasons for writing in the first place. For me, hiking has always been a method of self-confrontation, a way to learn about myself as I relate to my environment. I seek challenge and struggle because that is how I come to know myself better and expand my capacity for loving and appreciating the people in my life, and my life in general. I hike to deepen my roots, to make a little more of this world feel like home.

The effects of climate change can be felt in a severe way on the GET. Hiking through the aftermath of fires on uncleared, unmaintained trail forced me to acknowledge the stress these fragile environments are under. Walking across dry basins for days and not seeing a single pothole because there hasn’t been rain the entire time I’ve been hiking is a scary feeling. Moving through a landscape decimated by livestock is both deeply sad and haunting. Our most sensitive ecosystems are telling us they are unwell; it’s important that we listen.

The Grand Enchantment Trail: Abo Arroyo to the Sandia Crest

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