The trail, carefully maintained, near mile 13.
Seems like a whole lot happened during this segment. I obtained a trailname of sorts -- 'Lucky' -- (lucky for the fish, ha ha!) and fought off a mudslide, talked botany with Dr Jeff and started a fire in a puddle on sodden wood (using half a box of matches, mind.) I was divebombed repeatedly by a young hawk, who didn't even want the beef jerky I was trying to feed it. I met Karl and Max, who'd been hiking since the mexican boarder, and were correspondingly a little strange; I stuffed myself on wild raspberries and tried to teach a raven to say 'who's there!' and 'oh no, a bear! Run!' Because other hikers would surely be amused by such utterances floating through the spooky, creaking woods. Wouldn't you be entertained? Of course you would. The raven was already making a range of burbles and toks, anyway -- clearly it enjoyed expanding its vocabulary. I was just being helpful.
Naturally, I got my karma back that very night. The sun had just gone down, and I'd crawled into my tent for the night. I was just falling asleep... when I was jolted by a freakish scream. It was long, a harsh and high-pitched 'NEEEOWGH!' that seemed to crawl right up the spine. There was a pause, maybe ten seconds. Then the sound came again. The noise, in fact, was most similar to a horse screaming... or a woman screaming.
A woman screaming. I'd heard people talk about that sound.
Cougar.
Suddenly, I really, really, really needed to get out and pee.
Crudmuffins. Cooking pot in one hand, I bolted from my tent -- possibly levitating as I did -- and seized a trekking pole. Clashing one 'weapon' into the other, I screamed back. "Go away! Go bother someone else! Eat me and I'll clog your arteries bigtime!" I found a rock on the ground via the expediency of smacking it with my bare toes, and began bludgeoning it with my cooking pot, setting up a clanging that must have carried for miles.
There was a silence, longer this time. Then the scream came again, perhaps a little more distant.
Clutching my weapons, I scuttled to the embers of my cookfire and built it up as best I could. Being unwilling to venture beyond the circle of light for firewood, I broke up and burned the logs that had been placed around the campsite as chairs. Apologies in advance to those wishing to camp before Salida -- there's no longer much to sit on, around mile 18. Sorry.
It took a while to build my bonfire -- with every repeated scream from the thick forest, I'd howl back, whack the rock some more. My cooking pot never did look quite... normal, after that night. At last, when the flames were leaping four feet in the air, the screaming started to move off. But it did so very, very rapidly. Between one scream and the next, the sound's source moved entirely down the valley, and without any sound of an earthbound animal crashing through the underbrush.
Hm. Very fast moving... unfazed by my threats and my fire.... what could it have been! I'd have to find out, in Salida.
Now, Salida itself is a pretty great town to spend a couple days, especially after sitting awake and shivering in fear for almost the entire night before. Only one hotel's number is listed in the CT guidebook -- the Super 8. Hikers whom I passed rated it quite highly; a room should set you back around 50 bucks. The owners will drop you off at the trail in the morning for about fifteen bucks, too. They will *absolutely not* pick you up from the trailhead. The Super 8 is located a mile from all the shops you'll need to visit, in kind of a tired area full of Jiffy-lubes and Burger Kings and the mental health center.
At half that price, you can also get a dorm bed, right in the middle of the downtown, at the Simple Lodge and Hostel. They have free wifi, a communal kitchen, free stuff to make waffles in the morning, and plenty of people with whom to speak about the trail conditions ahead. Call in advance to book a bed if you'll be arriving on a weekend. I ended up staying at the Simple Lodge, largely by accident, since that's where my hitch dropped me off. Also, it turns out that the awesome proprietor, Jon, is friends with a couple of Peace Corps volunteers who trained me in Malawi. Small world!
Jon will drop you off at the trail for $15, and *possibly* can pick you up, if absolutely necessary -- however, he cautions that hitches into town are really easy to get and, as the traffic is mainly local, this part of I50 is also a very safe place to hitch. Flagging a ride into town took me about eight minutes, and my lift was an organic foods grower and seller, who gave me the lowdown on local places to shop and left me with some fantastic smoked trout. The Simple Lodge is located on 1st street, between D and E streets. The lodge is the cute little old house with a bench and grass and sunflowers, next to a bikeshop and daycare, across the street from the place that sells weird metal sculptures. If Jon isn't there to give you the code, you can stick your pack around back (down the narrow alley to your right.) The number is 719-650-7381.
I met a couple of old friends there -- they'd been hiking faster than me, but decided to stay some extra days, as they found the hostel a pretty awesome place for R&R. And they really needed some: they ate bad mexican food in Buena Vista and had been, erm, jet propelled -- and not in a good way -- for the last forty-three miles or so. That's enough to take the wind out of anyone's sails. And force them to buy new pants, too.
The restaurants in Salida are fantastic; definitely try Aminca's Pizza Parlor's calzones. One will definitely fill even a starving hiker's belly. There are far too many great places at which to eat -- I was staggering between some of them when something rather interesting happened. I was just headed down the street, affectionately patting my food-baby, when a commotion from behind made me turn. "What about *that* girl!" screamed a waif of a girl, dressed in black, pointing wildly as she slid into a beat-up little hatchback. "Is *she* fat!? Huh!?" I looked behind. Nope, the little goth was definitely gesticulating at me.
The young man in the driver's seat said nothing. But the back of his head seemed to be shrinking, as if he were sliding lower and lower into his seat. "Well?! Answer me! Do you think *she's* fa..."
"I prefer 'Rubanesque'," I called back, waving cheerfully. After living in Malawi, and hearing my weight commented on daily ("Oh! You are looking very fat today, Madam!") I don't think I'll ever be capable of taking offense in the subject again. And, heck, I was even a little pleased that there might now be some question as to whether the appellation applied to me. But the young man declined to engage in conversation -- indeed, the back of his head vanished behind the headrest as he gunned whatever passed for his vehicle's motor and peeled away. The waif in black, apparently oblivious, was still screaming at him from the passenger seat.
Interesting couple. Hope everything works out for them.
Perhaps the awesomest thing about Salida is the library, three blocks SW of the hostel. It's a standard small-town library, with lots of fun novels if you need to while away an afternoon. But it also has about ten internet terminals, free of charge. Just sign up at the front desk. Once online, you can look things up -- for example, a listing of the kinds of animals which scream in a terrifying manner, and also can move very fast and are not too afraid of humans.
Turns out, not all owls say 'who.' Weird, huh?
A cut and replanted section, near mile 17.6.
Fantastic, but dry, campsites around the big clearing at mile 18.5.
The terrifying (if you're a mouse or a hiker) Western Screech Owl.
Guidebook update suggestions:
0.0
After crossing the big bridge, make sure to pick up water. The ravine ahead did hold water, but Eddy creek was not running -- not even after a heavy rain.
0.1
Immediately after Chalk Creek, the trail dissolves into spaghetti. Watch carefully for markers, and keep to the most well-worn path. If you're still uncertain about a juncture, look for the trail with the most bootprints and trekking-pole pockmarks, as other trails may be mainly used by horses.
0.9
This ravine had plenty of water, but you had to scramble down a steep embankment to get to it.
3.9
This is a big, well-used road with big, well-used campsites.
9.4
The trail touches, but doesn't cross, the wide switchback of FS road 275. If you're walking near sunset, you might mistake this for a lovely, hard-packed clearing. It isn't. Don't camp here.
10.0
Don't camp here, either. Oh, it looks like a pleasant enough spot, carved into the hillside just above Sand Creek. Someone had even cut and split lots of aspen logs for a fire. Thing is, if you get moderate or heavy rain, the entire campsite (but especially the spot you might logically put a tent) becomes a swift-flowing stream several inches deep in places. You'll spend the rest of the night and all the next morning drying off your erstwhile waterbed. Many other meadows, especially around mile 12-13, are much, much nicer. Trust me on this one.
12.4, 12.8, 14.5, 15
The day after heavy rain, small streams trickled across the trail in many places.
16
Look for wild raspberries here, on the steep part of the climb up to the wooded saddle. There were several large patches of sun-warmed, juice dripping fruit -- I sat down and ate for a good half-hour.
18
There are no more camp chairs here. My bad.
~18.5(?)
After crossing a small dirt road, you'll find a large marshy clearing up ahead, surrounded by some fantastic campsites. Some of them are posted 'no fires', due to heavy use, though I saw no one in the area. Though it is not obvious, the CT heads around the *right* side of the clearing, keeping just within the forest. Don't follow the road.
19
Watch out for angry hawks. Also, owls.
The elevation profile for this segment is roughly correct.
---> Onward, to segment 15!
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