Day 9
I spent a few minutes reorganizing my backpack, getting ready to head back into the desert. A hot shower, clean clothes, and a sack full of food from town had me feeling prepared for a few more days on trail. Just as I was hoping to catch a ride back to the trailhead, I got a text from my friend and trail brother, Doggone. He and his wife, TaxiLady, were in Tucson—just 30 minutes away—and offered to drive me to where I left off the day before.
It was such a gift to see them. We shared stories—both trail and life. It had been four years since we last spent time together face-to-face, but it felt like no time had passed.
Thru-hiking forges deep bonds. The shared intensity of the experience often connects people in a way that sticks. Of course, I forgot to get a photo!
We reached the trailhead around noon—later than ideal—but I felt confident I had enough time to make it to Molino Basin, my next resupply point, 54 miles away.
As I walked from the parking lot, I moved slowly. Sauntered, really. I took tons of photos. Word of a small wildfire up ahead reached me. It might become an issue.
I kept stopping to check my phone, snap a shot, get news updates, and calculate when I’d next be back in civilization. I was clearly still caught up in town energy. That’s the thing about modern life—technology, marketing, media—all designed to hook our attention and pull us out of the present. And they work. Before long, I noticed I was distracted. Remember that checking the news is not one of my values, I gently brought myself back to the trail.
I passed through the tunnel under I-10, known for its graffiti—particularly the iconic rattlesnake mural. I had been looking forward to it. It was much longer than I expected—I had to use my headlamp!
Lunch was under the cool shade along Cienaga Creek—one of the few spots with running water. Families were splashing in the stream, enjoying the break from the heat.
The afternoon was warm but the terrain was gentle. The canyons around Colossal Cave were especially beautiful. I saw my first saguaro on trail! Ended up hiking 14.2 miles that day.
I camped in the saddle between two peaks, just past a water source. The beauty of the sunset matched the magic of the place.
Day 10
My sleeping bag hugged me just right—I didn’t want to move. I got going about 30 minutes late. That’s becoming a pattern.
There are only two legal camping locations for AZT hikers in Saguaro National Park. The closer one, Grass Shack, was 14.5 miles away. The farther one, Manning Camp, would be 18.7 miles with a significant climb and much colder temperatures. Plus, given the dry conditions, I’d need to carry more water. I opted for Grass Shack.
Entering the park, I was surrounded by towering saguaros—many well over 100 years old. It felt magical.
The trail was harder than I expected. The temperature was only supposed to hit 70°F, but it felt like so much more. It was a tough day.
At a stagnant pool, I met two hikers—Gaseous and KellBell—who were section-hiking for the week. I had just finished my last sip of water, and though the pool water looked unappealing, after filtering, it did the trick.
At Grass Shack, I found familiar faces—Andrew and Rebecca, Stealth, and Hal. Later, Gaseous and KellBell joined us. It felt like a real thru-hiking night, camping with a little trail family.
The camp was perfect—running water, a bear box, and a pit toilet. Simple things become luxuries when you’re living outside.
Day 11
Usually, I eat breakfast while hiking. But that morning, I ate in camp. I was staring down a 5,000-foot climb, and I knew I’d be too breathless to chew.
As I climbed, the vegetation changed—saguaros gave way to pine forests. The ascent up Mica Mountain was relentless. Winds gusted up to 45 mph, nearly knocking me off my feet. I was sweating from the exertion, but chilled by the wind.
My feet hurt—a lot. The swelling pushed my toes against the front of my shoes. It was clear I needed replacements soon.
Despite everything, I made good progress. My body felt strong.
At Manning Camp, I met a national park employee. The camp doubles as a backcountry base for rangers and researchers. They use mules to haul gear, though I missed seeing them that day.
After cresting Mica Mountain, I reentered Coronado National Forest. The terrain changed once again—out of the forest and into dramatic rock formations with sweeping desert views.
“Hiker hunger” had fully kicked in—an insatiable, constant hunger that only comes with burning this many calories. Thankfully, I had extra snacks.
I camped near a cow tank, trying to use a cluster of shrubs as a wind block. The wind fought hard. It took forever to pitch my tent.
As I settled in, a lone cow called out from nearby. She sounded heartbroken—maybe missing her calf.
Day 12
Sometime in the night, the wind died down. But as I packed up and hit the trail, everything ached—especially my feet. The next 10 miles to Molino Basin and the Catalina Highway were slow and painful. Every step made me wince.
I felt broken. Defeated.
But then—stepping into the saddle that opens into Molino Basin—white clouds drifted above the mountains, blue sky shining, and I whispered to myself, “Oh, wow.” I meant it. The pain vanished in that moment. My heart, body and mind relaxed.
I knew in that moment that I’d be able to keep hiking despite the pain I was experiencing. You can read more about that in my most recent newsletter.
At the highway, I tried hitching a ride. After a while, I started walking toward a spot with cell service to call a Lyft.
Before I could get a signal, a man in a white truck pulled over. His name was George. I told him I just needed to get to a bus stop so I could head to REI and buy new shoes.
But when I told him my destination, he said, “I’ll take you there.” Even when I tried to let him off the hook, he insisted. It was 30 minutes across town, but he wouldn’t hear of dropping me anywhere else.
This complete stranger took me straight to REI.
Once again, I’m reminded of the kindness of people. We’re so often told to fear strangers. Again and again, strangers have been the reason I’ve made it through.
At REI, I picked up new shoes and insoles, treated myself to a pair of Darn Tough socks, and restocked a few other essentials.
Then I caught a Lyft to my quirky little Airbnb—an eccentric, adobe-style spot with a backyard that looked like a mini Old West town. Words don’t do it justice.
Removing my socks, as I stripped down to take a shower, I noticed a new blister on the ball of my right foot. I literally had a blister on top of a blister.
A hot shower, a good meal, and a real bed were all I needed.
Zero Day
I spent the day doing laundry and sipping coffee at a local shop. It felt good to sit quietly, surrounded by other people, catching up on work and conversations. I’m still meeting with coaching clients and hosting my weekly mindfulness group while I hike.
This zero day left me feeling grounded, refreshed, and ready for the miles ahead.
