One of my last hikes before committing myself to hiking the Continental Divide Trail – more than 3000 miles from Mexico to Canada along “the spine of the continent” – was the trek from Molas Pass to Durango in the southwest corner of Colorado. I decided to hike that 74-mile piece with two llamas, Red and Whalen. Our trio’s experience taught me a lesson about courage, and substantially shaped my readiness to accept the challenges of long-distance hiking in my senior years.
When I set out, I was nervous. This was a long solo trek for me at this early point in hiking long distances, and I would be responsible for two animal companions. I planned and packed carefully well in advance. I took a practice hike to remind myself what it’s like to walk with llamas. I practiced my map and compass skills (the commonly used phone app wasn’t available yet). And of course, I made sure I was in good physical condition. Llamas don’t like to walk more than 10 miles a day, so I knew the daily distances would not be a problem for me.
I was as prepared as I could be, but there were some challenging moments for my less-experienced self at that time. Thunderstorms rolled through in the middle of the night less than a mile from my tent. A large animal bedded down 50 yards from me; the llamas weren’t concerned so I chose not to be concerned either. A large spider that I thought might be poisonous stared at me on my tent wall; I let him find his own way down and then zipped the tent tightly behind him. A plant poisonous to livestock was in full bloom while I was on the trail, so I had to clear those away from our campsites and hope the llamas didn’t chomp on one while we were walking.
But the biggest test was a steep, rocky descent from a narrow trail on a cliff face above 12,000 feet down to a lake. There were 800 pounds of llama and gear behind me, two large barking dogs ahead of me, a steep rocky slope up my left side so there was minimal room to maneuver, and a sheer drop-off on the right side that would have been fatal if one of us fell.
With multiple risks overlapping, I turned to the best option: trust my team, trust my boots, trust my training, trust my gut, give directions with eyes and voice to the dogs’ owner (who plastered himself and the dogs against the hillside), and go. We made it safely down to the lake below. Judging by the reaction of a family at the lake that had been watching this scene unfold, we must have looked terrific, like we had things well in hand. They didn’t hear my heart pounding.
After the llamas and I rested and got water, we moved on. The next miles included crossing a lengthy talus slope aptly named “Sliderock” beside another steep drop-off. I heard the less experienced llama humming nervously behind me. I knew we could make it across if we all focused, so I chose not to look at him and affirm his feelings. I called back, “Dang it Whalen, you think YOU’RE nervous?!” I committed us all to the crossing, picked my steps as carefully as a llama does, and we trotted across the lengthy slope. All three of us were relieved to reach the other side. I gave each of them a treat. Looking back up at the traverse, I laughed and said out loud, “What was that?!” In truth, it was a heck of a day!
Amazing things can happen when I am observant and ready to go. If I am willing, the path teaches me. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the willingness to walk through it to the other side.
Diane writes at Reflections on the Long Walk Home on Substack.
Your story is an inspiration to me! I am amazed at how much I am still learning about courage at the ripe age of 70.