Yesterday my group found a breezy spot and jerry-rigged some shade for the three of us out of our tarps and we attempted to sleep the afternoon away until it was safe to hike. We did not have much success. Even under the shade of the tarps it was pretty hot. I checked my thermometer around noon and it read 100 degrees. At 3 PM we had a stretch of cloud cover that cooled it off enough that we felt confident leaving our makeshift shelter. Besides, we were antsy and wanted to walk. So we packed up, rigged up our umbrellas, and hiked on.
As is common under similar circumstances, Murphy dealt us an interesting hand. The sun came back right away of course, but the breeze was still good, so we kept going. I stopped briefly after a bit to go to the bathroom. I knew it would be easy to catch the girls, since we were walking slow in the heat. When I strapped my pack back on and reopened my umbrella, a breeze caught it and it flipped inside out. I pulled it down and it flipped up again immediately. One more try and I looked up and realized two of the metal braces had snapped in half. The thing was useless. Typical. That's what I get for paying $5 for an umbrella.
I took the umbrella down and put it away in my pack, cursing and dooming the cruddy thing to the next trash bin I laid my eyes on. By this time it was nearly 4PM, and I'd done slightly more than a mile. The girls were probably about 10 minutes up from me and there was another group about 10 minutes behind. I took a swig from my water bottle and suddenly realised I was parched. I drank several gulps and was still not satisfied. I took a moment to take stock of my reserves. I had a liter and a half of water, and 7 miles to the next water source. Uh oh. The usual rule is 4 miles = 1 liter, unless it's hot out. By technical standards, I was short. Now, by this point, I'm starting to get mad at myself. I should've filled one more bottle at my last source. Should've asked the girls to wait while I peed so we weren't split up. Shouldn't have left the shelter so early. I start hiking quicker to catch up to the girls, but I'm tired, and the brush is thicker than usual. It's scratching up my legs and arms. Why does everything in the desert have sharp edges and thorns? Every branch I pass seems bent on detaining me. Suddenly, my pack catches on a particularly thick cluster, and for a moment I am held captive. I free myself in the next instant, but my frustration with this whole situation has now come to a boiling point. Fearful and angry tears well in my eyes, my face flashes hot, and my already-labored breathing threatens sobs.
But the sobs don't come. I don't break down. No time for that. I release the frustration in a long steady breath. My mind commands calmness. It's telling me:
"This is ok, it really isn't as bad as it seems. You have people ahead of you and behind you who you can easily ask for help, you can humble yourself and let go of your pride. You have your safety net. But listen...you chose this. You asked to be here. You wanted this. So let's do it."
I set a pace for my water intake. I know I won't need as much after 5 when the sun starts to go down, and that's not even an hour away. I pick a happy familiar song to hum in my head to help pass the time and the miles. "American Pie" by Don McLean ought to do it. I allow myself a pause every time a good cooling breeze blows past. I focus on how pretty the mountains look in the waning light. Before I know it the temperature has dropped to a comfortable 70 and I have four miles to go, on an easy downhill with just over a liter left in my bottle. See? Not so bad. The day's hike has become enjoyable even.
Before long, I come around a bend and spy Anne sitting beside the trail. I wave to her in greeting, unbelievably happy to see a familiar face. She waves back, and points to a pile of rocks lying next to the trail next to her. I arrive at the pile and see it is actually a written sign.
I looked over at Anne and said, "That's all? Bring on 200!"
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