Bill mentioned that we were going to try to hike 9 miles into Emigration Wilderness on the first day of our backpacking trip, so we wanted to get an early start. We were out the door before sunrise, only turning back once because I forgot something, per usual.
We lost reception miles before we reached the trailhead, and had to trust paper maps to get us there. Surprisingly, we found our way.
It's a strange feeling leaving your car behind and walking into the wilderness, knowing that you won't be back for a week. In the beginning, we saw a decent amount of people - some with large packs like ours, others with smaller day packs. We trudged ahead of a large group - a couple fit young men waited impatiently ahead, while the stragglers caught their breathe. I walked by feeling confident that we would make it farther than they would.
"How many miles do you think we've gone?" I asked Bill, panting.
"I think we're almost at the first mile marker," Bill replied.
I tried not to show my disappointment.
The first lake was about 4 miles in. When we got there, I threw down my 45-pound pack and tore open the snacks. Bill asked how I was doing and mentioned that we could stay that night at Grouse Lake if we wanted to. The only thing I hate more than quitting is appearing weak, so I shook off the first few miles and feigned a smile. "No, let's keep going," I said, regretting my words as they left my lips.
I mentioned Cheryl Strayed just about every 10 minutes, comparing her life-changing, months-long, solo endeavor to my week-long vacation. As we walked on, more pop-culture references started to roll through my mind. I felt like Arya Stark, abandoning all that I know and becoming no one. Then, as we ran out of water, I felt like Imperator Furiosa, from Mad Max, venturing across the wilderness in search of the most precious resource.
Although when we reached the section of the hike where we'd meant to fill our water bottles up, and found the segment of the creek dry, I stopped floating on a distracted cloud, and became furiously on a mission to reach the next lake. We had three more miles to hike in the heat, with no water. At the beginning of the hike, the idea of walking three miles would have seemed negligible. Although having hiked 6 miles already, and feeling parched and exhausted, the idea of 3 more miles was terribly daunting.
"This is going to be horrible!" Bill moaned, feeling just as thirsty as I was. "The last three miles are all uphill."
I turned around to face him - the talking was at a minimum at this point. "Please don't say that," I said sternly. I imagine my eyes were piercing through him angrily. "The hike is bad enough. You saying that makes it so much worse."
"I'm sorry," he replied. "I'm sorry this hike is so bad."
"It's OK," I said - my eyes were probably wide and crazy. "Let's just keep walking."
Even though those last three miles were in the highest altitude, all uphill, with little reprieve from the sun, they were likely the fastest.
The last half mile was an uphill climb over boulders. I literally clambered to the top, on all fours, thinking of one thing - water.
When we reached Gem lake, my body quit. I used the last of my energy to help Bill filter water for drinking. I'd never been so thirsty in my life, and was surprised at how difficult it was to intake water. I could only handle small sips at a time.
As we set up camp I realized that I hadn't eaten a meal since the morning. I also realized that I hadn't peed once during this 9-mile, 7-hour hike. I forced myself to drink more, so that I would at least "use the bathroom" once before I went to bed.
I jumped into the lake briefly before the sun went down and felt the cold water envelope my parched skin. Surrounded by large granite mountains, I felt as though I were swimming in a bottled water ad. If Bill hadn't insisted on using common sense, I would have drunk the water directly from the lake. Although I was immediately grateful for this common sense when I overheard someone from the other side of the lake exclaim to his friend that of course the lake was the bathroom.
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