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When I turned south from the Canadian border in June 2023, my feet had done more than 7,000 miles on the United States’ eleven National Scenic Trails. I had started in somewhat typical fashion, a newbie to long-distance hiking who began with the Appalachian Trail and then its great western counterpart, the Pacific Crest. That’s when the addiction became clear, and a half-dozen other big trails followed. I was finally ready to tackle the Continental Divide Trail, I reckoned, the final boss in the video game that has become the Triple Crown of Hiking.
Turns out, my feet were ready. I finished the CDT faster than I’d done either the AT or PCT, the preparation paying off in speed and confidence through high mountains and hot deserts. But one of the best things about any trail is how much you learn no matter what you have done before. The weather, your body, your gear, the company you keep: Everything changes so often on a long expedition that you have to constantly adapt, to reevaluate what you thought you already knew. Here are four takeaways I wish I understood a little better before I began this particular march to Mexico.
(Almost) everyone will know what they’re doing.
I am drawn to the idea of being a beginner. I like to live my life knowing that each new experience is a chance to start from near-scratch and take something away. To that end, the AT and the PCT—the first two long-distance backpacking trips of my life—were perfect, because I was surrounded largely by fellow neophytes on trails where the options to get help were manifold. Have the wrong sleeping bag or shoes on the AT? You literally pass an outfitter after 30 miles headed north, 115 or so headed south. Show up at Campo only to realize you’ve made some major gear mistake? You can be in San Diego in an hour.
This is much less true of the CDT, which is not only more remote but is generally populated by a breed of backpackers who are thousands of miles into their hiking lives. They know their sh*t, and so should you. A quick tally of the tents crowding the lawn of a hostel in East Glacier, Montana, near the trail’s northern end, totaled maybe $25,000 in value; hikers talked not about pre-trail jitters or missing pets, but of R-values of ultralight sleeping pads and the weight (in grams, naturally) of tent stakes. It’s entirely possible to do the CDT while being new to the hobby, but understand that not only is the learning curve steeper, but so are the standards of your sometimes-jaded fellow travelers. To some extent, I expected this, but I was still grateful I mostly knew what I was doing.
You will get lost, separated, or at least disoriented.
It is possible to get turned around on some well-blazed path like the AT or PCT, to be mistakenly treading the bit of trail you just tread in the other direction. Soon enough, though, something will likely alert you to your mistake—a redundant landmark, another hiker you assumed was behind you, the map in your pocket. But by design, the CDT just doesn’t work that way. First, the occasionally touted claim that it is now “fully blazed” is an uproarious lie; if it sometimes feels like you can’t walk 100 yards on the AT without seeing a little white blaze, it feels like you go 100 miles on the CDT without seeing any explicit sign. Second, despite the claims of some hardliners, the CDT remains a network of options and alternates, so that you can choose your own adventure as you twist over or around the Rockies. That is, you don’t have to stick to one path.
Both of these things are features and not bugs of the CDT. The lack of blazes enhances the feeling that this is indeed an epic adventure, and the flexibility lets you respond to the moment and your body. But it does, of course, increase the chances of mistakes. My wife, Tina, and I had hiked 9,000 miles together before we accidentally took separate paths in the snowy San Juans. What followed was 36 hours of near-hell. Should we have had a Garmin or two? Maybe. Should we have changed our general strategy of hiking together but slightly separate? Almost certainly. But I hike, at least in part, to learn, and that was a major lesson.
The alternates—that is, the harder, longer ways—are almost always worth it.
As the sun started to sink on another Montana afternoon, we realized we needed to turn around. Two hours earlier, we’d taken one of the CDT’s many high-route alternates, shooting us above the trail itself and onto a thinner, rockier ridge and across several peaks. But the going was slower and harder than we’d expected, and we began to recognize that we wouldn’t return to the trail itself—especially its guarantees of adequate camping and water—until well after dark. What’s more, crossing these high-altitude catwalks by headlamp while wearing full packs, just a few hundred miles into a 3,000-mile trek, seemed like a hazardous idea. After some tense discussion, we turned around, camping in a slim valley alongside a cold creek.
I didn’t regret the abandoned detour or lost hours, because they had been beautiful, challenging, and fun. In fact, that’s true of every more difficult choice I made on the CDT, whether that meant crossing the Gila River a few dozen times more in New Mexico or avoiding town altogether to stay in Wyoming’s Wind River Range (as beautiful a place as exists in the continental United States). The drive to finish a hike can often be high, increasing commensurately with the mileage. But the CDT is a web of wonders, and the more difficult routes often lead to even better wonders. Take the chance.
It’s not as hard as everyone suggests, but it is every bit as risky.
Of the big three American trails, the CDT is the clear boogeyman, the one everyone mentions with a brand of reverence. The mountains are big. The food carries are long. The water gets weird. But to be honest, it’s a lot of ado about a totally manageable trail . Mile for mile, the AT is still more punishing, its root- and rockbound roller coaster always out to get you. There are lots of relatively easy passages on the CDT, and its big climbs over towering passes often come separated by pleasant walks across gentle slopes. I don’t want to make it sound like the CDT is physically simple, because it can get grueling. But if you’ve done the AT, PCT, or any long trail that’s not Florida flat, you needn’t fret too much.
That said, the CDT is loaded with risks in ways that its peers are not, and you need to be ready to respond to them all. There’s the wildlife, of course; you will almost certainly see a grizzly bear, and you will need to listen for rattles. (The Mojave Green, which you may encounter way down in New Mexico, can be especially ornery.) When you’re up high and a storm rolls in, you’ll need to have a bailout plan in place, whether it’s the lightning, the cold, or the wet that seems most dangerous. And you’ll need to consider always having a little extra food tucked away, should the mileage or conditions or general fatigue slow you down. The hitches into town are often long and sometimes very difficult, so have a reserve should you need to wait out a ride. Maybe this all sounds intimidating, but it’s a primary reason the CDT is so great—you find a limit elsewhere, and push past it here.
From 2024
