CDT Day 28 (6/15/23)
Miles 615.6 (Red line- 732.6)- 649.5 (Red line 766.5) (33.9 miles)
Verbatim
I saw my first Pronghorn Antelope today. Its white butt is unmistakeable, even from a distance. It saw me as I came up over the rise and even at 300 yards it began its evacuation. It bounded down a sheer hillside, undeterred by the descent. I had just climbed that hill from another angle, and felt bad for the Pronghorn. It’s got a lot of work to do to get back up. At least there’s water down there! I was remarking to someone. Ah yes. It was was Chris yesterday, about how easy I thought it would be to hunt a Pronghorn. Maybe I take that sentiment back now...
I also saw two Elk and a Deer. I tried singing to the Deer. It was curious but was still confused and then left.
I really got to it yesterday evening. I walked until sundown (like 8:25) up on a high rocky and mountainous ridge. Views of the Rockies were all up ahead. There was even a little service. I camped tucked between a bush and tree on a ton of little pinecones. It was very uncomfortable.
Post Note
I remember talking with Chris, the butchery and hunting guide I’d met the day before, about hunting Pronghorn. Pronghorn Antelope are the fastest mammal in the Americas. I heard several hikers reference their ancient defense strategy used against the Short Nose Bear and other long lost predators; maintaining distance and retaining the capacity for massive acceleration. Pronghorn look ancient. Their tan and white coat carries a sort of mystique that I love. Their gangly horns look pre-historic. They’re some of my favorites and provide plenty of stimulation while out walking. I was to see many more of them while walking through the Great Basin. But, here in Northern New Mexico I saw my first. Certainly an anxious Antelope. Alone. Close to the tree line which limits his view and makes him vulnerable to ambush by a Lion. When Pronghorn are grouped they communicate about danger by exhaling sharply. It’s a funny sound; coming through their noses I think. You can mimic it by breathing out your lunch capacity through an open mouth as fast as possible. HAAH In the basin, a habitat where the Pronghorn will see you from half a mile away and in which you can rejoice in their grace by watching them run away from you for the next quarter mile, the Pronghorn “hahh” at you quite frequently. I like to “hahh” back as if to say “I’m not it, it’s the other humans that are dangerous”.
Pronghorn can be shot. They’re hunted in season through a permitted system. Because Merica, Pronghorn hunters have to respect private property rights while hunting in the Great Basin. Chris told me about how, as an ingrained and connected guide, he’ll often bring his groups into private properties on which he has permission to hunt. He’ll walk right past multiple unpermitted hunters sitting at the edge of a property boundary just itching for the Antelope to come a little closer. That little PR moment is great for business. It screams, “hunt with me and the land is yours”. We divide the land on our hunters. We divide the land on our Pronghorn. Every cow out there means less Pronghorn. The cow fences are dangerous to Pronghorn, who have to walk miles to make it around the fence or risk jumping barbed wire. Pronghorn are plains animals. They had no reason to evolve the capacity for a “high jump”. I pushed multiple Pronghorn alone fence lines for a good long ways. They refused to jump. I saw one desiccated Antelope corpse strung and hanged by its back ankles while attempting and failing to jump a fence by the highway. What a way to go. Upside down with daggers in your ankles. Waiting for the sun, the hunger, the thirst, the Coyote to take you. Your friends, helpless to save you, eventually walk away.
It was also the day before, and funny that these memories only came to me after reading today’s entry, that L texted me. The first of four texts I’d receive from her this hike. This one said something like, “I hope you didn’t get off trail, I haven’t seen you post in a while”. I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. My parts were all tangled up. One part just about died as it wrapped itself in the warmth of knowing someone else you love is thinking of you and caring about you, anxious for your growth, progression, and wellbeing. It felt warm to receive the text. Another part was haughty, saying “haha. She wants you more than you want her. Keep this going. Feels good”. It felt empowered to receive the text. Another part felt angry to receive the text and said, “leave me alone”. To resist texting back I let the haughty part speak loudest. I’d said goodbye. Leave me alone.
I remember where I got the text. Up high on a ridge walk where there’s service. Thruhikers are notorious for this. We get to the top of a mountain. Great view, huh? But, up high is where I’m most likely to get service so I’m going to look at my phone instead. I’d turned my phone on with the sunset looming, shining reds and purples on the snowcapped South San Juans in Colorado. I’d be there soon. My phone began vibrating. I must have had fifty messages come through, most from a group chat of 2022 CDT hikers that I only loosely belonged to from the previous year’s walk. They were having a party, their journey long over. I was walking off my emotions. But many of the texts were from friends. I let the phone massage its way through its reception. Four days is a long time to be absent from the connected world. I glanced at the locked screen and saw the confusion of texts extending far beyond my lock screen. I just knew one was from L. Long before looking at it I knew.