Not every adventure requires the same level of preparation. When I thru-hiked the AT, I planned for over a year.
Right now, it’s ten at night on Thursday, May 2nd, and I’ve just decided I’m going to go for a long run on Albuquerque’s famous La Luz trail in the morning. I haven’t eaten much today, so I’ll need to carb-load with something. The family size bag of Ruffles that’s been sitting next to my dresser in my Airbnb goes down pretty easily.
Bright light pours through the window shades and prods me to wake up, but I ignore its call over and over. Finally, there’s no one more sleep left in my bones. I peek at my phone to discover it’s 12:15pm. I’ll certainly be well rested for this adventure.
An hour later I pull my Jeep Liberty into a parking spot at the La Luz Trailhead, fifteen minutes northeast of the city. The thermometer reads eighty-two degrees. My smartwool long sleeve shirt feels foolish in the heat, but it’s my best defense against the desert sun. A few long haired teenagers smoking a joint pass by me while I lace up my Nike running shoes. Shouldn’t you be in school, I think to myself. Man, I really did get old quick.
The La Luz trail is one of the most iconic and heavily traveled footpaths in the Sandia Mountains. It snakes its way seven-and-a-half miles up through the mountains until finally reaching the Sandia Crest after over thirty-five-hundred feet of elevation gain. Upon reaching the summit one is presented with two options: turn around and retreat the way you came or take the Tram down to the base. It’s a popular destination for both hikers and for climbers approaching steep cliff faces in the range. In addition, some people are crazy enough to try to run up it. I tend to have high expectations for myself. Always have, probably always will. Today, my plan is to run this entire trail.
After forty-five seconds of quick paced steps on the arid dirt path, I give up on my plan. My watch tells me my pulse is already one-hundred-eighty. I’m gassed, sucking thin desert air into my unhappy lungs.
Humbled once again, I accept this outing will be a combination of running and hiking. The trail switchbacks upwards at a steady clip through the foothills making its way towards thousand-foot cliff faces in the distance. After seventeen minutes, I’ve traveled one mile. I can still see the parking lot when I look backwards. An incredible part of exploring Western mountains is that the views are immediate and never ending. It’s open country.
I sustain this pace for three miles. The flat expanse of desert below rapidly grows the higher I climb. Around the three mile mark, the ecosystem noticeably changes. Cacti and barren soil is replaced with dark soil and solid trees. Earthen smells transport my thoughts back home. Cool breezes blow past me, making me grateful for the long-sleeve shirt.
Five miles in I discover something I truly did not expect: snow. Hip deep drifts of crusty, mushy snow. This ecosystem is still a mystery to me. How is snow an obstacle on this path that began in the scorching desert? I should have expected it considering I was in it just last weekend, but it somehow slipped my mind when I walked out to my car and saw eighty-eight degrees on the dash this morning. I post-hole through three snow drifts, then stop to eat a Clif Bar and contemplate. I need to add in some additional fuel on top of last night’s potato chips.
Sitting on a trailside rock, forcing myself to eat a bar I still struggle to consume after drastically overdoing them four years ago on my thru-hike, I decide it’s quitting time. No more for me today. Well, except for the five miles back down.
I re-post-hole through the snow drifts, cross patches of loose rock, and soon return to the “deserty” lower three miles of the trail. This section is easier to run on, because the path is smooth and compact. I open up my gate until my lungs can’t take it anymore, walk for a bit, and then see if just maybe my lungs and legs have a little more left in them.
I arrive back at my car after traveling ten-and-a-half miles at an average pace of about seventeen minutes per mile. I’m spent, exhausted, and there’s a taste of freedom in my mouth that I’ll savor all week until I can return to the mountains once again.
