“The Gila River’s swollen,” was the word amongst thru hikers. “The water’s higher than normal.” The CDT has numerous ‘alternates’ where hikers can choose to stray from the official trail and take their own route, and the Gila River alternate is one that the majority of thru hikers take due to the gorgeous scenery and ready water availability. Despite reports of high water, Britta and I decided we still wanted to take the alternate.

The morning after leaving Silver City, we met a couple of awesome thru hikers from London. We hiked with them for the day, and it was great being able to chat with other hikers since we’ve only met a few others on the trail, and then only in passing.

The next day we reached the Gila River. Our first glimpse was of a silver, winding ribbon far below. “You know we’re supposed to unbuckle our backpacks when we cross,” I said. “That way if we slip, we won’t be dragged down by our packs.”

Britta shook her head solemnly. “If my backpack goes down, I’m going down with it. It has practically everything I own.”

(Don’t worry Mom. She unbuckled for the crossings.)

Up close, the river definitely looked bigger, but still not too daunting.

As we set up camp a short ways downriver and the sun fell behind the cliffs, the evening came alive with the sounds of animals. Branches cracked in the distance and leaves rustled. Har har har har, laughed a loon-like bird. Britta set her pepper spray and whistle out within easy reach of her sleeping bag. She looked a bit too eager to use them.

We were still settling down when the sound of grunting came from upriver. We raised our voices in conversation, and branches cracked loudly as the animal ran in fright. Britta seemed disappointed, and stared longingly at her whistle. “What if an animal comes around in the night? Do I wake you up or can I -”

“Listen,” I said to my whistle-happy sister. ” There’ll probably be a bunch of animals out and about. There better be an animal tearing down this tent before you blow that whistle. I want to sleep tonight.”

I turned up my MP3 player, and Britta reluctantly turned back to her book. A short time later, I pulled out an earbud to listen. Grunting woofs were again coming from outside, closer this time. Much closer. Just-outside-the-tent close. “Is it back?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Britta calmly.

This time, the sound of our voices did not scare the animal away. Instead, it let out a loud, deep-throated growl. “That’s definitely a bear!” I exclaimed.

“Can I blow the whistle now?” Britta asked excitedly.

“Um, yes.”

Britta blew with all her might, letting loose an ear-splitting shrillness that nearly made my ears bleed. And she just kept on blowing.

“You can stop now,” I said a full twenty seconds later, wincing in pain.

Britta stopped. No more noise from outside. The bear was gone, never to return for the rest of the night.

During the following two days we crossed the river some fifty times. No, that number’s not a typo. Because cliffs rise up often on either side of the Gila River, it’s necessary to cross often to avoid getting rimmed out. The best river crossings were only knee deep. The worst reached just above my waist. On those, my thought process was basically: These rocks are really slippery. And this current is strong. If I move, I might just lose my balance. And my backpack. Now how long have I been standing in the middle of the river?