The truck slowed as it passed us on the dirt road outside Cuba, window rolling down. Inside were two weathered ranchers. We exchanged the usual pleasantries – no, we didn’t need a ride, yes, we had enough water. “Hope you’re ready for snow,” said the driver. “There was someone just through there, said there was five feet.”

“If you just keep walking you’ll be fine,” said his companion. “If you get too cold you can always just burrow in.”

Five feet. He had to be talking about the San Juan mountains further ahead in Colorado.

He wasn’t. As the trail wound up and up the mountain, patches of snow started appearing on the ground. Rain was forecast for the next three days, and drops fell thinly down through the trees around us. The higher we climbed, the more snow appeared until the dirt trail was replaced by footprints in the whiteness. Thunder cracked far away.

While I love snow, hiking in it is another beast entirely, especially with deep snow. Each step is uncertain: if a log or green thing is lying buried under the snow ahead, it will have melted the snow around it, and instead of sinking in three inches you’ll suddenly be down three feet. Same for where unseen water is running under the snow. When the trail led to a flat expanse, a stream running down its middle, we set out gingerly. The first steps were fine. And then, without warning, the next step broke through the crust of snow and ice, down through the marshy grass into the cold layer of water and mud below, knee deep. It continued that way all the way to the stream. There would be a couple steps of solid footing, and then BAM the next five steps we were in knee deep, water soaking into our socks and shoes and skin.

We arrived at the stream. I stood on the edge, trying to work up the courage. “In normal life,” I said, “I probably wouldn’t voluntarily walk straight into a freezing stream.”

“Is this really what we signed up for?” Britta joked.

“Apparently so.” I prepared myself to take the first step, but at that moment, the ice shelf under me crumbled, plunging me down into the water. “I guess I’m going now!” I said, arms flailing as I danced my way through the icy cold.

There was a crack behind me. “I guess I’m going now too!” called Britta.

We made it across the stream, and through several subsequent ones as well. It was late afternoon before the trail started sloping downwards. With thunder sounding in the distance and rain starting to fall harder, we set up an early camp to huddle inside our tent.

We awoke the next morning to a fresh inch of snow covering everything. It took some time to break camp, but finally we were off again.

By noon we’d left the mountain and snow behind…but not the storm. Shortly after lunch, the distant peals of thunder drew nearer. Hail started to pour from the sky, and the world flashed white. “Lightning!” I cried.

Britta smiled excitedly. “I love thunderstorms.”

There was more thunder, more lightning. It was no use trying to count the time between the two as I used to love to do when I was younger – the flashes and loud, splitting rumbling were simultaneous. We trudged through the woods, rain jacket hoods pulled low to keep out the hail. “Clearing,” I announced as the trees thinned and the trail ahead ran through a patch of open ground. The last crack of thunder had been a little while ago, so we ploughed ahead.

“What is it about clearings?” Britta inquired.

“Lightning strikes the tallest thing.”

“Which would be you,” my shorter sister said unconcernedly.

I made a mental note to hunch over during thunderstorms. While the hail eventually let up, it continued to rain for most of the afternoon. We got an unexpected treat when the trail wound up to some cliffs with colors made impossibly vivid after being soaked with rain all day. The colors were layered. Cream and violet, dandelion yellow and bright orange, and the most shocking, deep cherry red. I didn’t know such colors existed within the earth. If my phone hadn’t been dead, I would have taken a hundred pictures of the Crayola-box cliffs “After walking in the rain all day, at least we get these cliffs as a reward,” I said.

“I’d rather have dry clothes and a hot shower,” Britta replied.

I considered this. “True. But in the absence of that, these cliffs are really beautiful.’

By that evening, much of what we carried was at least damp. We mopped out the inside of the tent with bandanas before setting up. At least our sleeping bags were dry. The next morning we awoke to blue sky, although the sun was still hidden behind some clouds. “We’re going back to bed for an hour,” Britta said. It wasn’t a suggestion, and I didn’t dare argue. Sure enough, an hour later the sun was shining. We spread out all of our things to dry in the glorious warmth. The sun shone all day.

The day after (today), we hiked into Ghost Ranch where some much-needed laundry and showers awaited us. We’d sent ourselves food resupply boxes back in Grants, so all we had to do here was pick them up. We plan to spend the rest of our day exploring the museums and everything else that Ghost Ranch has to offer. Paintings by the American painter Georgia O’Keefe and dinosaur fossils? Yes please.

Tomorrow we’ll set out on our last stretch of trail in New Mexico. In less than a week, we’ll be in Colorado!