Katy Trail Hike: Day One

September 2nd, 2011

The trip began with an hour-long car ride to the trailhead at Dutzow, Missouri. My excellent friend Amy drove me over and around the hills of the countryside, and we both spent most of the time belting out Disney songs. She dropped me at the trailhead with a “Good luck” around nine in the morning. I strapped on my backpack (which, loaded down with nearly a gallon and a half of water, still only weighed about 33 pounds), waved goodbye, and was ready for a day of hiking.

I climbed onto the trail, a road of fine white gravel that has been familiar to me since my family discovered the Katy when I was two. And I was off, my face toward the rising sun, though I was soon rewarded with shade from the bluffs that rose up on my left. It was a perfect morning: dewy, shady, with a mild breeze on my face. Limestone cliffs hugged the trail on my left, and cornfields stretched out on my right, brown and gold as only grain can be. Although the weather felt nice, the sky looked hot: it had burned away not only any trace of clouds, but its own color. It was pale gray near the horizon, changing to the whitest shade of blue up above.

The first part of the walk was delightful: butterflies danced around me, sometimes landing on my backpack or shirt before flitting off again. Blue morning glories and delicate black-eyed susans dotted the trail, and cottonwood leaves shimmered in the sunlight.

Then I came to a stretch of trail that ran down the middle of a vast cornfield, without a tree in sight. It wasn’t yet the heat of the day, so I figured I should try to get through it before noon hit. Off I went, pulling my crusher hat further down over my eyes.

Soon, my consciousness split into two distinct spaces: on one hand, I marveled at the solid Midwest beauty of the cornfields, rolling over the undulating plains, lined in the distance with blue bluffs. One the other hand, I became acutely aware that it was hot. Very hot. Scald-your-brain-through-your-hat hot. I realized also that I was not going to get through the day without heat stroke, I just had to figure out how to make it as minimal as possible. I figured that guzzling nearly half a gallon of water in two hours would be enough. I was wrong.

At last, the trees far off to my left delved close to the trail again, and I stumbled my way into spotty shade. I reached the trailhead at Augusta around 11 and sat down, determined to wait through the heat of the day. Unfortunately for me, I started feeling better— after all, I had plenty of water, and Augusta’s ghost-town-like buildings seemed unfriendly. I decided to set off again, reasoning that I would be in the shade, so I’d be all right.

Within half an hour I found myself in a catch-22: I felt reasonably cool when I was walking because of the slight breeze I created, and when I stopped for a break, I felt heat radiating from my skin like a fever. The continued walking raised my body temperature more and more, and stopping became less and less helpful. Soon I was walking furiously to get enough breeze to keep myself from passing out. Robotically I followed the signs to my destination for the night: Klondike Park. My feet kept moving, knowing that if I stopped I might not be able to start again. Then, like a beacon of light, I saw a concrete building in the distance that looked like it might be a bathroom. I sped toward it, pressing down the heat that I felt rising in me. I don’t remember much— just grabbing the handle, tearing the door open, stumbling into the cool air of the restroom building. I had enough strength to take off my pack and lean it against the wall, and then I curled up in a fetal position on the painted concrete floor. 

I listened to my breathing for a while. I felt the heat battling through my body, trying to escape. I thought I was going to throw up. I chugged some water. I dumped some water over my head. I panted and fanned myself with a paper and realized that I should have read up on how to deal with heat stroke before I left on this trip. I simply couldn’t get myself to cool down, and it scared me.

Around the hour mark, I began to feel an extraordinary thing: my body temperature was cooling down. I stopped feeling nauseated, clarity began to return to my thoughts, and my head decided that it wasn’t going to explode after all. Within two hours, I felt completely recovered, and I braved the outdoors to find my campsite.

The site was a nook in the woods, bordered by a sandstone cliff and several slender trees. I set up the tent with no problem, then wondered what to do next. The answer was obvious: hike some more! With a lightened pack I explored the park a bit, wandering around the lake, viewing the white sandstone cliffs, and winding through a forest trail. 

I ended up back at my campsite around four. I journalled for a while: “And now here I sit, feeling a hint of evening coolness in the air, listening to birds and the crack of branches and a chorus of distant cicadas. There are fallen leaves all around and the air is fairly dry, but the heat is still intense. This is summer’s last gasp before autumn takes the throne.”

Around five, I crawled into my sauna-like tent. As I felt heat-stroke-induced sleep heavy on my eyelids, I thought that I was really stupid to have gotten heat stroke. I wished someone could have come with me. Then I thought, that’s crazy, I’d feel really guilty for putting anyone else through this. I wondered if I’d feel up to hiking the 18 miles the next day— it wasn’t supposed to be any cooler. With that uncertainty in my mind, I slipped into a shallow sleep. 

Later, I learned that the highest temperature that day (not even including heat index) was 108ºF. This was encouraging for several reasons, not least of which was this: if I can hike in that, I can hike in anything.

~Lisa Shafter