Concerned. I thought I was prepared for the heat, after all, I would rather be hot than cold at any given time. To my discomfort and slight embarrassment, however, I was not, despite wearing shorts and a tank top, carrying a full gallon of water, and thinking I was good to go. It was mid-February and hiking season in Texas was in full swing when Callie and I took a weekend trip to Colorado Bend State Park, deep within the Hill Country west of Austin. I wanted to hike as much as I physically could while keeping in mind that the sun still goes down early even if it feels like summer. I had no idea it would be so difficult.
We struck out for Gorman Falls, a 70 foot waterfall next to the Colorado River, then proceeded to a series of connecting trails to create a loop that showcases the best views and secrets of the park. It was a clear and sunny day, with the forecast calling for temperatures at or exceeding 90 degrees. In February! My heart was jumping for joy, knowing I was going to get a little bit of summer during the "winter" months down here in Texas. I had filled my pack with lots of water for both the dog and I, plenty of snacks, and my ever-present camera.
Only a couple miles in though, Callie and I were already trying to find a shady spot to rest. I guzzled water, and made sure Callie kept hydrated by tossing kernels of her food into her collapsible bowl of water every time we stopped. After what felt like a hundred miles we made it to the tinaja, a bowl-like depression in the side of a canyon that was created by erosion and seep springs, then filled with rain water to form a clear, plant-filled pool in the parched hills. Unfortuately, it was high-noon and there was next to no shade, so we didn't linger long. Both Callie and I were desperate to find a cooler place to sit.
Pretty soon, we were forced to stop every mile or so, constantly sucking down water and trying to bring our body temperatures down. I've never worried about heatstroke with Callie before, but it became a real concern on this hike. She couldn't stop panting, and though I knew she was drinking water every mile and I kept dumping some on her to help her cool down, I was beside myself. We were miles away from the nearest road, and at our farthest point some five miles away from our car and air conditioning. Resting for more than ten minutes at a time made it harder for both of us to keep putting one foot in front of the other, though I knew we had no choice but to finish the loop.
Finally, about six miles in to our nine mile loop, Callie had enough. She plopped down in a pool of shade on the trail and wouldn't go any more. I was right there with her; I was sore, had a headache from the heat, sunburned, and both of us were limping. Callie just didn't want to walk any more, and I was breaking in a new pair of shoes, which left me with massive blisters (and yes, I should have known better). After a rest I stood up and Callie just looked at me and I tried to coax her to continue. When she refused, I resigned myself to the fact that I would be carrying her for the remainder of the hike. I stooped, draped her over my shoulder, and continued on. I carried that little dog the rest of the way, slung over my shoulders like part of my pack, until I was within sight of my car. She panted in my ear the whole time, though I felt her heart rate and her panting slow and I became less worried about heatstroke. For the first time ever on one of our adventures Callie had had enough, and quite honestly, so had I.
What I'm listening to: Outside the Box by Obsidia
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