The July Walk That Taught Me About Water
We've talked about coming down slow when you're tired. This lesson is about a different kind of trouble, the kind that starts before you ever get to the descent.
I want to tell you about a hot morning in July when I ran out of water at the turnaround point on a trail I know well. I'd walked it a dozen times. I knew the distance, I knew the grade, and I still got this one wrong.
It was already warm when Maria and I started, close to eighty degrees by eight in the morning, which is normal enough for July here. I brought one bottle. I'd brought one bottle plenty of times before on shorter walks and it had always been fine. This walk was longer than my usual, maybe five miles round trip with a steady climb the whole first half, and I didn't adjust for that. I drank the way I always drink, which is to say I didn't think about it much, and by the turnaround the bottle was empty.
Here's the part I want you to sit with. The walk back down was only two and a half miles. That's nothing. I've walked that distance a hundred times without a second thought. But it was now closer to ninety degrees, I was dry, and we're sitting at about 4,600 feet up the canyon where the air pulls moisture off you faster than it would down in the valley. Your sweat evaporates quick here. That feels nice in the moment because you don't feel as sticky as you would somewhere humid, but it means you're losing water faster than you realize, because you don't get the obvious feedback of feeling drenched.
By the last mile my mouth was dry, I had a headache starting behind my eyes, and I was doing that thing where you stop talking because talking takes water you don't have. That's the test I always tell people to use, that you should be able to hold a short conversation on the trail. I couldn't anymore. I should have caught that sooner than I did.
Nothing terrible happened. I got to the car, drank most of a gallon over the next hour, and felt normal by afternoon. But it was a foolish spot for a man my age to be in, and I knew better. I'd read the advice about hydration and elevation a hundred times before that day. I finally believed it walking down that last mile with a headache and a dry mouth, which is a more expensive way to learn something than just believing the book the first time.
So here's what I do differently now, and what I'd ask you to do from the start.
Bring more water than you think you need, then bring a little more than that. For a walk under an hour, one bottle is usually fine. Past that, especially with real climbing involved, I bring two, and in the heat I bring more. Water is heavy and carrying extra is a small cost. Running out is not.
Drink on a schedule, not on thirst. By the time you feel thirsty you're already behind. I take a few swallows every fifteen minutes or so on a warm walk, whether I feel like it or not. It's a small habit and it adds up over a couple hours in a way that catching up all at once can't fix.
Watch for the quiet signs. Headache, dry mouth, not wanting to talk, feeling more tired than the effort should account for. Those show up before the serious stuff does. If you notice them, that's the moment to turn around, not push through to a landmark first.
Respect the dry air here specifically. People who learn to hike somewhere humid come here and get surprised, because they don't feel like they're sweating much and assume they're fine. You're losing water plenty. You just don't see it as sweat because it's leaving you as fast as it comes out.
I still think the watch is optional and the water is not. I don't care what your heart rate says on a hot morning. I care whether you can hold a conversation and whether your bottle still has something in it at the turnaround.
Before next time: check the forecast for your next walk, and if it's warm, pack one more bottle than you think you'll need. See if you notice a difference in how the last mile feels.