Blistered Kind Of Love (15 page)

Finally, I dragged myself away from the starscape and the cool running water to take my place on the Pink Motel's living room floor with Duffy. The old toothless man snored and gasped on the couch nearest us while occasional rustles indicated our roommates were restless. Duffy, on the other hand, was out cold.

We set off at seven the next morning. We hiked two miles and then veered off-trail to refill our water bottles at the Mesa Wind Farm, home to many of the 4,900 wind turbines in the area. Annually, each turbine produces the energy equivalent of a thousand barrels of oil.

The temperature was already rising precipitously, and after hiking for only forty-five minutes we'd put a serious dent in our water supply. I remembered reading that seventy-five percent of the human brain is composed of water
and took that to mean that if I felt like my brain was boiling in the desert heat, it probably was.

We'd each gulped down several liters of water the previous evening, but dehydration still lingered. Our blood had thickened and was moving slowly through our circulatory systems, a phenomenon Duffy called “he-mo-concentration.” Staring at the blue-green yarn-like veins in my wrists, I could almost see the lethargic “he-mo-concentration” within. I was all dried up. Even my joints seemed crackly and stiff.

Both Duffy and I knew that it could take two or three days to recover from deep dehydration and heat exposure such as we'd just experienced. We also knew that we were at the greatest risk of succumbing to heat-related illness two to four days into a heat wave. But medical knowledge be damned—there we were, back in the desert sun. In our one-track thru-hiker minds, it was our only choice. We had a limited amount of time to get to Canada, and we weren't going to let a minor setback like nearly passing out from lack of water delay our progress.

In ambient temperatures greater than 110 degrees, the average human can survive for three weeks without food but only three days without water. (Slavomir Rawicz and his companions in the Gobi were clearly not average.) In such extreme heat, a person risks not only dehydration but also hyperthermia and heat exhaustion. Heat exhaustion can strike in a matter of minutes, causing symptoms such as shallow breathing, vomiting, dizziness, weakness, dry throat, confusion, flushing, and racing heartbeat. Remain in hot conditions long enough, and heat exhaustion may progress to heat stroke, a serious condition that, if not rapidly remedied, causes virtually all of the body's major organ systems to shut down. In the words of Robert Young Pelton in
Come Back Alive: The Ultimate Guide to Surviving Disasters, Kidnappings, Animal Attacks, and other Nasty Perils of Modern Travel
, “Your body is similar to an automobile. Just as an engine has an operating temperature range, a coolant, and a fuel system, so does your body. . . . The problem is that when you overheat, you don't pop a hose, you die.”

To avoid reaching such a fatal malfunction, the body puts its approximately four million sweat glands to work. Sweat contains sugars, sodium, and
potassium—a concoction known as electrolytes. Electrolytes keep the nerves and muscles functioning properly. Lose too many electrolytes through excessive sweating and you can suffer muscle spasms, cramps, and extreme fatigue. Yup, that all sounded familiar.

Exercise physiologists say that, on average, the body requires two to three liters of fluid each day. On a
normal
day, that's enough to recover losses. But if your days aren't so normal—let's say you're hiking twenty miles over rough terrain—your water requirement doubles, to four to six liters. If you (perhaps inexplicably) attempt to do this in extreme heat, the total jumps to seven to eleven liters of water per person per day. Between us, Duffy and I were carrying six liters of water. Duffy didn't seem overly concerned, stating that we'd pick up more along the way, but I wasn't sure if he really had any idea how much we were supposed to be drinking. Had he really paid attention in medical school?

I'd heard that the combination of heat and lack of water can drive a man (or woman) insane but never really believed it until those couple days in the desert. Tears (precious, water-wasting tears) were my constant companions, and a handful of miles became seemingly insurmountable obstacles. At least, though, I wasn't mentally fried enough to consider drinking my own urine (said only to work if you boil it first) or worse, the poisonous fluids from the machines in the Pink Motel's junkyard. And I definitely wasn't crazy enough to kill. Other desert adventurers have not remained as levelheaded.

On August 4 of 1999, Raffi Kodikian of Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and his buddy, David Coughlin of Millis, Massachusets, drove into Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico, for a night of camping. The ranger who issued them a backcountry permit advised them to take one gallon of water per person per day. Instead, they hiked into Rattlesnake Canyon with three pints of water and a bottle of Gatorade. The next day, when they tried to hike back to their car, they got lost. Much of what happened over the next four days remains a mystery.

On August 8, park rangers, after just a ten-minute search, found Raffi Kodikian. He was lying on his back in a tattered tent. He wore nothing but a pair of bloody shorts. Heavy rocks were strewn about, evidence of an SOS
signal. An unopened can of baked beans sat nearby. A few yards from the tent was a mound of stones. Underneath laid the dead body of David Coughlin. He was twenty-six. “I killed him,” Raffi told the rangers.

Later, police discovered Raffi's journal. “I killed + buried my best friend today,” wrote Raffi. “David had been in pain all night. At around 5 or 6, he turned to me + begged that I put my knife through his chest. I did. . . .” Raffi went on trial for murder in New Mexico on May 8, 2000—the same day we began our hike from Mexico to Canada.

At the time of the trial, David's family said they were choosing to believe Raffi's story as it was laid out in his journal entries. “We have no reason why Raffi would have wished David harm or pain,” a Coughlin family statement said. “Moreover, we cannot presume to know what transpired, or the thoughts and emotions the two experienced during the days before David's death. To be sure, we have questions. However, we find it difficult to believe there was any malicious intent.”

The brain, as I mentioned earlier, is seventy-five percent water. Without adequate water, “your mental capacity goes down the toilet in a day or two,” reports Gregory Davenport, author of
Wilderness Survival
. Throw in excess heat exposure and the result can be life-threatening stupidity.

In Raffi and David's case, environmentally-induced stupidity prevented them from locating a trail leading to their car—a trail that was a mere 275 yards from their camp—for four days. It also prevented them from taking simple, perhaps obvious, steps toward figuring out their location. For example, had they hiked to the top of a nearby ridge they could have seen the trail, the road, and possibly their car—which was only a mile and a half away.

According to Raffi, after two days of being lost, when buzzards started circling overhead, he and David discussed suicide. On the third day, David puked up mucus and bile for several hours and on the fourth, he begged Raffi to kill him.

“I put my knife through his chest,” Raffi wrote in his journal. “I did, + a second time when he wouldn't die. He still breathed + spoke, so I told him I was going to cover his face. He said OK. He struggled but died. I buried him w/love. God + his family + mine, please forgive me.”

David didn't write anything in his journal indicating that he wanted to die, and investigators wonder how he could have been in so much pain, so near death when Raffi seemed fine. In fact, shortly after being “rescued,” Raffi is reported to have cracked a few jokes. The doctor who performed the autopsy on David concluded that he'd suffered “moderate to severe dehydration.” There was also evidence of other trauma—twelve blunt-force injuries, including a large contusion on the back of his head.

During Raffi's trial, medical experts testified that while David's hydration level was low enough to cause significant distress, he almost surely would have survived if it weren't for Raffi's “intervention.” Experts were surprised that an unopened can of baked beans was found at the campsite. Anyone suffering from severe dehydration would be expected to consume any available source of liquid. During the trial, Raffi was asked if he knew what he was doing when he killed his best friend. “What I thought I was doing was keeping my friend from going through twelve to twenty-four hours of hell before he died,” he replied. Whether that statement really captures his true intent will likely forever be a mystery. Regardless, Kodikian was found guilty of second-degree murder and sentenced to two years in prison and five years probation. And to think, it all started with a seemingly innocent adventure in the desert.

Back at the Mesa Wind Farm, my own twelve to twenty-four hours of hell were underway. Beneath scorching skies I trudged seven shadeless miles toward Whitewater Canyon, our next water source. The switchbacks down the canyon wall were interminable, and a panoramic view of idyllically lush and green Whitewater Trout Farm didn't help. The guidebook had made it clear that hikers weren't welcome at the farm, so we had no choice but to follow the trail up the sandy alluvium of Whitewater Creek. Whitewater Creek itself was nowhere to be seen.

Inching along, my feet sank in the soft sand. I'd nearly finished off my water bottle and what was left was hot, like shower water. Duffy was way
ahead of me, appearing strong while I wilted underneath the sun's rays and my pack's weight. I cried as I went, staggering more than walking. My peripheral vision started to fade and I felt like I might faint at any moment. Periodically, I'd lean over on my trekking poles, close my eyes, and tell myself I could do it—
had
to do it. Finally, Duffy stopped and turned around. It took at least fifteen minutes for me to catch up with him. When I did, I told him I could go no farther.

“Where's the river?” I began to hyperventilate.

Now Duffy was concerned. He took my pack and we walked together, slowly, in search of shade. The best we could find was a scraggly, gnarled bush. Scrambling under the thorny branches I huddled near the trunk, trying to take maximum advantage of the patchy shade, hiding from the sun as if it were rain. Low-lying prickles snagged my hair and clothes. Flies buzzed in my ears and ants crawled up my legs, but I didn't have the energy to swat them away. Duffy gave me his water and I finished the last tepid gulps. Then, leaving his pack behind, he walked off with our empty bottles in search of water. I was left to ruminate on the sordid story of Kodikian and Coughlin.

When he returned he was blissfully wet. “You won't believe it,” he gasped as he slumped down beside me and handed me a cold water bottle. “You can lay in it.” And clearly he had. We hadn't seen a body of water big enough to lie in since our first night, at Lake Morena.

The creek was half a mile away. When we got there we plopped down in its foot-deep flow, letting the cool water rush over our bodies. We floated there for nearly an hour, moving on only after we began to feel severely sunburned. Dragging our red bodies a little farther along the trail, we found Zach leaning against a rock face that provided about five feet of shade.

Zach would turn twenty-one on June 16 and was already planning a celebration. A woman friend, Summer, was going to pick him up at Kennedy Meadows (476 miles away) and take him to a Moontribe rave in the desert. Even as he told us this, Zach was intently scribbling a letter to Summer, creating a pile of long, cramped pages of torn notebook paper. Solo hiking can be lonely, and after just two meetings Zach seemed to have developed a kid-brother kind of affection for Duffy and a curiosity regarding me. He was
flabbergasted when I told him I'd only backpacked one night before embarking on this 2,655-mile trek.

“What if you don't like it?” he asked.

“Doesn't matter,” I replied. “I'm not going home we until reach Canada or I can't physically walk another step, whichever comes first.”