A Journey of Surviving One of the Hardest Hikes in Texas

“Nah, you’ll be fine.”

That’s what my brother-in-law said when I questioned his sanity after he floated the idea of hiking the Guadalupe Peak Trail.

The Guadalupe Peak Trail in Guadalupe Mountains National Park (three hours west of Midland and eight hours west of Dallas) is one of the most intimidating hikes in the state, along with Big Bend National Park’s South Rim Trail Loop, Big Bend’s Emory Peak Trail and Guadalupe Mountains National Park’s McKittrick Ridge Trail. The 8.4-mile trail, which is made up mostly of loose rock (the kind you can easily wreck an ankle on) and offers minimal reprieve from the relentless West Texas sun, is staggeringly steep in sections and rugged throughout.
The landscape offers West Texas at its most spiteful. You’re in the void of the vast and inhospitable Chihuahuan Desert, where even the plant life tries to bleed you with razor-sharp needles as you walk by. There are sketchy sections along narrow rocky paths with sheer cliff drop-offs looming precariously just feet away. There are enough switchbacks and false summits to haunt you long after you leave the park, and you’ll gain a cool 3 thousand feet of elevation from the trailhead to the summit. Some of the wildlife you might run into include black bears, mountain lions, tarantulas and five different species of rattlesnake.

For context, I don’t even qualify as a novice hiker. Up to that point, I had completed exactly one (moderately) challenging hike in my life.

One.

I smoke. I drink. Exercise – well, minimally. Taking on the tallest peak in the state, which climbs 8,751 feet above sea level into the sun-beaten West Texas sky, is for folks who aren’t me. Fit people. Healthy people. Active people who have tested themselves with truly challenging hikes – hikes that flirt with the edge of one’s limits.

Did I mention I’m terrified of heights?

So, naturally, we went anyway. An eight-hour-plus drive from Dallas deep into the lonely expanse of desolate West Texas. After a sleepless night at a hole-in-the-wall motel outside Carlsbad, it didn’t sink in until morning that we were really doing this. And that reality sinks in even deeper at the trailhead.
For average hikers with a steady pace, the trail should take roughly seven to nine hours. We, however, are not average hikers. We are far, far below average hikers. A sign at the visitor’s center implored in all caps: “DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE THIS HIKE.”

Duly noted.

Despite arriving painfully inexperienced at this level of hiking, we knew enough to know that it was critical we at least come prepared. Overprepared, even (it’s better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it). The park vehemently recommends a gallon (minimum) of water per person per day – we brought more than that. We also packed enough protein bars to last a week, in case we found ourselves in a desert mountains version of The Revenant (there are bears out here, after all). Trekking poles, check. Sunscreen, check. Subpar hiking boots purchased on Amazon a week prior, check.
Some of the gnarliest hiking on the trail happens right out of the gate. During the first two hours, it’s relentlessly steep with steep grades reaching as high as 45%. Not even an hour in, I was already huffing and puffing and questioning my mortality and the poor life choices that led me to this hellish mountain. I had thoughts like, “If I die, who’s going to feed my pet lizard?” Your mind drifts to peculiar places when you’re in the middle of the desert. But we pressed on, step by grueling step, hour by excruciating hour.

For 11 consecutive hours.

Countless hikers briskly passed us as we struggled to maintain any semblance of pace, stopping under every withering desert tree to absorb scant slivers of shade. Picture Clark Griswold as he hopelessly trekked through the desert on National Lampoon’s Vacation. We hiked this trail in very early summer before legitimately dangerous temperatures began to suffocate the park, and even then, it was still stifling. You encounter false summits along the way; there are “summits” that appear to be Guadalupe Peak’s summit. Then you get there only to realize it was all a dream.

This trail plays with its food, I thought.
After a second false summit, we debated turning back. But by then, my sister (who was also along for this exercise in sadomasochism) had contracted a full-blown and incurable case of summit fever, so on we marched, moving with the vigor of zombies straight out of The Walking Dead.

Another two-ish hours later (not to mention crossing a particularly narrow section with a nasty cliff drop-off that appeared to rival the height of the Empire State Building), beaten and bruised, we finally arrived at the summit. There were 15 or so others already there, soaking in the mesmerizing panoramic views that allow you to gaze into the horizon for miles – and even into Mexico on a good day. Many go entire lifetimes without witnessing a vista as grand in scale as this.

A Search and Rescue (SAR) ranger was on the summit chatting with hikers, which was either comforting or unnerving, depending on your perspective. Our feet felt like they had been beaten with hammers, but we reveled in our success. A trio of non-hikers who had no business being on this mountain, standing on the pinnacle of Texas.

We were proud, relieved and fully in the moment. But then a sobering reality suddenly washed over us: We still had to get back down.