Project Eveningland

8/2/2023 Wednesday

I woke after a peaceful sleep in the narrow valley. I could hear the creek rushing nearby. No winds came in the night to shift the dead trees. I had been thinking of something my dentist and friend in Pittsburgh once said to me about why they crown teeth that have been treated with a root canal: a tooth that no longer lives is like a dead tree in the forest—it might stand a hundred years, or it might crack in the wind tomorrow.

I have ten miles to walk today to the historical Molas Pass Campground. My journey has reached its end. I’m going home.

The forest grew healthier looking as I reached lower elevations. I heard the Durango & Silverton train chuffing through the canyon, and thought about walking down to the Elk Park stop, where I could catch a ride. I’d love to spend tonight in Silverton, but the problem is cell service. I don’t have any, so I can’t book lodging. There aren’t many lodging options in Silverton and I’d have to bank on one of them having vacancy tonight, which seems dodgy mid tourist season. I decided to walk to the Campground, near Rt. 550, and see if there’s cell service there. Probably an easy hitch from there to either Durango or Silverton.

I reached the soft dappled shade of aspen forest and paused on a rock to admire dramatic views of Mt. Garfield. Small cobalt dragonflies whispered along the sandy path under the bright sun. I stopped to sit and think in a thick copse of living pine—an oasis just before the last pass.

Is this a bummer of an end to this journey? It’s not Katahdin. It’s not what I hoped for or imagined. But then, my AT hikes haven’t ever looked much like the romantic ideal. Thru-hiking is a dirty, painful, long business that rarely ends how you expect and can break your heart.

Don’t let it. I try to live in a world where you step off the trail when the time is right. And when you do, you should honor the journey that got you there and don’t let anything or anyone diminish it. The last 110 miles of my journey have been a wet and wild finale that let me stand atop mountains, sleep above the clouds, and walk among the flowers. It will live in me forever.

I reached Molas Pass Campground. I hadn’t showered in over a week and that was apparent, if I am interpreting the social behaviors of others correctly. The staff dug out my resupply package (thanks Mom and Dad!) and sold me a five-dollar token for a four-minute shower. The woman at the shop told me it was an easy hitch into town.

After my shower, I walked up a long winding gravel driveway which connects the campground with Rt. 550, the so-called “Million Dollar Highway” (cute name, but can you even get a driveway for a million dollars in this day and age?). The sun beat down. In 1500 miles, I haven’t hitched even once. I pulled my unused hitchhiking sign out of my bag, where it has lived quietly for five months, unrolled it, and hoped not to have to stand in the sun too long.

After a scant few minutes, a woman who works for the tourism board (or something like that) in Durango, pulled off to the side of the road and walked back and waved to let me know she’d stopped. She offered to take me to either Silverton or Durango—that’s some offer!—and I chose Durango on account of more lodging options and the fact that she lives there, so it’s not out of the way. I got a real tour of the area from Kate. God I hope her name was Kate. She was lovely but I was exhausted and reflecting on something I keep learning over and over: it doesn’t matter how tired you are, or how much money you’re willing to slap onto the table, there’s no hovercraft waiting to extract you from the trail and deliver you straight to luxury. It just doesn’t work that way. There’s gonna be waiting and struggle and all manner of bullshit to go from trail to society.

For example: if you, like me, choose to mail something in town (I didn’t want to lug my resupply package onto a plane), you are guaranteed three experiences at the Post Office: 1) having to leave the line to fill out something or other that you had no idea about—and that there are insufficient supplies and instructions to complete; 2) during your time away from the counter, a person will come into the office, slide into the spot in front of you, and pose a ridiculous problem to the clerk, eating at least ten minutes; 3) upon leaving, you’ll feel stressed and drained to the degree that you wonder if you’ve just been punished for something and conclude that you probably deserve it. I know that that’s all oddly specific, but it keeps happening to me. All that normal bullshit still happens, whether you’ve just come down from Katahdin, or you’re completing a more modest non-contiguous 150-day 1500 mile thru-hike across ten states.

You know what, I take that back. I have experienced the perfect reentry from trail to society. My parents picked up Trip and me after 15 days of hiking the Sheltowee Trace (and about five days of extreme heat/humidity) in 2022. Mom had had cool watermelon and pasta salad waiting for us at a shaded picnic table. Dad filled the air with questions and conversation, so I didn’t have to make small talk with anyone. Then we proceeded directly to a hotel with nuclear-powered air conditioning and brand new, chemically clean rooms. That’s about the best a regular person, with a regular budget, can hope for. “I had to go right back out to the van after you guys went into the hotel,” Mom later confided, “so I could wipe down the seats.” Fair!

In Durango, I was able to book two nights at the General Palmer, a historical hotel that’s maybe a little threadbare—my third-floor room had a non-functioning mechanized Murphy bed and some very 1980s glass shelves. The best part about the room were the awnings over the huge windows, which afforded me a shaded perch from which to watch the world go by even during the sunniest hours of the day. Odd winds came in the evening and knocked out the power for about an hour. I could hear people cheer from the pubs and shops below when it went back on. I loved the General Palmer—would visit again.

I stayed for an extra day to rest (and apply medicine to my torched lips), then caught a flight from Durango to the Denver airport, where Benny and Zoey were waiting to take me home.

I want to tie it all up in a bow for you, dear reader, but the journey was messy and complex up close, wasn’t it? Here are some things I found along the path from Georgia to New York and Colorado. I found my courage (so that’s where I left that). I found a home in my own head. I found friends. I found love for myself. I found adventure.

The trail—The One Trail—speaks kindness to me and reminds me to mind the weather. I promised I would do all I could to protect her. She promised to stay with me until the final bend of trail, and the clearing at the end of the path.