Week 4: When things fall apart

Pie and coffee and town chores.

We picked up our resupply boxes from the post master, and a package from my most favourite mother full of treats.

We sent on Shelley’s old shoes as new ones arrived, and then packed another resupply box to be sent to ‘Ghost Ranch’ (to be collected in a few weeks). We cleaned gear, back-washed our water filter which was full of pond gloop, and sorted our belongings, more efficiently than ever. One job at a time.

Everyone was gently going about their business.

It was the most perfect community home. We walked to mail our boxes then went to the cafe again for breakfast. My neck still burning and firing shots down my back and into my chest.

What unfolds next is the very best kind of trail magic.

I asked my pal Flip Flop (Knock Off) who is a nurse, what he thought to the ailment on my neck. ‘Shingles’ he said.

Upon hearing this Shelley immediately went to Nita (Mother a Earth) to ask about the nearest doctor, who is 1.5hrs away in Soccoro.

Of course, she was heading there today, but not coming back. She would take us. She then mentioned a ‘physicians assissant’ (one step below a doctor) who, of course, happened to live in an RV opposite the cafe we were in.

I remind you this place is desolation.

We knocked on the RV and ‘Devana’ stepped out. This woman may as well be Mother Teresa. She invited us in and immidiately diagnoses me with shingles, then gets to work writing me a prescription and furnishes me with cool arnica gel to apply in the meantime.

Insurance covers it and she sorts it all.

The prescription is printed in about 10 minutes. She checked my vitals and yes, I am still alive. We still have to go to Socorro to pick up the prescription, but at least we have the paperwork already and we have a lift there.

We decide we’ll go with Nita, check into a motel and work out how to get back to Pie Town tomorrow.

Back to the cafe to eat and everyone knows I have Herpes and all are warmly sympathetic. A handful of shingle stories are shared. Including the owner of the cafe, who tells us they are closed tomorrow, but she will deliver a slice of pie for Shelley and I to the toaster house for when we return. Free.

Did I mention how good the pie is? Papa Oats says they are staying here one more day too and that Patricia (his girlfriend) will happily come and pick us up from Soccoro tomorrow morning.

In about 34 minutes I have a diagnosis a prescription and a ride to and from the pharmacy.

The trail provides.

We headed back to The Toaster House and wait for Nita to collect us. We find a cat on the way, which does a lot to improve my mood. We call him Splodge.As mother Nature does, Nita runs to a schedule only she knows. Our 2:00pm pick up became 4:00pm and my neck feels like its eating me.

I dozed in the car while Shelley got a full tour of the exciting features of the road to Socorro. The movie ‘Contact’ was filmed here. (I only said ‘movie’ rather than ‘film’ as I didn’t want to use the word ‘film’ twice in one sentence).

This included a side tour of Magdelena, which was a pretty impressive Wild West town. Unfortunately my ability to enjoy such side tours was curbed by herpes.

When we arrived in Socorro, Nita wanted to take the circuitous route to the pharmacy, via the church and the University which apparently has a particularly fascinating rock museum on at the time.

If I wasn’t already engaged to Shelley, I probably would have asked her to marry me after she advised Nita that getting to the pharmacy may be a higher priority than a rock museum.

Nita turned right instead of left and took us straight there. Inches away from relief, Nita just wanted a quick group photo before we leave. Gah!

Walmart pharmacy has a particularly ridiculous set up for receiving drugs. It entails three glass windows which you must visit in the correct order. At each one you speak to the same guy about different things. Really weird.

Shelley made use of the time buying beer and coffee, gas and chocolate.

We checked into the motel opposite. I had high hopes of a bath and we’d bought Epsom salts to go in it. I was about ready to collapse.

The bath was the length of a particularly small child. While I folded into it, about an seventh of my body was submerged. The plug didn’t close so Shelley kindly sat on the edge of the tub keeping the plug almost closed with her foot.

Total bliss.

We ate opposite the motel. Red wine felt like medicine. We talked about our future on the trail, we talked about my brother.

We agreed to take one day at a time.

Dylan, was never shy of telling me how proud he was of the particularly ridiculous things I do. I felt strongly that he would be pretty pissed off with himself if he thought I’d come home because of him.

He is nowhere now, and so, he is everywhere.

I asked myself, how I would best grieve. The answer was clear. I’d walk.

There are no last respects, I will always respect. There is no closure, for I want my pathway to him to remain, always open. There is no saying goodbye, for he will remain here, always with me.

Day 22: Pie

I’d managed to sleep, but we woke at 7:00am to Spanish men refurbishing the motel rooms. They were kind enough to let all of a Socorro know how it was going.

I called home and felt a wall of weight remove itself from my heart.

My glorious parents. Two of my best friends. Sounding so strong, so clear and so together. I felt like we all held hands over the ‘phone.

We laughed.

One day at a time.

Today we return to the town of many, many pies.

Patricia came for us at 11:00am. Its hard to describe how helpful this was for us. She drove us straight back to the Toaster House where many hangovers were congealing. We managed to get our own room. New hikers were coming in, some old ones leaving.

We went to eat pie.  We met hikers: Ranger, Pooch, Dutch, Peabody, Quill, Flo, Mouse, Gravy, and Stretch.

A nice man in the cafe called Bob, travelling the CDT with his wife in a horse and cart bought 9 hikers pie.

Pie pie pie.

We went back to the Toaster House for a much needed nap. I’d found a friend in a little dog named ‘Rainbow’. We napped together.. My neck still gnawing at me.We ate from food left in the communal hiker box, and drank wine we’d bought in Socorro. It was now warm enough to sit on the porch with our new pals, and the addition of a hiker named Mountain Goat.

As people peeled off to bed, Pooch, Peabody Shelley and I were left under the fairy lights.Day 23: Move

If you’re going through hell, Keep going.

My herpes felt better when I was moving. The drugs hadn’t yet taken hold, but just knowing I was taking them helped.

We drank coffee and made a swift departure (swift given that people had been hanging out at the Toaster House for days and days, it’s hard to leave, given all the pies).

I needed to move.

I needed to stop eating pie.

We left on a dirt road. I was exhausted. Shelley took weight off me. My shingles were singling all over my neck and clavicle, right where my pack straps were. The walk was dull. I kept taking my medication, looking forward to every big blue pill.

In conversation, Shelley and I went through all our high school teachers and told each other how amazing or useless they were.

The wind was ridiculous. We made 16 miles by 2:30pm and stopped at a ranch to get water. The plan was to fill up and hike on. We easily could have made 22 miles, though I could have slept while I walked.I knocked on the door of the ranch to say thank you for the water, and before we knew it we were inside drinking coffee and making sandwiches. We were then being taken to a camper van to sleep in.We wanted another 6 miles, but we’d be there by 5pm and would have to pitch a tent on the side of a dirt road and sit in the wind. No, this was a much better plan.

I slept for half an hour in our new warm home. We then went with Tim, our host, to feed several horses.

Bob (the guy who bought us pie from Pie town) and Rani (his wife) arrived their wagon is beautiful. Gravy and Mouse also turned up. Shelley and I began chopping potatoes and onions and Bob cooked a mad egg potato pie thing. We all ate together with Tim and Grandma Esther inside the ranch. It was wonderful.Day 23: Road

The total (dirt) road walk from Pie Town before turning off on to any trail is 28 miles. Its certainly the most uninspiring stretch yet. Shelley kept me highly entertained with her majorettes routine.

We had a nice breakfast and coffee at a solar powered water tank at 6 miles. At 12 miles we turned off the bastard road on to the Cebolla (Onion) trail.

Life on the outside became more inspiring to look at. On the inside my herpes was sore and my pack felt heavier than ever. I had to take big pills. Like Matrix big.

We saw a man in a nice green cardigan. It made us miss cardigans. We made it 25 miles to a windmill and a cow trough. We drink out of troughs now. The first water in 18 miles. Unfortunately it tasted of egg. You’ll be delighted to hear I slept incredibly well.

Day 24: More F<£+#;/g Road

I hadn’t realised that a mile on from our camp the Cebolla trail turned into the Highway, and remained there like a fat ugly bum for the rest of the day.

Walking on tarmac is the worst kind of walking. Actually walking on tarmac through sewage would be worse, I guess that’s a silver lining.

We made it a slow and instantly painful 6 miles to a trailhead.

Trailheads often have toilets and bins. Getting rid of rubbish (not trash) is an absolute highlight. Given that we pack everything out with us (yes, everything) you can imagine how bins make us feel.

This was the ‘Narrow Trail’. A little post with a sign had maps in a tin, we saw that it paralleled the highway. This was most excellent news as we could save 4 miles of tarmac and replace it with trail. This turned out to be the best 4 miles in days. Beautiful, volcanic and much to Shelley’s delight, the cacti were back.

It was slow going and ultimately probably cost us an hour, but saved me eroding my feet into hoofs on horrible tarmac. We also go to see the arc from above. Which made us feel mighty.An incredibly steep decent probably slowed us further, but at the bottom, was a car park, and in this car park was another bin.

Christmas had come twice today.

Back to the highway and 2 miles to a water cache, our first for 18 miles. I felt like my legs were dying. Grateful to the wonderful human who stocks a massive cache of water under a tree on the highway, we sat and ate lunch.

For those of you who are interested (and also for those of you who aren’t as you’ll probably read this sentence and then decide afterwards) we are eating dehydrated mashed potato for lunches on this stretch. It’s incredibly light and wonderfully tasty. You don’t even have to waste time chewing.

Wraps and dehydrated beans (aka poo) was wearing thin.

I couldn’t foresee how another 13 miles would be completed today. Not without the help of Mrs Young. Is she a Mrs? If not I’d like to marry her please.

We popped into a ranger station to top up with water and met the man in a nice green cardigan again who offered us a ride into Grants. Our pals were already there, in a brewery, and we could be in a motel in minutes. But no, Ramen noodles, the highway and Stella Mcartney’s Desert Island Disks were calling me.

We plugged on.

Foo Fighters came on shuffle, Dylan’s favourite band and one we had an incredible night in Wembley watching, I couldn’t cope with not crying anymore, so I did a bit of that.

Fall in fall out.

Dylan’s eyes were repeatedly glistening at me. They were so big and so blue. He had ultra thick eyelashes. I hoped I’d never forget them.

The highway wasn’t too busy with cars, but fenced either side. We decided we’d had enough so hopped over and found a sandy flat patch for the tent. 3 miles off our target but….

22 miles on the day.

Day 25: Grants

We woke up today and performed our special move. A 4:30am start, on road, to Grants.

Thank you, readers for your love, it means so very much, and all the messages are so helpful to me.

For now, we continue to walk for,

Living grows round us like a skin
To shut away the outer desolation
For if we clearly mark the furthest deep
We should be dead long years before the grave.
But turning around within the homely shell
Of worry, discontent, and narrow joy
We grow and flourish
And rarely see the outside dark
That would confound our eyes.

Some break the shell.

I think that there are those
Who push their fingers through
The brittle walls
And make a hole.
And through this cruel slit
Stare out across the cinders of the world
With naked eyes.
They look both out and in
Knowing themselves
And too much else besides.