4/26 From the dusty Trail

A few days ago I was left in the bottom of a long and cold landscape like a drop of paint mistakenly dripped on an impressionist canvas. Thus far the journey north has been an exposure to natures' great wizened hand. With thin and minimal supplies I have walked through mountain passes cold as hell and hot as furnaces. I have held my possessions in a thin nylon shield against the sun. Though the desert is not what I imagined: not a Looney Toons landscape in high contrast, a pool of golden sand lined with high cacti. There is greenery here but it is sparse and small, growing on the balding heads of ridges as far as the horizon. On top of this land a human feels small- because in no direction are visible the great things we are proud of- no roads, buildings or even other souls. There is only me and the Earth, me drifting across this giant like a dust mite fallen on an endless crumpled ream of paper.

The community is small but strong. About 300 people aspire to complete this trail every year, all beginning in the same window of time after spring snow melt. That means on a given day or night I may be entirely alone on the crumpled rocks, and someone may be stirring on the next mountain over, thinking the exact same thing. Sometimes I see tiny glowing shapes drifting on a far ridgeline, and think them only pollen in my eye, but realize it is another tiny pilgrim like me.