DT20 day 10 – Out of the Desert, into the Twilight Zone

I awoke to a still, clear morning, anxious to get up and get hiking. Another 13 miles or so and I would reach the end of my hike at I-40, meet up with my brother, and begin to wallow in the comforts of civilization once again.

I enjoy long hikes. That’s why I keep doing them. But they are hard. The Desert Trail is especially hard. In addition to the hiking, there is the constant need for route-finding, since there is no trail to follow. Not only do you have to figure out your heading for the next few miles, your path for the next few steps–over boulders, down dryfalls, around thorn bushes, requires constant attention. Water is always a concern. As are rattlesnakes (though I didn’t see any on this trip) – you always have to mind where you step, where you put your hand when climbing up a gully.

That’s all good. It locks you into your surroundings. It creates an intimacy with your environment that is deep and satisfying. But it is also stressful and wearing. You need an occasional break.

Hiking established routes like the Pacific Crest Trail or Colorado Trail is also challenging, but there are plenty of breaks. They are trails, for starters, not routes. Generally all you have to do is make the right choice at trail junctions, the rest of the time you just follow the trail. You’ll see other people, and some of them will become your friends, companions in a shared enterprise. There will be trail magic, where people set out coolers of cold drinks, or even set up stands where they cook pancakes or hot dogs for passing hikers. And every few days there will be a town, a place where food, drink and shelter are waiting for you, all available with no more effort required than reaching for your wallet.

A day, or even half a day of civilized comfort is usually sufficient for me to want to get back on the trail again. But other than the burger in the coffee shop at I-10, there has been none of that on this hike. It has been magnificent but also exhausting.

So I am powerfully motivated at the thought of meeting up with my brother and camping out with him for a few days. He’ll bring beer and steaks. There will be his tent trailer in a campground with running water, picnic tables and pit toilets. There will be another human voice–and not just any voice, but a beloved and trusted voice. I can just chill out and not worry about anything at all.

The route does not look too challenging: a few miles of climbing up a broad wash, a couple of low summits in the middle of the range, a mile or two of a narrow, steep canyon but then a broad flat wash through some low hills to my destination. Easy peasy. I send Dave a text by satellite saying I should be there by 2 and head out.

I’m in the Trilobite Wilderness, named for its abundant fossils, but spend no time looking for any. The route has no surprises, and I stop for an early lunch at the second summit, where I can see I-40 off in the distance. I scramble down the canyon, hit the flats and enjoy the desert scenery for the last few miles.

From a saddle in the Marble Mountains I can see trucks rolling by on I-40

Last miles of my hike

Arriving at the interstate, I drop my pack, find that I have service, and give Cathy a call. I had talked to her briefly a couple days before and learned that serious measures were being taken to limit the spread of coronavirus. Schools were closed, including the University of Colorado where she works in the Natural History Museum. But, wanting to conserve my phone battery, our call was short and I didn’t really get a feel for how dire the situation had become.

Dave soon pulled up. We embraced, I tossed my pack in his car and got in. I savored being enveloped in a cocoon of modern automotive comfort as we drove the 40 miles to Hole-in-the-Rock Campground.

My comfort quickly evaporated. Dave filled me in on the alarming developments. Schools were closed. His wife Karen, a schoolteacher, was trying to teach first-graders remotely from home. Restaurants were closed, except for take-out and drive-through. Non-essential businesses were shutting down and sending employees home. Both the basketball and baseball seasons were suspended. Concerts were banned. Movie theaters were closed. Hospitals in Italy and Spain were overwhelmed, and US hospitals expected the same. The stock market was crashing. A recession dwarfing that of 2009 was all but inevitable. The President was behaving like a child, denying there was a problem, blaming others and taking no responsibility himself.

I was shocked and stunned and surprised (well, not by the last part). When I set out on the trail on March 8, I knew that these events were a distinct possibility. I had spent a career in biotechnology, much of it developing diagnostic tests for infectious diseases. I knew the threat they posed was grossly underappreciated. I knew that we had underfunded public health agencies and would be unprepared. I had written blog posts and Quora answers about how vulnerable we were to epidemics, how quickly our interconnected world would unravel if a highly contagious and lethal disease emerged.

It is one matter to know that such things are possible. It is quite another to witness them happening. I had walked out of one world and into another, as though the desert were a portal between two realities.

I wanted to go back. But there is no going back. Not to the trail, and not to the life of cheerful complacency that once was possible. Just as the desert had humbled me, so would this virus humble the world. I have long believed that humility is the first step on the path to wisdom. That’s why I embrace the humblings that long trails dish out on a regular basis. Perhaps this virus will do the same for humanity. Maybe we will emerge–as we eventually will–on the other side a bit wiser. Slower to anger, quicker to forgive, more mindful of our place in the universe, more aware of how dependent we are on others and on the planet that supports us, more willing to care for both. One can hope.