The Hike, A Trilogy: Part Three

I'm hiking home from town. I'm where the pipeline goes under the river to the Pot Ash plant in Jackson Hole and I've got less than two hours to do the last five miles of sand and uphill. Normally I'd know I had a few minutes of Saturn and Jupiter light to go by but there is cloud cover where they'll be and though the moon came up about an hour after dark last night each night it comes up 48 minutes later so that gives me two hours of darkness before there is a moon and it's unlikely to give me much in this thick cloud cover. Tonight will be dark. No shades of dark, just dark dark.

I've been hiking along enjoying all the footprints of the deer and big horn. I've seen blurs periodically to my right and left bounding over hills before I could get the camera out. There's one very small foot print that makes me laugh. It's hard to believe that a deer or big horn could be that small. There shouldn't be any babies yet this year and none since April or May so they should all be at least six months old but these are tiny. Tracks are everywhere. Both the deer and big horn herds are in Jackson Hole.

On a sand straightaway the tracks spread in all directions and the small footprints disappear. There are mountain lion tracks. The cowboys drove through here Wednesday looking for water. All the deer and big horn tracks are on top of the side by side tracks from Wednesday. That tells me this incident happened in the last 72 hours. Now there's a drag mark across the trail. The signs tell me that the mountain lion made a kill and dragged it across the road toward the thick underbrush by the river.

It's heart breaking that the small one is gone. I'm searching for an alternative explanation. If it weren't for all the tracks I'd say it rained and a small stream of water came across the road wiping the tracks but there's been no rain the last two days, well no rain at the lodge five miles away. I've not seen any water cross the road anywhere else. Usually a mountain lion will make one deer size kill a week to feed itself so hopefully on a hill top somewhere nearby, under a ledge, in the thick brush by the river the cat is not watching me thinking there's probably a couple weeks rations under the coat and pack. I need to get moving and I have extra motivation. I don't want to be out here in the dark dark, not able to see the green eyes. I've lived here 13 years and if something is watching me I'll feel it. I'll know. Even in the dark dark. It's unlikely that will save me without seeing and without depth perception.

 I'm going to make it to the abandoned oil well about two miles from the lodge before the sun has set completely.

I squeezed another half mile out of what was left of the sunset and this is the last picture worth taking before dark dark and a mile and a half to go.

Everything is black. I catch a faint glimpse of the trail periodically. Enough to not wander off. I've hiked it a lot this close to the lodge so I know what's coming. When night comes to the lodge I shut everything off and I can find my way around because I know the feel of the floor and I can sense a closed door before I get to it. I know the rough distance to the next door and how the sound and pressure in the air changes before solids.

Forty plus years ago fighting for custody of my kids I had enough money to pay for a lawyer or live in an apartment. I moved into a cave in Cheyenne Canyon not far from Fort Carson and Colorado Springs. All my belongings in the saddle bags on the side of the Kawasaki 500 or in the drawers of my desk at the stockade. I'd crawl into my sleeping bag and watch the lights come on in the city below me. The tennis court lights at the Broadmoor and then Memorial Park were first. The stars came on not long after and I lived in that cave on the side of that mountain for a year plus. At night I'd wander the mountains. I'd hike out to Low Drive and wait for a car and sing softly whatever song I heard on the radio as it drove by. I'd camo the 500 Kawasaki with pine needle branches putting my gloves over the mirrors so there was no reflection from the stars or moon. I'd put the bike up on the center stand, prop my head up on the instrument panel and feet on the sissy bar, turn the key, and read Ray Bradbury by the neutral light. I found a place across the road where with my hand I dug into the side of the hill and water would drip out. I'd put a cup there and get a couple of cups of water per night out of it. I took my showers in the very cold water of Helen Hunt Falls a half mile away before most people in the city below were even awake. 

The dark and I are friends. In the age of headlamps and cell phone lights the dark and I, friends yes, but we haven't really spent any quality time together for a very long time. We're going to on this night.

I can just make out the trail most of the time. It takes about 16 minutes for night vision to come to me. If any light comes before that, start over. What I don't have is depth perception. Most steps I take are fine but anything with six or more inches of vertical lift or drop sends me spinning in the direction of the elevation change. I put my gloves on in case I fall. It's like walking drunk, blind fold on, bag over your head, rocks sticking up, pot holes, steep drop offs all around you, and somewhere out there, maybe, green eyes watching.

I took an hour and something to do the last mile. When I opened the front door and reached my hand around the wall to turn the kitchen light on while looking down to prepare myself it was still a shock to my eyes. The energy saving small kilowatt kitchen light was blinding.

I fed the critters, three ringtail in the rafters, two skunk, heads sticking up from under the porch, one raccoon and and a few fox visited. It wasn't long before 30 hot dogs were gone.

I was tired. Thighs and calves called me names. There was no adrenaline surge to come down from or anything to think about. I had re-connected with nature, cleared the mind, spent quality time with the dark, avoided being the hot dog, and once again felt the slow breathing of the Earth. When I laid down I heard her softly exhale outside the window. If I dreamed I don't remember it.