It’s cold. Bone chillingly cold. I am so grateful to Jay back in Silver City for his gift of a sleeping bag liner and wool shirt. There’s no way I could stand these temperatures in the gear I packed.
It’s so different in the Southwest, as though someone pulls a lever from warm to cold. The drop is almost instantaneous.
You must know I write about my day at the end of the day, when things are fresh. But having my fingers exposed is painful and it’s too hard to write under the covers.
Still I sleep. No ghosts visit and all the bones stay where they were left. Because the zipper is busted on my tent’s vestibule, enough air circulated to keep ice from forming inside the tent.
The water bottles freeze, and I need something warm to get going. It’s a late start as the sun peeks over the trees. I sing to the sun coming all the way down to the No Trespassing signs and the start of civilization.
I guess if you can call junked cars civilized. There’s also a dented porta-potty and a basketball net on a pole. I wonder who shoots baskets here?
Up ahead is a spigot and I begin to wonder if I should have walked further for clean water. When I give it a try, nothing seems to come out and I’m glad I filtered the yellow-tinged mud water which tastes fine. Even a muddy tank is a guaranteed water source.
As I leave the forest and enter a juniper and pinyon studded grass land, I see the large lump in the distance wondering again if it could be Mount Taylor.
Funny how high I hot yesterday on Mangus and still 1,500 feet shy of that monster. I climbed it in the fall with the Aspen a brilliant gold against a bright blue sky. It was magic.
The dirt road plods along, up and down a bit, perfect for committing another bit of a speech to memory. It certainly passes the time. Such long road walks in New Mexico, but not a single person on the road but me.
It’s a good seven miles to the extraordinary Davila Ranch. Donated as a donation-based rest facility for cross country hikers and bikers, it is a wonder to behold.
There are several buildings constructed of metal freight containers, much like houses in New Zealand. Propane stoves, washer/dryer, showers, a refrigerator with a few essentials, pots and pans and canned goods, it’s an absolute oasis.
I don’t really need anything, including water, so just take a break at a picnic table to have a snack and admire the work done here to help hikers. Thinking back to New Zealand and it’s hut system, I remember countless times I was overjoyed to be out of the bad weather, inside with a fire or just the camaraderie of other hikers.
For today, my goal is to get to Pie Town. Initially this was as far as I planned to go, but I have a few extra days, so will get myself further along the trail to Grants where I hiked a section one gorgeous autumn week.
Now that I’ve experienced Davila Ranch, there’s just a long, exposed, dusty road walk to town. I decide I’ll accept any ride offered, but will happily walk the entire remaining 12 miles should no one appear.
I make it close to five, when a lovely Mexican man named Manuel pulls up in his truck and drives me all the way to town. I must admit the scenery looks about the same only faster.
He drops me at The Gatherin Place and I invite him in for pie, but he politely declines, then continues on with his day. If the trail teaches a person anything, it’s to always be generous and pay it forward.
The Gatherin Place has just three long tables, so I end up talking to everyone. It’s fun to be ahead of the hiker bubble and be the star briefly.
My lunch/dinner consists of green chile stew and cornbread, homemade chips and of course, a turtle pie. I linger for hours, buy a few items for the next section then arrange for the owner to drive me north on the worst of the dirt road. I love to walk, but I’m a 60-year-old cancer thriver and life is too short for boring road walks!
When I finally pay up and say good bye, I walk to yet another incredible hiker offering in this state: the Toaster House.
It’s a “world famous hiker hostel” that, like Davila, is run on donations. The gate and entry are decorated with toasters of all kinds, and every inch of the house is filled with posters, knick-knacks, and humor like an entire wall of discarded hiker sneakers.
The water is off, so I visit the RV park next door for a hot shower sans soap or shampoo. Just getting the dust off is fine by me. There’s one room with a single bed for people under 5’10” and I claim it, cuddling in at hiker hours as the sun begins to set and the wind picks up.
What a treat today was. Visiting some of the famous CDT sites of ultimate trail magic, walking a decent way before getting my hitch and filling my belly with homemade food while carrying on with some very interesting strangers. Now I’m quieting down and dreaming of the sites I’ll see tomorrow.
