So I decided to hike the Continental Divide Trail, and I got my wife and ten, (almost eleven) year old son to say they’d join me.
On one hand it seems indulgent, selfish even, to want to hike the CDT, kind of like a midlife crisis where the aging boomer buys a Harley; our cities are burning, babies are being slaughtered by black babysitters, and white girls as young as thirteen are having babies with thug blacks. We’ve lost our civilization, our country has been taken from us while we watched football or Netflix, and they’re soon coming for whatever’s left of our Constitutional rights. I’m working class, middle aged, have arthritis in my back, and have roughly a million more practical and pertinent things I should be doing with my time. Some want to reach for the stars, I smile and wish them well and say “more power to you, but as for me this earth, (and especially The Rocky Mountains) suit me just fine, and I want to be with with them one last time, walking them, feeling the pain and the struggle of the stones under my boots, in a grand struggle of wobbly knees, sore shoulders, beat up feet, cold, heat, and mystical views of the glory of Gods creation that make it all worthwhile. Give me Lord blue sky that’s so blue it rides the border of blue melancholy, to where it mixes with rapturous joy, only to come crashing down on the limits of ones given philosophy or capacity to understand anything, and is an unidentifiable blue sky essence that you try to put words to, and come short of defining the feeling it evokes in you.
I want the pain AND the joy, please Lord let it be in equal portion, so I can struggle through the pain to discover that I’m alive, I’m still fighting, and some days I’ll see a hundred miles in every direction on a fourteen-thousand foot mountain, and others I’ll be able to focus on one shimmering aspen leaf, or one Indian paintbrush flower in a forest of millions of aspen leaves, and a meadow of thousands of flowers, the fecundity of nature, the grand horizon, and the tiny myopic detail. Somehow we’re related, all of this and myself. The longing of some of my brothers to explore the stars, and my longing to explore the same mountain God already gave me are really the same longing; I just possess an earlier version.
The passage of time is right before me. Every day is about the daily struggle to earn and pay bills, watch with alarm the zombie plague fingers of the decrepit American empire choke out more white people like me, and try to prepare and to do what I can. It’s going to take me a few years to prepare for this, to save enough money to cover things while we’re away, to get gear, (that works well) to train. I honestly don’t know if we have two more years before the machete gangs, or government goons, or whatever they throw at us; maybe we do, and we’ve got more time before they turn up the heat. Maybe I won’t get to launch at Palomas Mexico, right at the border because they’ll have a migrant camp there now. Maybe they’ll tell hikers they have to wear masks out there, or you’ll need a vaccine passport. Maybe they’ll declare hiking “unacceptably White,” and some Jewish NGO will pay a bunch of blacks to go hike it as a group, not because blacks want that, but to invade more of our space, deprive from us the last places we have left to get away from them and their behavior. That’s another reason I want to hike the CDT, to claim it, mark it with prayers of protection, to say to my racial competitors and enemies “you’ve already taken every city my people have ever built, and we’ve left them to escape your criminality; these mountains are mine, and I’ll fight you for them.” “I was here first.” “This is my homeland.” “I love it more then you ever could.” “Not one step further.”
I want to see if I still can do it. I don’t want to be really old and to have wished that I would’ve. To walk from the Mexican border to the Canadian is still an adventure. I missed the mountain man days from Lewis & Clark to about 1840 that I would have much preferred. Grizzlies on the plains instead of the furthest reaches of the mountains. Buffalo herds that took two days to ride around. Grass as high as the stirrup of your saddle. Water everywhere that’s safe to drink from. Blackfeet that would kill and scalp you on sight. No US government. No civilization. No fences or roads. All of this was a nourishing stew of pure freedom none of us will ever know or remotely experience; and the dangers and costs imposed provided a tax on foolishness and weakness that the foolish and weak couldn’t pay, and so this was the land of only the grittiest survivors. I missed all of that, but the deserts still don’t care if you’re thirsty. There’s still Grizzlies in places, and one can still get killed by lack of preparation.
Finally I want to hike this land, from Mexico through all of New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, and Montana, because it’s like my mother, it’s my true homeland. I’m not from the South. I’m not from the Midwest. I’m not from New England. I’m not even from the Pacific Northwest, which has a markedly different cultural, political, and even geographic landscape to my country. I’m from the Rocky Mountain west, the Intermountain West, the land of big sky and cowboy hats. The land where the antelope are painted the same way the red and tan rocks are. The flyover county of flyover county. The place where no one considers until they move here and impose the values of wherever it is they came from instead of really getting to know the place they’ve come to. The land that made John Colter say “I’m not goin’ back” to Lewis and Clark, and the land that haunted Jim Bridger’s dreams when he finally settled down as an old man on a farm in Missouri, because they’d seen it in their youths and prime, and once you get a taste for alpenglow on a mountainside above timberline with a blanket of fir, spruce, and pine, as far as you can see, once you’ve seen dawn on a Mesa, once you’ve beheld water crashing diamond-like where it’s not white foam through a canyon on its race to the eventual sea; such things will itch you for the rest of your life.
I don’t know if my wife and son can do the whole trip, I’ve got to figure out a lot of details to ensure their safety and relative comfort as well as my own.
I’m starting on a journey to my journey, within the life journey I’m already engaged in. I want to know the feeling of sitting on that Canadian line, of asking myself “what’s next?” Perhaps it’s a goodbye to the good things we still have in the US. Maybe I can really forge myself into the man I’ve always caught fleeting glimpses of. Perhaps I’m just being selfish, and there’s better struggles to fight. I tend to think that this struggle will only prepare me for further struggle, that somehow I can carry all of you with me, that there has to be something left at the core of America to remind us of her. We came from Europe and dreamed of this country. I believe we’re heading for a new era. I think after a lot of pain, we’ll climb this mountain. I think that there’s still a freedom river, that there’s still a temple of what’s holy that wasn’t forged by the hands of men. Maybe my grandson will travel to the stars. I’ll wish him “Godspeed” in that endeavor; I’ll be happy seeing the stars in my sleeping bag through dark night lodgepole pines.